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“Tina Stone is a different story.” Jonah finally stops flipping through the folder, landing on a news clipping. He hands it to me. “This is from theHazleton Eagle. Twelve years ago.”
My heart thumps loud in my chest when I look at the clipping. I recognize it. The same one was at Lisa’s house.
HAZLETON, Pa.—A man was found stabbed to death yesterday inside the home he shared with his wife and stepdaughter. Responding to emergency calls, Hazleton police found Earl Potash, 46, dead in the kitchen of his Maple Street duplex, the victim of multiple stab wounds to the chest and stomach. Authorities have ruled the incident a homicide. The investigation is continuing.
“How did you find this?”
“Through a LexisNexis search on Tina Stone,” Jonah says.
“But what does this have to do with her?”
“According to the newspaper, Earl Potash’s stepdaughter confessed to killing him, citing years of sexual abuse. Because sexual assault was a factor, her name was shielded in court records.”
Now I know why Lisa had the article.
“It was her,” I say. “Tina Stone. She killed her stepfather.”
Jonah gives a firm nod. “Afraid so.”
I gulp down more coffee, hoping it will chase away the headache that’s again blooming in my skull. At that moment, I would likely kill for a Xanax.
“I still don’t understand,” I say. “Why would Sam change her name to be the same as a woman who murdered her stepdad?”
“That’s the strange thing,” Jonah says. “I’m not sure she actually did.”
Out of the folder come several pages of medical records. At the top is the name Tina Stone.
“Aren’t medical records also supposed to be classified?” I ask.
“Clearly you’ve underestimated my powers,” Jonah says. “Bribes are a great motivator.”
“You’re despicable.”
I flip through the records, which begin with last year and go backward. Tina Stone went to the doctor sporadically, always in the case of an emergency, and usually without health insurance. I see a broken wrist four years ago, the result of a motorcycle accident. A mammogram a year earlier after she found a lump that ended up being benign. An overdose of anitrophylin eight years ago. That one gives me pause.
There’s a second overdose attempt one page and two years before that. I look at the date. Three weeks after Pine Cottage.
“This can’t be Sam,” I say. “The dates don’t match up. She told me she didn’t change her name until a few years after Pine Cottage.”
The realization, when it comes, almost sends me reeling backward into the fountain. I drop the folder, its pages scattering, forcing Jonah to scramble for them before they can blow away.
I remain motionless when he returns to my side, folder tucked under his arm. “You get it now, right?”
“Tina Stone and Samantha Boyd,” I say. “They’re not the same person.”
“Which begs the question, which one is in your apartment?”
“I have no idea.”
But I need to find out. Immediately. I stand, legs wobbly, prepared to leave.
Jonah stops me, an apologetic look pinching his face as he says, “Unfortunately, there’s more.”
He opens the folder, flips to a page in the back. “There’s an incident where she ODed.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s from before the alleged name change.”
“You might want to look at where she overdosed.”