“At the station.”
Fear moved across Marlene’s face.“She’ll think I’m lying.”
“Then don’t.Tell the truth.If you’re not the killer, we need to find out who is.”
Morimer lifted his glass.“How refreshing.A lawman endorsing honesty.”
Connor looked toward the trees beyond the porch, but his mind had gone elsewhere.
Janet Holt.
Sandra Holt’s sister.
Victor’s affair.
Warren Holt dead at the lodge.
Sandra grieving with Janet on one side and Renee on the other.
Connor’s skin prickled despite the warm porch.
Marlene watched him.“Connor?”
He looked at her, then at Morimer.
The old man’s smile had faded a fraction.He had noticed the change.
Connor picked up his hat from the table, though he did not remember putting it there.
“I need my radio,” he said.
Morimer stood slowly.“You can have it once you leave.But this won’t be the last time we speak.”Morimer smiled.Connor did not answer.The debt was already poisonous, and pretending otherwise would not make it disappear.
Connor heard Marlene’s chair scrape behind him.But now his mind was full of explanations.
Janet connected Victor to Sandra.Sandra connected back to Warren.And Renee had been close enough to both widows to know what each of them was carrying.
By the time Connor reached the porch steps with Marlene next to him, the shape of it all had locked into place.
He knew who might be able to tell him the truth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Bradley Atkins lived in a brick house at the end of Briar Lane, behind a white mailbox shaped like a little barn.
The killer sat in a parked car across the street and watched the front windows.
There was nothing remarkable about the house.That bothered them more than grandeur would have.Ordinary houses hid ordinary sins too well.A porch swing.A trimmed lawn.A child’s scooter resting on its side near the garage.Curtains patterned with blue flowers.A light glowing in the room to the left of the front door, warm and steady.
A place like that wanted people to believe in it.
The killer knew better.
Bradley Atkins had been easy to find.Too easy, really.Elmsview wrapped its people in little threads of information and then left them lying around for anyone patient enough to gather.A first name from the women at Melania’s waffle diner.A wife called Sheila.A mention of Whitcomb’s office.A few careful questions in the right places.Then a county business listing.Then a photograph from a charity fun run, Bradley grinning beside a woman who wore a name tag from the office and stood closer to him than she should have.
His bit on the side, Connie had called her.
A vulgar phrase, but useful.
