“Sure,” Paul said, getting to his feet. He needed to walk off all the barbecue he’d eaten anyway. And he couldn’t help but crave a few moments of silence to himself. He loved his family, loved the hustle and bustle of it, but he’d been gone a long time, and it was sometimes hard to adjust. “Be back in a while.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” his mom called, losing herself in a conversation with Robin about her upcoming wrestling meet.
Paul snagged the dolly, stopping to greet Gray Teller, one of his old teammates from baseball, before heading out across the meadow. The music and noise faded as he walked farther away from the party, and he made his way down the winding path that led to Abby’s house, thinking he could walk this road with his eyes closed.
He’d certainly walked it enough drunk when he was a teen, he thought with a wry grin.
The Winthrop farmhouse was just as he remembered it—a slice out of time—the red shutters gleaming against the white two-story edifice. The double wraparound porch rails were painted a shiny black that gleamed under the porch light, and the old oak tree in the front yard—the one he’d learned to climb on—still had the tire swing roped to the biggest branch.
Abby and her giant beast of a dog were still at the party, so he didn’t knock, but just let himself in. It felt a little strange walking through Abby’s house without her permission, but technically, his mom had permission. And she sent him.
Inside, the house was the same as he remembered, but also different. There were flashes of modern touches amongst the 1930s farmhouse decor—a gray suede couch had replaced the ancient brown one he remembered, a deep purple chenille throw tossed over it, a book lying on the wagon wheel coffee table that he did remember. He glanced at the cover, amused when he saw it was Grace’s latest book. Maybe he’d get her to sign a copy for Abby, send it to her as a way to mend what was broken between them.
God, he hated where the two of them were. Seeing her in the orchard last night—and at the memorial today—had just brought it all back.
The last time he saw Abby, when her father had died, he had fucked things up royally. And he’d never apologized. He’d run, like a coward. He didn’t have any excuses. It had been a shitty thing to do. The fight they’d had . . .
He’d lost a piece of himself when he left her. The piece of him that she’d always held in her hand, the fiery girl across the meadow who was in half of his childhood memories and almost all of his teenage ones. She was a permanent fixture in his life that he’d spent the last few years ignoring because he hadn’t been big enough to say I’m sorry.
He needed to make it right before he left, he decided as he headed into the kitchen to search for the crates of soda. He couldn’t find them, so he headed to the mudroom, thinking they might be there. But it was mostly empty, with just Abby’s bright yellow gardening boots and Roscoe’s hair-covered dog bed. He began to search the downstairs for the soda, opening each door as he went. When he reached the study, he glanced inside. The room was dark, the blinds pulled. He searched along the wall for the light switch, flipping it on.
As soon as the light filled the room, he wished he hadn’t.
There were four whiteboards set along the far wall of the study, one labeled CASS, the second labeled X, the third with a question mark, and the fourth . . .
The fourth just said EVIDENCE.
Paul stepped farther into the room, his mouth going dry as his eyes fell on Cass’s whiteboard. On the picture of her there.
God. He hadn’t looked at the photos he had stashed away in years. He’d left himself with just his memories of her.
He’d forgotten how bright her smile was. How her dimple used to flash at him when she teased him.
His eyes tracked lower, to a piece of paper affixed to the board. His frown deepened as he read the paper, scribbled in what he recognized as Abby’s cramped handwriting:
1:30 PM: C calls to cancel
2:00 PM: C leaves house
2:30 PM: C arrives at Physical Therapy
4:00 PM: C leaves Physical Therapy
4–7: ???? Unknown
7:00–7:40: Unsub takes Cass
His eyes snagged on the last entry on her little time line of Cass’s last day. Unsub takes her.
Why wasn’t it Wells takes her?
Why was she using the word unsub? That meant unknown subject. She was a journalist. She’d done crime stories. She wasn’t going to use a word like that incorrectly.
Unless . . .
Paul’s eyes flew to the third bulletin board, the one labeled with a question mark. But before he could move toward it, he was distracted by the sound of pounding footsteps and the bang of the porch screen door.
He turned around just as Abby burst into the study, her red hair a wild tangle around her redder face. She must’ve sprinted the entire way here. Probably to stop him from seeing . . . whatever this was.
The sickness churned inside him. He could feel that weight on his chest, pressing into his shoulders, like the vest was still there. Fuck. He needed to get out of here before he made a fool of himself.
But that required looking at her, and when his eyes finally met hers, all his resolve weakened.
And then she said the one thing that strengthened it like steel:
“I can explain.”
Chapter 8
Abby stared at him, a horrible mix of fear, embarrassment, and defiance filling her as he looked at her.
“I don’t want an explanation,” he said. “I want . . .” His eyebrows drew together, and he ran his hand over his stubbled jaw. He hadn’t shaved, and her eyes caught there for a moment, fixing on the strong curve of his chin. She watched as it crossed over his handsome face: that control, the calm facade, even though a storm raged in him.
“I’m getting out of here,” he said firmly, walking past her, heading down the hall of the farmhouse.
And just like that, any fear or humiliation she had disappeared, and anger roared to life inside her chest like a bobcat caught in a trap. She whirled, stalking after him. He’d already made it to the porch, and she slammed through the screen door so hard it rattled on the hinges.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” she spat at his back. “Not after what happened last time.”
He froze. The air seemed to go from hot and muggy to ice in just seconds as he turned, his eyes burning with the anger she was feeling.
“That’s low, Abby,” he said, but he wasn’t walking away now.
“I don’t care,” she said. She couldn’t. She would use his guilt because she needed his help. “You owe me.”
“What do you want?” he asked, incredulous. “This is ghoulish.” He gestured behind her, meaning the house, her room, the board she’d set up, detailing the time lines. All the evidence. “That’s no way to honor her. This isn’t healthy.”
“Are you kidding me?” Now she was the incredulous one. She stomped down the steps of the porch, standing on the third to last one, so they were eye to eye. God, she’d always hated how much taller he was when they were kids. He used to pick her up and swing her over his shoulders until she got sick from laughing so hard.
“I am a journalist,” she hissed right in his face. “Your life may be all about justice, Paul, but mine’s about truth.”
“What the hell kind of truth are you looking for in there?” he asked, his voice rising, his eyes getting bright under the flickering porch light. “We know the truth. Cass’s killer is rotting in prison where he belongs. What could there possibly be left to investigate here?”
She took a deep breath. It was now or never. He probably wouldn’t believe her. It would likely be the straw that broke the camel’s back. But she had to try. He was her Hail Mary.
“Howard Wells did not kill Cass,” she said. “The other girls? The twelve young women before her? Those women, he killed. But he never saw Cass’s face until Sheriff Baker showed him her photo in the interrogation room.”
There it was. That look. It was concern. It was confused. And it told her that he thought she was out of her mind.
“What are you talking about? Of course he killed Cass. There was dirt from the Martins’ orchard mixed with O positive blood in his truck when he was discovered.”