Page 114 of Trust No One

“Mom’s death has been public information for seventeen years. An internet search would produce crime scene photos of her body lying on the creek bed.”

“There are enough people who know.” Edith. Ken. Maria. Gabe. Judson. The names rattled like a social media feed. “What was Maria’s relationship with Edith like?” he added.

“Cordial. Not close. Maria told me she and Gabe didn’t see her very much.”

“Why?”

“Edith can be . . . difficult.”

He nodded. “Are you okay?”

I shrugged. “Not great. But I’ll get by. My only focus now is Molly—and how I’ll tell her about her parents.”

“Do you think Gabe told her about Maria?”

“I don’t know.” But given Gabe’s tendency to avoid trouble, I guessed he hadn’t. “I’ll find out soon.”

Judson slid his hands into his pockets. “I’ll request a social worker to make sure you have all you need.”

His offer surprised me. “Logistics with kids is foreign to me. Thank you.”

“Sure. Once Molly’s settled, you and I need to talk.”

Gabe’s death nullified any attorney-client privilege. “Sure. Tomorrow.”

His forehead furrowed with concern. “Be careful. And keep your distance from Ken.”

Despite the logic, loyalty pulled. “He helped me today.”

“What better way to get close again? Maybe he’s hoping you’ll withdraw the divorce.”

“That won’t happen. If not for Molly, I wouldn’t have taken anything from him today. That smile isn’t as persuasive as it used to be.”

Judson smiled faintly. “More charming than mine, though.”

I shot him a look. “That’s true.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Judson

Wednesday, October 21, 2026, 7:00 p.m.

Yellow crime scene tape sagged across the front steps of Amy Stocker’s gray town house. She hadn’t died here. But her home still told a story. A piece of her puzzle.

I tugged on gloves and booties before stepping inside. At the threshold, my gaze caught Meg Pollard’s. The state forensic tech was crouched with her camera, snapping shots of dusted doorknobs, kitchen counters, and tables. Flashes lit the cream walls in quick bursts.

“Agent Blackwood,” she said without lowering the camera. “Mind if I keep working? Albemarle County is waiting on a consult on a torched car.”

“Go ahead.” Crimes happened simultaneously. Stretched local resources thin.

The living room was beige on beige—carpet, walls, blinds. A blue thrift-store sofa with a quilt draped over the back did its best to add color. Two blue wicker chairs still smelled of fresh paint. On a coffee table sat a fake green plant, a Jamaica travel brochure, a bride magazine, and beaded bracelets carelessly tossed aside. She’d done her best to make a flavorless room her own.

Upstairs, the primary bedroom was neat. Bed was perfectly made, pillows fluffed, a blue quilt smoothed tight.

A silver frame on the nightstand drew my attention. People told their truth in the bedroom.

This photo showed Amy, Gabe, and Molly—springtime, dogwoods blooming, barnyard goats and chickens in the background.