Page 128 of Trust No One

Molly. She was a giggling girl when I’d first met her. Her excitement had lifted my mood. A sharp contrast to the pale, small body lying so still in the hospital bed.

Now she was orphaned.

Gabe had been the last man standing. Had he killed his wife and lover? Had he overdosed Molly with Benadryl? Why not give her cyanide? Maybe seeing Maria’s and Amy’s violent deaths had given him pause. Benadryl would simply put the child into a fatal sleep.

Regardless, I couldn’t wrap my head around it. The drive to Mrs. Stocker’s house on the western edge of Waynesboro took a half hour. As I parked in front of the white brick ranch, I regretted not pressing harder last night. This time I hadn’t called ahead. Mrs. Stocker didn’t need time to overly prepare or rehearse. A raw question-and-answer session about her daughter’s death would be the most revealing.

Neat hedges, cut and raked grass, and flowers in window boxes. Last night there’d been one red four-door Toyota in the driveway. Now there was a large Ford truck beside it.

Up the sidewalk, I rang the bell.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the house. The door snapped open to a tall man. He wore a plaid shirt and jeans and sported a full gray beard.

I flashed my identification and introduced myself.

“My mother said you came by yesterday. I’m Jim Stocker. Amy’s brother.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.”

“I’d like to talk to your mother.”

“She’s taken a tranquilizer.”

“Is she sober?”

“For her, yes.”

Mr. Stocker stepped aside, and I entered the house.

Drawn window shades doused the sunlight, shading the house in shadows. I followed the man into a den, where Mrs. Stocker sat in a recliner staring blankly at a cable news show.

Mrs. Stocker looked like her daughter. She was petite, and though her figure was fragile, and her skin deeply lined, it was clear she’d been very attractive at one time.

“Mrs. Stocker. I’m Agent Blackwood,” I said. “I met you last night.”

She didn’t look from the television or acknowledge me.

“Mrs. Stocker,” I said louder. “I need you to look at me. I have questions for you about Amy.”

Jim shut off the TV. “Mom. You need to talk to the police.”

She drew in a breath, and her head turned toward me. “What can I tell you?”

“I have questions about Amy,” I said. “I know this is tough, but I’ve got to ask.”

Her eyes blinked slow and heavy. “Okay.”

“Was Amy dating anyone?”

As she rose out of a haze, her gaze watered. “Gabe Durant.”

“How long had they been seeing each other?”

“Five or six months, maybe.” She tugged up a thick gray blanket as she focused more on me.

“How did they meet?” I asked.