“She says Casperson assaulted her,” Serena said. “He drugged and raped her.”
Aimee flinched sharply, as if she’d been struck. “If that’s true, why didn’t she go public about it?”
“You said yourself that Casperson has the power to make or break careers. This woman thought it was smarter to stay quiet.”
“Maybe it is.”
“Casperson gave you your big break a few years ago, didn’t he?” Serena continued.
“That’s right.”
Serena hesitated before going on. “Was there a price for it?”
“What are you talking about?” Aimee asked.
“We both know what I’m talking about.”
Aimee got up from the wicker chair. Her face reddened with anger, and she fought back tears. She extended her arm and pointed her index finger at the front door. “Please get out.”
“I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“Get out, Serena, just get out.”
“Whatever you want.”
Serena headed for the door, and Aimee stayed where she was. When Serena opened the front door, she looked back, and Aimee was still frozen in the living room. The actress had her face buried in her hands, and Serena watched her body quiver as she sobbed. She thought about going back to comfort her, but instead she slipped out of the house and closed the door softly behind her.
Serena wasn’t psychic.
Even so, she knew she was right. Aimee was hiding the truth about Dean Casperson.
*
Half an hour later, Serena met Guppo at Rochelle Wahl’s house.
She could feel the devastation in the room as they talked to Rochelle’s parents. Her father said nothing and stared down at his lap. Her mother kept a photo album locked in a fierce grip in her hands, as if someone might steal it from her. Condolence flowers filled every table, but they were already starting to wilt, giving a faded look and sour odor to the room.
“I’m not sure what you want to know,” Marilyn Wahl said. “Why are you asking questions about Rochelle? I thought the investigation was closed.”
Serena tried to figure out what to say. She didn’t want to alarm them over nothing. She didn’t want to speculate about their daughter’s death and find out she was wrong.
Guppo came to her rescue. “When a case involves the death of a minor, even an accidental death, we often have senior personnel review the details to make sure nothing was missed. This won’t take long. And trust me, I have five daughters myself. I’m sympathetic to the pain you feel.”
Marilyn sniffled but didn’t object. She was in her late thirties and attractive. Mark Wahl had the lean look of a runner. Their faces were both drawn with grief, but Serena could see the close resemblance to their daughter. She’d reviewed photographs of Rochelle, who had long reddish-brown hair, turquoise glasses over dark eyes, and a bottle-cap nose that was slightly flattened on the end.
“Can you review the time line on Saturday and Sunday for us again?” she asked. “I know you were away.”
“Yes, it was our seventeenth wedding anniversary weekend,” Marilyn said with a glance at her husband that suggested they both knew their anniversary would never be the same. “We had tickets to the Guthrie in Minneapolis, and then we stayed overnight at the Hilton. This was the first time we’d left Rochelle on her own. She was adamant about it and said we didn’t have anything to worry about. She was going to watch a Harry Potter movie marathon in her room and make microwave pizza.”
“What time did you leave on Saturday?” Guppo asked.
“Around one o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Were you concerned that Rochelle might have friends over for a party or that she might go out on her own?”
Mark Wahl looked up from his lap. “Rochelle was very reliable and mature. She was fifteen going on twenty-five. She’d never given us any reason not to trust her.”
“Plus she didn’t have many friends,” Marilyn went on. “She painted and wrote and kept to herself. She was very self-contained. We were always encouraging her to find more friends, but she didn’t have a lot in common with girls her age.”
Serena thought about Cat. And about herself. It was easy to understand the kind of girl that Rochelle Wahl was. She also knew that every fifteen-year-old going on twenty-five was still no older than fifteen.
“Did you talk to Rochelle during the day?” Serena asked.
“Yes, she texted us every hour, exactly as she promised.”
“I mean, did you actually talk to her on the phone?”
Marilyn’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “I don’t think so. We never really had the chance. Just when I’d think of calling, she would text us again. I was pleased that she was being so thoughtful about it.”
Serena couldn’t help thinking that Rochelle wasn’t being thoughtful. She was being crafty.
“What did she say in her texts?” she asked.
“Nothing much. She was asking about whether we were having fun on our trip. She sent us a picture of the first Harry Potter movie on television that afternoon when she started watching. She was such a huge Dumbledore fan.”
“When did you last hear from her?”
“Around eleven-thirty, she texted that she was going to bed,” Mark said. “She sent us a picture of herself in her pajamas in bed. She had this big smile, waving at us, with a little ‘good night’ emoji. Then, in the morning, we couldn’t reach her. That’s when we began to panic.”
Guppo shifted his girth in the chair in which he was sitting, and the wooden legs complained. “I’m sorry to ask this, but did you ever know Rochelle to drink alcohol before that night?”
Mark Wahl shook his head violently. “Never.”
“This was just so unlike her,” Marilyn added.
Serena gave them a sad smile. “Would you mind showing us her room?”
Mark didn’t get up, but Marilyn guided them out of the living room and down a hallway to a large bedroom that overlooked the backyard. Sliding glass doors led outside. The bedsheets were still rumpled and unmade. Dirty clothes made a line from the bed to the closet. There were movie posters hung all over the walls. Harry Potter. Guardians of the Galaxy. And a poster from a movie adaption of a popular YA book from the previous year.
The movie starred Dean Casperson.
“Rochelle must have been excited about The Caged Girl being filmed in Duluth,” Serena said. “It looks like she was a big movie fan.”
Marilyn’s face lit up. “Oh, you can’t imagine. It’s all she could talk about. She thought a movie being made here was the greatest thing ever. And as you can probably see, she loved Dean Casperson, too. She got that from me. I’ve had a crush on him since I was a kid.”
“Did the two of you go to see any of the filming?”
“We were planning to. I was just so busy at work. Rochelle wanted to take the bus down to Canal Park one day when they were filming there, but I didn’t want her going by herself.”
“Of course,” Serena said. “Do you mind if we take a look at Rochelle’s phone?”
Marilyn looked embarrassed. “Unfortunately, we haven’t found it.”
“It’s missing?”
“Mark and I searched her room. It’s not here.” Her voice cracked. “It’s probably—well, it’s probably lost in the snow from when she went outside. We won’t find it until the spring.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Is there anything else?” Marilyn asked them.
“No, we’ve taken up enough of your time,” Serena replied. “We just need to take some photographs of Rochelle’s room if that’s okay. For our files.”
She nodded. “If you like.”
Rochelle’s mother left the room, and Serena and Guppo were alone. Guppo’s round face was as grave as Serena had ever seen it. He’d come to the same conclusions as she had.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I think this was a very shrewd fifteen-year-old who decided to go on the adventure of her life,” Serena said.
She noticed a forty-inch flat-screen television on the wall opposite Rochelle’s bed. Below, among the bookshelves, was a Blu-ray player. She walked over and pressed the eject button on the player. When the drawer opened, she spotted a disk still nestled on the shelf inside.
“Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,” Serena said.