Page 28

L istening to Tracy Ellis speak, for the first time I feel like I may believe in something that she’s saying. She’s right. Now is the time to feel angry. She might be thinking largely of herself and the impact this is having on her ministry, an impact that goes against what she initially thought it was going to do for her, but the sentiment is there. People are nodding their heads, expressing their own fury at the brutality and torment being doled out around them with seemingly nothing they can do about it.

Those who have been on the receiving end of the threats look afraid, wondering if they’re going to be next. Those who didn’t get the notes are on edge, waiting for the next horror to come. They’re grappling with whether to stay at their jobs, wondering what is going to come of the company they’ve devoted themselves to. The energy in the room is heavy but tingling, full of tightly wound anticipation that feels ready to snap again at any second.

Tracy finishes talking and steps down from the podium so she can mill around among the people gathered in the room. I make my way over to Ander. Another employee is standing with him, offering his condolences, and Ander thanks him, patting him on the shoulder as he walks away before turning his attention to me.

“How are you doing, Ander?” I ask.

“You know, I don’t even know how to answer that question anymore,” he mutters.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not your fault. I just honestly don’t know how I’m doing. It feels like maybe the big reality of it all hasn’t actually hit me yet. Going back to work so fast and everything, I haven’t taken the time to just sit with it and realize what it means. There have been a couple of times when I’ve checked my phone to see if she’s texted me or I’ve thought to call her and see what we’re having for dinner. Just those little things that you do a hundred times a day and don’t think about.”

“I know what you mean,” I say.

“I know it’s going to all come down on me eventually. I’m just waiting for that moment to come. I decided to go back to the house. It was good to stay with Mom for a couple of days, but I can’t hide forever,” he says. “A couple of friends got things cleaned up for me, so I didn’t have to face any of that when I got back.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” I say. I point to his bruised face. “How is all that feeling?”

He touches his fingertips to the injuries. “Not too bad. It looks worse than it is.”

“Ander?” Tracy calls from across the room.

“Excuse me,” he says.

I watch him walk toward her and notice a slight hitch in his step like he’s stiff and sore. Mila comes over to me as I’m starting to walk toward the exit, deciding to leave them to their memorial without my interference.

“Hi, Mila,” I say. “How are you?”

It’s not as loaded a question as it was when I asked Ander, but it still hangs in the air between us.

She nods and gives a half shrug. “Still shaken up, but I’m feeling better. It’s going to be good to be with my sister for a couple of days so I don’t have to feel completely freaked out all the time.”

“I think she should just move in with me,” her sister says, looking at Mila through the side of her eyes. “She doesn’t need to go back there and feel like she’s not safe in her own home.”

“I have to go back eventually,” Mila says.

“No, you don’t. You’re never going to be able to walk into that place and not think about what you felt like when you saw the door broken and the message written on the wall. It’s always going to be there for you, and I don’t want you to have to face it. You should just stay with me and find a new apartment when you’re ready.”

“Maybe I will,” Mila says. She looks back at me. “I wanted to know if you found out anything else. I know you talked to some neighbors and stuff. Did anyone see anything?”

“I actually only got a chance to talk to one of your neighbors. The other two on the floor weren’t home. But your next-door neighbor got there while I was at his door. He told me that he saw someone he didn’t recognize walking around the back of the building a few days ago. He didn’t get a good look at them, but he said it was a man with long blond hair wearing a baseball cap. Did you see anyone like that?” I ask.

She purses her lips as she thinks. “I didn’t see anybody behind the building, but I did see someone driving really slowly past the building a couple of times. I noticed it because I was out getting the mail. The box is at the end of the block, so I was seeing it from a distance. I watched them go by really slowly and look like they were pulling out of the complex, then come back around and drive by again. I didn’t really think much of it because it looked like someone who was lost and just couldn’t find the right building, but now it seems strange.”

“Can you describe the car?” I ask.

“I don’t really know anything about cars, so I can’t give you a make or model or anything. It was dark blue. Not a truck or van. Just a normal-sized car. Not in great condition, looked older,” she says.

That sounds very familiar.

“Do you remember what day you saw it? Was it near when Sabrina Ward was killed?” I ask.

“Come to think of it, I think it was that day. Because I remember watching the news and finding out that she’d been murdered,” she says. “Does that mean something?”

“It might,” I tell her.

It sounds very much like the same rental car that dropped the note off at Ander’s house came by the apartment to scope it out, and the mysterious man in the blond wig walked around the apartment building to get a better view, meaning the attempted attack on Mila might have happened on that particular day because she was home from work, but it was planned well ahead of time.

As I’m leaving the memorial, I get a text message from Carla. She lets me know that the doctors think that Marshall is responding well to his treatments and that they are planning on gradually taking him off sedation starting this evening. She tells me they say he should be ready to talk to me tomorrow morning if all goes well. That’s great news, and I message back that I’ll see her in the morning.

I’ve barely had the chance to get to my car when my phone rings. It’s Detective Fuller.

“Hey, Detective,” I say, pinning the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I get into the car.

“Are you busy right now?” he asks.

“I’m actually just leaving a memorial Tracy Ellis is holding at her headquarters. It turns out her belief that her zeal and fortitude during all this was going to rain down extra rewards on her isn’t quite turning out that way. Several more people have quit the company, and the appearance she was getting ready for was canceled. She’s not handling it particularly well,” I tell him. “Why? Do you need something?”

“There’s someone up here at the station who wants to talk to you. She says she has some information she thinks might be valuable to the case,” he says. “Can you come talk to her?”

“Sure,” I say. “Do you have any idea what it’s about?” I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into before I go.

“Not specifically. She just said she has some information that she wants to share about one of the people involved in the case. She wanted to speak directly to you, so I have her waiting in one of the conference rooms just in case you were able to get here,” he says.

“Yeah, I can come. Just tell her to sit tight. I’m on my way. It shouldn’t be more than about ten minutes,” I say.

I toss my phone into the passenger seat and head for the police department, wondering what this person could know that would have to do with the investigation. So much has been spread out through the media coverage, but there are also details that I’ve managed to keep close to the case, giving me some leverage if there’s a question about whether this person is being authentic with what they have to offer.

Getting to the station, I grab my notepad so I can jot down anything that could be of value and go inside. Detective Fuller meets me in the lobby and brings me back to the conference room.

I’m intrigued by the well-dressed woman sitting at the table with her legs crossed, her manicured nails deftly typing on the tiny keyboard of a tablet she has propped on the table in front of her.

“Mrs. Harris?” Fuller says.

The woman looks up, and I extend my hand to her.

“I’m Agent Emma Griffin,” I say.

“Caroline Harris,” she says. “Thank you for coming out here to meet with me.”

“Of course,” I say. “Detective Fuller tells me you think you might have information that could be useful for the investigation?”

“I’ll leave the two of you to it,” the detective says and backs out of the room, closing the door behind him.

“I do,” she says. “And I appreciate your understanding that I wanted to speak directly to you rather than to the detective. This information is fairly sensitive in nature, and I’m hoping you’ll be able to treat it with discretion.”

“I will do my best to respect your privacy, but I can’t promise that whatever you tell me won’t come out during the course of the investigation if it really does have significance. It might end up being discussed in open court. You need to understand that.”

She nods with a slight sigh. “I figured that is what you would say. I really hesitated to come forward to talk to you because I didn’t want to be dragged into anything, but I decided I couldn’t just sit by and not say anything. It might mean nothing. I might be dredging all this up for no benefit, and it’s going to turn around and bite me in the ass, but I’d rather risk that than think that I could have made some kind of difference.”

“What is it that you need to tell me?” I ask.

“Ander Ward isn’t the person you think he is.”