Now he was staring at evidence. It wasn’t hard, but it was real. He couldn’t deny that now. Any agent worth his salt would find Wells’s confession suspect when compared side by side with Sheriff Baker’s interrogation. He was betting the agents in charge of the original investigation had only glanced at Baker’s transcripts—they may have never even seen the tape or realized that Baker had unwittingly fed Wells information he hadn’t acquired yet.
Christ. This was a disaster. The idea of Abby breathing the same air as Wells—of him even looking at her—filled him with a raging anger that almost obliterated everything else he was feeling.
Another killer. A partner? Is that what she was talking about? His mind began to work through the possibilities, shifting through and rejecting options and ideas. If Wells had a partner he was trying to protect, that meant Wells was the leader in the relationship. That meant his partner was the follower.
But if Wells’s partner had set him up for Cass’s murder, that was far from following Wells’s lead.
Were they dealing with two dominant personalities? Or a follower/leader partnership that morphed into leader/leader? Had the student become the master and decided there could only be one?
“Why would he protect someone who framed him?” Paul asked Abby.
“I don’t know,” Abby said. “But I think I know how they met.”
Of course she did. Paul briefly wondered if it was just his lot in life to be surrounded by tenacious, brilliant women. He seemed to be built for it, he thought as he got to his feet and walked over to the evidence board.
“I talked to everyone who’d ever had a connection with Wells,” Abby said. The doorbell rang, and Abby jerked in her seat, whirling around.
“Abby?” That was his sister Georgia’s voice. “Paul? You two aren’t doing something dirty, are you?”
“Just a second, Georgia!” Abby called, scrambling to her feet. “Come on,” she said. “Do you want her to see? We have to get back.”
Paul hesitated, torn, but Abby glared at him and he followed, closing the double doors of the study behind him.
His sister was standing in Abby’s foyer, her arms crossed over her chest, an amused look on her face. “What was taking you two so long?”
“Oh, we just got to talking about old times,” Abby said smoothly. “The rest of the soda’s in the shed, I’ll go grab it.”
She hurried out the back door, and Georgia pursed her lips in a knowing smile.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Paul said.
“Like what?” his sister asked innocently. She was three years his senior and was serving her third term as mayor of Castella Rock, which didn’t stop her from trying to meddle in everyone’s business.
“Like you just caught me with my pants down,” he said.
Her smile grew wider. She took after their mom, with her brown hair and blue eyes and sweet face. Paul was all their father—tall and broad and very blond. “I did no such thing,” she said. “I just think it would be nice if you found someone to settle down with.”
Paul’s stomach tightened, and suddenly all he could think of was that night. The last time he saw Abby. That last fight. How it ended.
“Drop it, Georgia,” he said, maybe a little too sharply, as Abby came back into the house, her arms full of the crates. He hurried over to help her, thankful that Georgia didn’t say anything else, just helped them bring the soda back to the meadow.
As he went through the motions of the party, smiling and laughing, greeting and hugging people he hadn’t seen for a few years, his mind was racing—his body felt surreal, like he wasn’t really inside it.
When he finally had a moment to escape, he crossed the meadow to the tree line, far enough out of earshot of everyone as the music rose and the sun set. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number.
“Hey, it’s me,” he said, when she picked up. “I need you to do something for me. And I need you to do it quietly.”
“Sure, boss.”
“Get me every file we have on Howard Wells aka Dr. X,” Paul said. “Then get on a plane. You’re coming to California.”
Chapter 11
Abby woke up the next morning to a knock on her door, followed by Roscoe barking, the sound of his paws skittering down the stairs. Feeling like she hadn’t slept a wink, she squinted at her alarm, realizing she’d forgotten to set it. It was nearly nine.
The knocking increased, along with Roscoe’s barking.
Abby threw on one of the embroidered robes she’d gotten at one of those rummage sales on Orchard Row that were filled with treasures long forgotten in attics. Tying the length of dark blue silk around her waist, she hurried downstairs, trying to finger-comb her bedhead into some sort of order as she did.
“Roscoe, in the kitchen!” she ordered the dog. He looked disappointed that he couldn’t keep barking, but obeyed, trotting down the hall.
She opened the door, raising an eyebrow when she saw a petite girl with a cotton-candy pink bob and big, wide eyes standing there. She was wearing a circle skirt from the ’50s that had little bows painted all over it and a dotted Swiss blouse tucked into it. She managed to look modern and vintage at the same time, a curious combination that was charming with her doll-like prettiness and sharp smile.
“Hi,” Abby said.
“Hi!” chirped the girl. She couldn’t be more than twenty-three. “So, where can I set up?”
Abby frowned. “Set up?”
“I’m Zooey,” she said. When Abby continued to stare at her, she said, “Has Paul called you?”
“My phone’s upstairs. I’m sorry . . . who are you?” Abby asked.
“Special Technical Consultant and Head Forensic Expert Zooey Phillips,” she said, holding out her hand.
Abby took it, shaking it. “Nice to meet you,” she said.
“So, where’s the evidence board I’ve heard about?” Zooey asked as Abby held the door open wider, letting her in.
“Everything’s set up in the study,” Abby said. She looked down at her robe and ran her hand through her hair again. She must look a mess, but she didn’t really want to leave this girl alone with her evidence. She looked so young. How could she be head of forensics already? “Is Paul coming?”
“I think so,” Zooey said. “Study this way?” She pointed.
Abby nodded, following her down the hallway, opening the double doors. She’d opened the windows last night to let the cool air in, and the curtains were still drawn, letting light spill in the room. It made it look less gloomy, until you noticed what exactly was on those whiteboards.
She felt more than a little nervous as Zooey strode into the study and looked at the boards. Abby knew she was no FBI agent, but she’d worked hard on covering as much ground as possible. She’d done all right, she liked to think.
But the look on Paul’s face when he originally saw the boards . . . she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to erase that from her mind. The hurt, the horror, the realization.
He still believed her, though. He had to, if he’d sent Zooey here.
The girl let out a low whistle. “Wow, he wasn’t lying. You’ve been busy.”
Abby shrugged. “I’m a journalist,” she said, by way of explanation.
“I know,” Zooey said. “I read your piece on the rising maternal death rate in America on the drive here. It was so great I went back and read most of your work. I’m a bit of a fangirl now.”
Abby smiled. “Well, that’s nice. Thanks,” she said, wondering if Zooey was just flattering her in order to put her at ease. And then she mentally winced at herself. She needed to stop being so suspicious.
“I’ve brought some stuff from DC,” Zooey said, patting the satchel she had slung over her shoulder. “But the boss will be pissed if I show you before he’s here. Protocol and all.”
“Paul is a stickler for rules,” Abby said.
“Some of the time,” Zooey replied with a smile. “Me being here? Definitely against protocol.”
Abby gestured for her to sit, and took the seat across from her. “He’s not going to get in trouble, is he?” she asked, concerned. She didn’t want Paul doing something stupid like risking his job for this.
Zooey shook her head, pursing her scarlet lips. “Nah. He’s basically the agency’s golden boy. I mean, he looks like Captain America and he acts like him. What more could anyone want?”