I will do enough to remove evidence of struggle. The fireplace, for example, will need to be cleaned up. I will double-check that the family room looks generally in order.
Oh, and before I forget, I open Finley’s phone to send a text message to Trinity:
I apologize for my behavior. Haven’t been myself lately. You didn’t deserve that. Stressed about that thing I have to do tonight but that’s no excuse.
I hit send. Trinity will have no context for this. It will freak her the hell out. But I’m saving her ass. This proves Finley was alive as of…9:47 p.m. Long after she left the unit.
You’re welcome, Trinity.
After April Fools’Day
64
Louise
—Investigation, Day 9—
Monday morning, Louise and Cutty stand at the base of the uneven front steps, the early-morning sun glinting off the brown shingle roof. The house is tired, weary. Aluminum siding flutters loose in spots, and the porch leans just enough to suggest its best days are decades gone.
The houses on this block are mostly humble brick bungalows packed closely together with detached single-car garages and plenty of vinyl siding and shingles and porch swings. Street parking is commonplace, up and down the block on both sides.
“You know taxes are due in two days?” she says. “You started yours?”
Cutty chuckles. “I’ve spent the last three days and nights with you. I’m half-blind from reading cell site location data, license plate camera reports, credit card statements, bank records, and text messages. I’ll do ’em last minute as always.”
The door opens after the second knock. A large man with a goatee, hair standing on end, wearing a flannel shirt and sweatpants, stands in the doorway. “Who are you?” he asks.
“Detective Louise Pratt, Grace Park Municipal Police. This here’s Detective Sarkisian. Are you Marlow Luckett?”
The man stares back at her.
“Is this your phone, Mr. Luckett?” She holds it up to his face. Beforehe can reach for it, she turns it back to herself. “I guess it is. It just unlocked. You reported this phone missing?”
Marlow scratches the top of his head. “Been missing a while.”
“Back when that car hit you in that parking lot,” says Louise. “June eleventh. Ten months ago.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“Where do youthinkwe found it?”
“Fuck if I know,” he says. “Is this twenty questions?”
“Not so far,” she says. “We found fingerprints on the phone. And since you have a record of beating the crap out of defenseless women, your prints were on file, so we got a match. Which brings us here.” She smiles. “The police ever find out who hit you with their car?”
“No,” he snorts. “Doubt they even tried.”
“Didyoutry? Did you find out who hit you? The…lemme see here…” She pulls an extra copy of the police report from her jacket and reads from it. “The ‘muscular Caucasian male, mid-thirties’? Did you ever try to find out the identity of that person?”
Marlow’s beady eyes narrow further still, his upper lip twitching into a snarl. “I don’t gotta answer questions from you.” He looks over Louise’s shoulder and nods in that direction. “What’s with those other cars? It takes three cars full-a cops to bring me back my phone?”
“No, but it does to comb through your house.” She slaps a document against his chest. “Search warrant for the premises, Mr. Luckett.” She turns and nods to the rest of the team.
The crime scene techs and uniforms brush past Louise, moving inside, their radios crackling faintly. Louise follows, eyes scanning the dim living room: worn plaid couch, coffee table sticky with old spills, a stack of mail unopened on a chair. Another officer moves down the hall, gloved hands brushing doorframes, methodical.
The team works in silence, practiced. Cupboards opened, drawerspulled, closets searched. Louise drifts toward the back door, drawn by the muffled thump of boots outside.
In the yard, weeds choke the fence line. A rusted-out playset rests against the corner—slide pitted, swings long gone. Behind it, a heap of wood: uneven planks, old pallets, scrap piled careless, but deliberate enough to draw suspicion.
