Page 126 of Trust No One

“Can I look?”

I opened the back door. “Stay on the patio, okay? I want to be able to see you.”

“Check the flowerpots,” Judson said. “I hear they can hide at the base.”

The child’s face brightened. “Okay.”

She moved to a large planter filled with an evergreen tree.

“Where did she get the change of clothes?” Judson asked.

“I Ubered to her house. I assumed it was clear.”

“Crime scene tape?” He studied me as I stared back in silence. “You shouldn’t have gone there.”

“Molly needed clothes and toys.”

“Stay out of the house, Raine, until I clear it. I’ll reseal the tape.”

I reached for a cereal box and a bowl. “Understood.”

“Molly knows more than she realizes.”

“I see that now.” I grabbed milk and a spoon. “I’d planned to make changes to the inheritance structure, but I hadn’t said anything to anyone. Lately, I’d been more worried about Ken’s motives.” At the glass patio doors, I watched Molly move to another potted plant. This distraction wouldn’t last long.

Judson moved closer, watching Molly at the planters. “Did you know that Maria—or Amy—had their eyes on Hale House?”

“Maria wanted a payout, but not necessarily the house and land.” And Amy liked to bring the child to Hale House.

His gaze locked on mine. “Everything’s up for grabs in an active murder investigation.”

The words echoed, sharp as glass. “That’s what Hutchinson said to me after Mom died.”

His jaw tightened. “Everyone is fair game.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Judson

Thursday, October 22, 2026, 12 noon

The Western Lab of the Virginia Department of Forensic Science building in Roanoke was a modern, sleek study in glass and brick. The medical examiner, Dr. Lydia Kauffman, had conducted Maria Durant’s autopsy late yesterday. As expected, she’d determined the woman had died of heart failure caused by an overdose of cyanide. Amy’s and Gabe’s examinations were on today’s docket.

Dr. Kauffman was in her basement office not far from the bay where the autopsies were conducted. Tall, late thirties, shoulder-length black hair, she’d been with the department three years.

She rose and offered her hand.

Most of the cases we’d worked were straightforward—natural, gunshot, or drugs. Never a string of premeditated deaths like these.

I grasped her hand. “Dr. Kauffman.”

“Agent Blackwood.”

“You said you had something to say to me.”

She motioned for me to sit, and when we did, she opened a screen on an iPad. “As you suggested, I tested for cyanide in Gabe Durant and Amy Stocker. They both tested positive for the drug.”

“You’re sure?”