Page 56 of What They'll Say About Us

"I hope that's true."

"You're going to have to trust me."

"You don't trust me."

"Well, trust has to be earned."

"Right back at you," I said as our gazes met.

He gave a nod, then turned his attention back to the road as we entered Skokie, a middle-class neighborhood that was a popular choice for teachers, police officers, and small-business owners who wanted an affordable house with a yard for kids and pets.

Cabot's house sat in the middle of a block of similar ranch-style brick buildings. There was a small truck parked in the driveway in front of the garage and an American flag waving from a post on the porch. It was just past six and still light out, but there were a few lights on in the house, which was shaded by several tall trees.

I followed Detective Barclay up to the porch. He was about to knock when he paused. "Door's open," he muttered.

I thought that might be a good thing, but that thought changed when he pulled a gun from the waistband of his jeans.

"What's going on?" I whispered.

"I don't like open doors."

"It feels like a safe neighborhood."

"Stay here," he ordered, glancing back at me. "Actually, go to the car and lock the doors." He handed me his keys. "Do it now."

There was no way I could not obey that stern glance, so I moved back to the car and got inside, then watched as he disappeared into the house. When I didn't immediately hear shots or voices, I got out of the car. I still couldn't hear anything. I waited another minute, then moved closer and closer, finally reaching the porch and the open door.

He was going to be pissed, but I needed to know what was going on.

I crept into the house, seeing no one in the living room, but then I heard movement down the hall, and I slid along the corridor, wondering if I was walking into a trap, maybe the same trap Barclay had walked into. But I couldn't seem to stop myself. And when I got to the open door and looked inside, my breath came to a crashing halt. There was a body on the floor, and blood—lots and lots of blood.

Chapter Fifteen

"Oh, my God," I said, watching Barclay administer CPR to Detective Cabot, who was lying face up on the floor, a pool of blood spreading around his head, his eyes open and fixed. "Is he dead?" I muttered.

"Come on, Vincent," Barclay begged as he pumped the older man's chest.

Despite his desperate plea, I didn't think Cabot was coming back. "What can I do?" I asked.

"Ambulance is on its way. Go outside and show them in," he said tersely.

I ran down the hall and out the front door as the police, fire, and EMTs arrived. I showed them into the house and told them I didn't know what happened, but a man was in critical condition.

The den was immediately swarming with people as the medics took over, and Barclay got to his feet, his face white, his expression grim. Turning to one of the police officers, he told them he'd found Cabot on the floor, unresponsive, had attempted CPR, but he didn't have a pulse. He hadn't had time to check the house, but he hadn't seen anyone inside.

As the medics tended to Cabot, I looked around the room, which was a total mess. Every drawer in two large filing cabinets was open, with folders tossed to the ground. There was a pile of papers on the desk and drawers that had been ripped out of the desk as if someone had been searching for something. And they'd wanted it badly enough to kill for it.

Feeling sick to my stomach, I walked back into the living room where a book was open on the coffee table, a newspaper on the couch. Cabot's shoes were on the floor, and there were almost-empty wineglasses on the dining room table next to a chess set that appeared to have been stopped in mid-game. All signs of a life recently extinguished, and I couldn't think of anyone besides Hale who had a motive to kill Cabot.

Hale hadn't been at the theater this afternoon. Had he come here to play chess, to drink wine? Had they gotten into an argument? Had Hale knocked Cabot out with some hard object? I was sure the police would have the same questions, and they would be motivated to find the killer of an ex-cop. But would they be forthcoming with the results? I didn't know.

What I did know was that the lead investigator for Paige's death was dead, and whatever he'd done or known had gone with him to his grave. If anyone had known his secrets, that person had probably killed him.

I sent Morgan and Cassidy a quick text to tell them Cabot was dead, but I was okay. That whoever had killed him had left before we arrived. They both responded with concern and questions that I couldn't answer, so I told them I'd give them an update when I had one.

As the investigation got underway, many officers came in and out of the house, but no one tried to talk to me until the end, when a detective with the Skokie Police Department asked me what I'd heard or seen. I told him the very little I knew, and then he returned to the den as Barclay entered the living room.

"I need to stay here for a while," he said, his eyes strained, his expression somber. "Do you still have my keys?"