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SEVEN

Turner was watching the video on Shirley’s tablet when the door to the trailer banged open. Cool air poured into the small space, washing over Josie’s sweat-damp skin. For a few seconds, there was nothing beyond the threshold but darkness. Then, Tilly Phelan stepped inside, one of her pale, thin hands gripping the doorframe to pull herself up the last step and inside. Whenever Josie saw her on television, she looked like the wife of a politician. Classy and refined, white hair always twisted into a perfectly styled updo, not a strand out of place. Elegant but modest dresses paired with pearl necklaces and earrings. A serene closed-mouth smile. Tonight, the tip of her nose was bright red. Broken blood vessels mottled the whites of her eyes. Rogue strands of hair framed her face, having escaped her chignon. The buttons on her black and white checkered sweater were fastened unevenly.

Her eyelashes fluttered as she panned the room, taking in Shirley, Josie, and then lingering on Turner. “My daughter,” she croaked.

Josie stood up and edged past Turner and Shirley so she could get out from behind the desk.

“Till,” a man’s voice called from the doorway.

Ignoring it, Tilly stepped closer to them, her steps sure and confident. She regarded the gun at Josie’s waist briefly before dragging her blue eyes back up, frowning. “I know you.”

“Mrs. Phelan, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Josie introduced herself, presenting her credentials.

“Till,” the man bellowed from outside.

Tilly Phelan’s fists clenched at her sides. Taking a deep breath, as if to marshal all her patience, she yelled over her shoulder, “Mace! Your father needs help!”

“I can do it myself!” Clint Phelan snapped as he appeared in the doorway, even as two large hands materialized at his lower back, giving him a gentle push up the last step.

The patriarch of the Phelan family was tall. Even with hunched shoulders, he was nearly the same height as Turner. He was dressed as Gina had been, in a flannel shirt and jeans cinched by his signature brass belt buckle with its elaborate patterns of leaves and vines surrounding a polished, oval-shaped stone of varying shades of brown. Josie had seen him on television wearing it with his suits. His hair was thick and silver, luxuriant for a man in his eighties. Tears streamed down his face, forming drops along his chin before falling onto his chest. He made no attempt to wipe them away. Josie wondered if he even realized he was crying.

“Till,” he said, more quietly, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Where is she? Find out where she is. I want to see her. I need to see my girl.”

Tilly was focused on Josie. “I know you.”

Turner drew up beside Josie. “Mr. and Mrs. Phelan,” he said. “Detective Kyle Turner. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

He flashed his credentials. Clint didn’t give them a glance. Tilly was still focused on Josie.

Turner nudged Josie’s arm with his elbow. “Everyone knows this one, Mrs. Phelan. She’s a local legend. Isn’t that right, Quinn?”

Josie ignored him. “You’ve probably seen me giving press conferences. Or you’re thinking of my sister, Trinity Payne. She’s got her own show.”

Clint said, “I need to see her. I need to see my Gina.”

“No,” Tilly said to Josie. “It’s you. You were on Dateline . Some big case. Lots of big cases, I think.”

Josie nodded, wondering if it was easier for Tilly to focus on something so trivial rather than the reality that she’d just lost a child.

“Take me to see her,” Clint said. “Take me to see my girl.”

Tilly reached up to where his fingers dug into her shoulder and patted his hand. “You can’t see her now. Not yet.”

“Why?” he said, voice tremulous. “Why can’t we see her now?”

Tilly ignored him again, focusing on Josie. “Mace didn’t know anything. He just said when he saw her on the ground, she was bleeding, and that she didn’t make it.”

As if conjured by his mother’s words, Mace finally stepped into the trailer. Josie knew he was younger than Gina, but his weathered skin made him seem much older. His hair was thick like his father’s but still dark although he was grayer than his sister. Like Gina, he’d foregone the expensive suits he wore for media appearances in favor of a fleece with the Phelan logo embroidered on the left side of his chest and a pair of jeans.

Of the three of them, Mace looked the most broken and weary. Locks of his hair stood up in multiple directions like he’d been pulling at it. His shoulders sagged. The skin under his eyes was puffy. He squeezed in beside his mother for another round of condolences and introductions.

There was movement at Josie’s back. Shirley squeezed past Turner, mumbling words of sympathy to the Phelans. Tears streamed down her face.

“Thank you, Shirley,” Mace said. “Why don’t you head on home? I’ll handle things from here. If I need anything or if the police want to talk to you again, we’ll give you a call, okay?”

With a nod, she raced out the trailer door.

Mace turned back to Josie and Turner. “Please. Tell us what happened to my sister.”

Turner delivered the news that Gina had been stabbed while walking along the sidewalk outside the site, half a block from the protests, and that her body had been transported to the morgue for an autopsy. Josie watched as a new, more painful form of grief washed over the Phelans. Clint’s breath came in short gasps as more tears fell from his eyes. Tilly’s expression went blank momentarily, as if she had mentally shut down, before she, too, cried. Her sobs were silent. Josie could tell from the way her body went completely rigid that she was trying hard to control her emotions. Maybe she didn’t like crying in front of other people or maybe she was trying to project strength. Regardless, she let her son gather her against him. With his other arm, Mace pulled his father into the hug. He whispered reassurances into his parents’ ears, telling them they would get through this, but Josie could see by the way his lower lip quivered that he was barely holding it together.

Turner tugged at his beard, grimacing. Once the family had composed themselves, stepping apart from one another, he addressed Mace. “Did you check the security footage?”

Tilly looked at her son, waiting for his answer.

Mace pushed a hand through his hair. “No. I just told Shirley to make sure it was ready for you guys as soon as possible, as soon as you were ready for it.”

“You didn’t check it right away?” Tilly asked.

“Mom,” Mace said, exasperated, eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I just found my sister dead on the ground outside, bleeding! I wasn’t thinking about footage. Besides, I didn’t want to…I couldn’t…”

Josie said, “It’s often extremely difficult for family members to watch surveillance footage of what might be their loved one’s last moments, especially when they’re in shock. Detective Turner and I have reviewed it.”

Turner explained what they had found while Josie pulled up the clearest photo they had of the blonde woman. Her face was obscured by the hat, but it was the best they could do.

All three Phelans leaned forward to peer at it. Josie watched their faces but saw no flickers of recognition.

“I don’t understand,” said Clint. “This woman stabbed my Gina?”

“We don’t know that,” Josie said. “Right now, we’re working to locate her so we can question her.”

Mace extended his hand and Josie let him have her phone, watching as he zoomed in. His brow furrowed.

“Does she look familiar to you?” Josie asked.

“No,” he said. “I can talk to my guys and see if anyone on the site has seen her before. Some of them walk down to the deli a couple of blocks away for lunch. If she’s local?—”

“We’ll interview them,” said Turner. “If you don’t mind us using this space when we’re finished here.”

“Of course,” said Mace. “Whatever you need.”

Josie took her phone back. “What was Gina doing at the site today?”

“Preparing to be sued,” he answered honestly. “She wanted to tour the site personally. Document some things. Look over the additional security I put into place. Make her own recommendations.”

Clint sniffled. “Maybe you should have let her inspect the sites regularly once they got up and running and that boy wouldn’t have died.”

Mace rubbed the back of his neck. “Dad, not now.”

Turner’s fingers tapped against his thigh. “You normally have kids sneaking into your construction sites and dying?”