Max stood at the end of the bed and looked around, suddenly sad. Kevin had once had a future, as bright as any middle-class teenager. Better, really, because he had dreams unencumbered by family legacy or expectations—he’d wanted to work in genetics, the research end of medicine, to find cures for deadly childhood illnesses. His older sister had died of a rare genetic disorder when Kevin was six.
She’d stood by Kevin because the Kevin O’Neal she’d grown up with could not have raped anyone, nor strangled Lindy. In her gut, she knew he hadn’t done it. Which made lying about his alibi hard to understand. Though the police were certainly responsible for not pursuing other lines of inquiry, Kevin was just as responsible for not clearing himself immediately.
She looked back at Kevin’s bookshelf where her books were displayed on the bottom shelf, with his other nonfiction titles, in alphabetical order. He only had two.
Her eye skirted along the rest of the shelves and she noticed a familiar spine in the middle of Kevin’s complete Terry Brooks collection.
It was her first book.
She’d started the book as a journal when her college roommate Karen Richardson had disappeared during spring break, when they’d gone to Miami to have fun. Max had spent a year in Florida trying to find out what happened to Karen. That was when she’d met FBI Agent Marco Lopez, a new recruit eager to make a name for himself. But neither of them had found Karen’s killer. Or her body.
Or, rather, they knew who the killer was but couldn’t prove it. Ten years later, it was considered a cold case, even though it wasn’t cold. It was solved—without justice. It still angered Max when she dwelled on it. Writing the book had helped, but it hadn’t purged all her pain and rage at the injustice of that year.
She pulled the book from the shelf to put it with the other two, or maybe just to see it again, reminding her of who she’d been and who she was now. Kevin’s trial had set her on a path of doubt and distrust. Karen’s disappearance had given Max her calling.
An envelope was sticking out a mere quarter-inch, noticeable only now that she’d removed the book. She took it out. It was addressed to her, stamped and dated last December. That was when Kevin had e-mailed her asking for help in solving Lindy’s murder.
The seal had been broken. She took out a sheet of lined paper. A key fell to the carpet. She picked it up. It was unremarkable, a standard key, but there was a number on it—110. Another apartment? A storage unit?
She read the note.
Max—
I can only ask for forgiveness once. You rejected it, and I guess I understand. You’re still hurt and angry. I get that. And I understand that I should have, from the beginning, told the police I’d been with Olivia. At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing because I didn’t kill Lindy and there was no evidence that I did. I was so na?ve about the system.
Even when you left, angry, you told me you believed me. For years, I tried to put it all behind me. I moved to San Francisco, but then I got into drugs and drank too much and nearly died. I finally woke up and knew what I had to do: find the truth.
I don’t know if I can do it alone. That’s why I e-mailed you. Maybe you’ll reconsider when you see what I found. Maybe you can find the truth about the night Lindy was killed. Don’t do it for me. Do it for Lindy. She loved you, just like I did.
—Kev
Kevin had written a P.S. in a different pen. The writing was sloppier, but it was still his scrawl.
P.S. Tell Jodi I’m sorry, but this is the only way. And Max—I’m really proud of you. I always thought you were amazing, but following your career, you proved it. I hope you’re happy.
The comment was passive-aggressive in a way that stabbed at Max’s heart. As if her happiness had led her to turn her back on Kevin. Forgiveness was hard for her, but more than that, she didn’t want to return to the past. Investigating Lindy’s death would be taking her back to a time she wanted to forget.
Behind the single sheet of paper was a copy of a parking ticket. It was dated the night Lindy had been killed, 11:28 P.M. It had been issued to a black Mercedes 320 SL, registered to Brooks Revere, Max’s uncle, two blocks from Lindy’s house.
Max remembered the car. William had driven it more than Brooks.
Why had he been at Lindy’s house the night she’d been killed?
The sound of a door closing made her jump.
“Mrs. Gonzales?” Max called out.
No answer, but something fell. Max rushed out of the bedroom as the apartment door slammed shut. Mail on the counter fluttered to the floor from the sudden air circulation. Max pursued the intruder.
She ran down the corridor in time to see a man in jeans and a dark windbreaker jump over the railing as he ran down the stairs, and then hightail it across the courtyard.
She kicked off her heels and ran after him, but he was faster and had a head start. She lost him before she got to the street.
Max looked up and down the street for a car, a person, anything that was out of place. But the street was quiet.
Mrs. Gonzales rushed out of her apartment as Max walked back toward Kevin’s unit. “What happened? I saw you running down the stairs. Is everything okay?”
“Someone came in Kevin’s apartment, but didn’t know I was there.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. He ran when he heard me.”
“I’ll call the police.”
Max didn’t stop her, but she knew what the police would do. She had no description beyond fast, white, and male. But she might as well get the intrusion on record. Maybe he’d been there before. Maybe he’d been the one to steal the laptop and the files.
Max reached into her pocket and pulled out the key to locker 110. No facility name, nothing to give Max a clue as to where to go or what she’d find when she was there. But important enough for Kevin to hide.
Or maybe, he was after this.
Chapter Five