Page 68 of Don't Say a Word

“Elijah Martinez.”

At first, nothing. Then recognition lit her eyes.

“Oh, Ihavemet him. He didn’t seem like a drug addict to me.”

“It may have been an accident. That’s why it’s so important for me to retrace his last day. May I come in?”

I was banking on the fact that the house seemed to support law enforcement based on their public display. I was hoping she’d talkto me—and give me access to her daughter. If I walked away now, she might be more wary of me approaching her daughter.

I pulled out a business card and pressed it against the security screen. “It won’t take long,” I assured her.

“I don’t know how I can help, but please come in.” She unlocked the screen and opened it. “Curly is friendly,” she said as the labradoodle immediately started sniffing my jeans.

I scratched the dog behind the ears, which he liked, and followed Mrs. Duran to the dining table, where she motioned for me to sit. She sat across from me. The dog plopped down next to her.

The house hadn’t been remodeled like so many others had been in the neighborhood—including my parents’—but it was tidy with pictures of family everywhere, reminding me of my grandparents’ home. The Durans had three kids, if I followed the progression of photos correctly, and Danielle was in the middle.

“One of my friends lived on this street when I was in high school. The Millers, where the street curves.” I made a vague motion east.

She smiled. “John and Jackie, yes. They moved to Prescott two years ago when John retired. He and my husband manned the barbecue for our annual neighborhood party.”

I grinned. Close-knit neighborhoods in Sunnyslope loved their street parties. I’d been to many.

“Shelley and I played softball together,” I said to make Mrs. Duran comfortable. “I haven’t seen her much since we graduated. I enlisted in the Army, and she went off to U of A, and I think stayed in Tucson.”

“She did. Teaches high school down there. My oldest son is in the Marines, out of Camp Pendleton.”

“That’s where my little sister was stationed,” I said. “I don’t want to take too much of your time. Dani and Elijah were in Honors English last year, and according to my sources, Elijah reported your daughter for cheating. I don’t want to bring up any bad feelings, but I know it was a bone of contention with your family, and I wanted to ask Dani if there were still hard feelings, or if she knew of anyone else Elijah had issues with.”

Mrs. Duran blinked rapidly, surprised, then said, “Oh—thatElijah. Yes, I remember. At first I was angry at the teacher for believing anyone over my daughter, who has always been a straight-A student. It seemed unbelievable to me that she would cheat, but Dani admitted it. I had hoped the school would give her grace, but their rules are strict. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Dani has always pushed herself, and we didn’t realize she was putting so much pressure on herself to get scholarships and good grades. She was having migraines and anxiety attacks, but keeping them from us because she thought they were signs of weakness. She panicked about the final and wrote the paper the night before, saved it to her watch.”

“Another student indicated that Dani and Elijah had words afterward because she wasn’t allowed into the Honors English class this year.”

“I don’t know about that, maybe... Dani was angry and embarrassed. But she doesn’t hold a grudge. Since then, she’s found balance in her life. Still has good grades, but isn’t under the same pressure. She applied early acceptance to a small college in Colorado and was already admitted. I don’t see why she would blame Elijah for being honest. And he died of drugs?”

I nodded. “We’re still trying to learn the circumstances of his overdose.”

“So tragic.” Mrs. Duran shook her head, looked down at my card. “I’ll have Dani call you when she gets home, if you’d like.”

“That would be great, thank you. She might be able to give me additional insight.”

I rose, and Mrs. Duran walked me to the door. She had been forthcoming, yet her daughter may not be as forgiving as her mother believes.

I drove north on the Black Mountain Highway to Desert Hills, a North Phoenix community known for horse properties nestled in a small valley between Anthem and Norterra.

Laura Monroe Barrett lived in a house owned by her brother Logan on five acres off a dead-end street north of West Joy Ranch Road. She’d lived there since her divorce, and I knew from my work with Logan that he’d bought the house for her, but she insisted on paying him a mortgage. Logan had told me once that he had enough money to help his sister so she didn’t stress, especially since her ex-husband never had two coins to rub together—but Laura didn’t want to take handouts from her brother. Which I understood.

Laura had horses, as well as three rescue dogs. The two Labs stood back from the gate as it opened, their tails wagging as they ran alongside my Jeep as I drove slowly down the driveway and parked behind Jack’s truck. The Barretts also had a very old beagle who was probably sleeping, which is pretty much all I’d seen him do.

Laura’s son Cody opened the door. “Hi, Margo! Jack said you’re coming for dinner.”

“And here I am,” I said.

At the end of June Logan had hired Angelhart Investigations to protect his sister from an unknown threat and find her missing ex-husband. We’d gotten to know Laura and her kids, thirteen-year-old Sydney and ten-year-old Cody. I wish Austin were here; I missed my nephew and I loved seeing Jack and Austin with the Barrett family. They fit. While Jack had liberal visitation rights with his son—he could see Austin whenever he wanted—he could only have him two weekends a month unless Whitney agreed to more. Which was rare, unlessshemade plans.