Page 147 of Secrets Along the Shore

I drive awayfrom Hutchins’s parking lot, go about a block, then pull into a gas station to look over the photos I took of Angie’s desk. After five minutes of perusing them, I don’t find anything interesting—at least nothing interesting that’s related to the case. The photos of some nut-case writing insults on the windows of someone’s house with shoe-polish—apparently an ex-girlfriend given the nature of the insults—won’t help me solve Kamden Avery’s murder or find out who hired Hutchins to follow me.

That done, it’s time to spend a couple of hours in my office before my business implodes. Just so I can tell James about it, Itellthe Tesla—I’ll never get over this self-driving car thing—to head for MillWorks. I’m there in ten minutes, walking into the converted mill with its century-old wood floors and the lingering, musty scent of history. Muted sunlight offered by the cloudy sky filters in through the multi-paned windows. I could take the elevator, but the only working one—a freight elevator—is on the opposite side of the block-long building. Instead, I hike up the stairs, begrudging my heels even though the outfit seemed to do its job, and clop down to Goat’s office, right next to mine.

His door is open as usual. He’s sitting at his desk, an L-shaped IKEA thing set up against the wall we share. Three enormous screens sit atop it, each displaying something different. His feet are propped up, a keyboard sits in his lap, and his gaze is locked on the center screen.

“I’m back,” I say, dropping his keys on the long part of the desk that separates us. “Thanks for the loaner. I really appreciate it.”

Goat holds one finger up without looking at me. His blackCall of DutyT-shirt is wrinkled and his baggy gray joggers are far too big, bunching in folds where the elastic cuff meets his Adidas. After a final exaggerated series of taps on the keyboard, he cuts a glance at me through a dark lock of hair falling along the side of his nose.

How he sits there, without shaking the hair out of his face, I’ll never know. It’s like a cat’s tail parting his head in two.

“Whoa.” His eyes go wide. “Did a Kardashian dress you?”

“It’s for a case.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Believe me,” I say, kicking off my heels, then picking them up. “I can’t change fast enough.”

“How’d it go?” he asks.

“Eh,” I say, my disappointment bleeding through. “Probably got nothing, but we’ll see.”

“This the murder case? That guy that’s killing women?”

I nod.

His lips form a thin line, a rare hint of gravity emanating from him. “Let me know if I can help. With anything. I know you don’t like to take advantage of our arrangement, but this one’s free.”

“Thank you,” I say, as a violent itch sparks beneath the wig, right at my crown. I scratch aggressively for a couple of seconds. “Actually, I was hoping you could follow up on something for me. I need to know where the last photo in her Instagram account was taken.”

He spins back to his computer. “Say less.”

For everyone over thirty, that’s Gen-Z for, “I understand, and no need to say more. I’ll take care of it.”

“Awesome. My witness—the victim’s housemate—says it seemsfamiliar to her. She doesn’t ever leave Birmingham, so you might want to focus there and on the surrounding areas.”

“Logged,” he says.

Confident Goat’s on the case, I back out of his office, leaving him to his electronic wizardry. I’m halfway to my office, eagerly anticipating getting this wig off when my phone buzzes.

I check the number, and my heart skips a beat.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

“I’m lookin’for a Detective Sophie Walsh.” Reggie Banks’s voice comes over my phone, the timbre giving away his youth. I imagine a man who hasn’t yet hit thirty, with tired eyes and jittery hands. “She’s been leavin’ me messages. You her?”

“Yes, I’m Sophie Walsh. I’m an investigator with the Mitchell County Sheriff’s Department, looking into the disappearance of Kamden Avery. I?—”

“So somebody’s finally doing somethin’. ’Cause nobody’d listen to me before now and I been tryin’ to get somebody to hear me and now she’s dead.”

“You’ve seen the news.” After the coroner’s results came back this morning, positively identifying the remains of the fourth victim as Kamden Avery, Sheriff Vickers issued a press release which got picked up and aired by several news outlets.

“No, but one of my boys told me.” There is silence for a couple of beats. “I knew it!” His yell pierces my unsuspecting eardrum like a knife, and I yank the phone back from my head. “I knew she was in trouble! I knew he was coming for her!” Reggie proceeds to unleash an imaginative litany of curses directed at a nameless man he suspects had it out for Kamden. He goes on for nearly thirty seconds before I’m able to squeeze a word in.

“Hey, whoa, Reggie, hold up. I need?—”