Taking them faster than is probably safe—especially on bare feet—I race out onto the street. Horns honk as people rush to get to wherever they’re going, but there’s no one lingering.
No one standing around, staring at my building.
No people who look like they left in a hurry.
Only me, wide-eyed, standing in the frigid December air in nothing but a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.
Swallowing hard, I turn and rush back inside, taking the steps two at a time until I’m sure my heart is going to beat right out of my chest. After pushing back into my apartment, I remain near the door, staring in the direction of the photograph.
Ten years, and not a single clue.
Ten years with everyone telling me I was crazy.
Breathing ragged from my mad dash outside, I approach the counter slowly as though the photograph is going to come to life, calculating each step until I’m staring down at it once more.
My husband is standing across from a man in a solid white suit. They’re shaking hands, and Paul is smiling. His eyes are shielded by dark glasses, but there’s no mistaking him. Not when that smile is what drew me to him in the first place.
He looks like he’s at an airfield of some kind, which isn’t surprising, given he was a pilot, but I can’t see the face of the man he’s talking to.
The wordsThe truth starts in Seattleare scrawled along the bottom of the photograph, written in black marker.
The truth starts in Seattle.
My heart leaps into my throat, and my hands tremble when I bend down and lift the photograph, no longer caring if my fingerprints get on it.
The truth.
With sickening clarity, I realize that I was right.
This whole time, I was right.
His death wasn’t an accident. And finally, I have proof.
“There are no fingerprints aside from yours,” Carly says as she offers me back the photograph.
“Thanks. I figured as much, but thought it would be a good idea to have it checked anyway.”
“Sorry, sweetie. I wish I had better news for you.”
“That’s okay. Thanks again.” I slip the photograph back into my briefcase then run my hands over my face.
“You doing okay?” Carly Prescott has been one of my closest friends since my family and I moved to Boston. While she went into law enforcement and eventually focused on crime scene analysis, I went on to prosecute the people she helps put away.
We used to joke that it made us a team of superheroes off saving the city, one bad guy at a time.
“Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just—this is the first time I’ve had any kind of evidence that supported my belief that Paul was murdered.”
“I know. It’s huge.”
“Yet, it leads nowhere.”
“Not nowhere,” she says. “Seattle.”
“Somewhere Seattle,” I say softly.
She takes a seat at the table across from me. “What are you going to do?”
“I booked a flight out for tomorrow morning. I need to see if I can find this place.”
