Page 154 of Trust No One

“What standard? Neither one of us had a major role model in that department.”

“Yeah, maybe. But I owe that kid the world. She deserves better. And I’ll do anything to give it to her.”

And now it was my turn. And I didn’t have a clue how I’d make this work.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Pete Miller

Friday, October 23, 2026, 7:30 a.m.

Pete stood in the trees, half hidden by the early-morning shadows. His gaze fixed on the old house, its windows dark and still. Then—click. A single light flared to life.

His muscles tightened. He didn’t move. Watched.

Raine drifted into view at the window. Long blond hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the glow. When she arched in a careless stretch, Pete’s breath snagged. He could picture the press of bare breasts against thin cotton. He’d wondered about the weight of the soft mounds in his hands. He had thought about them more times than he could count.

He’d have to wait.

The sun was rising, bleeding light across the horizon. Wrong time. But come nightfall, he’d be back.

The fool who’d hired him thought the money was his motivator. Pete almost laughed. He’d have done this for nothing.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Judson

Friday, October 23, 2026, 8:30 a.m.

Jennifer Thompson Sawyer’s house was very neat, edges sharp, paint crisp.

I strode to the front door and knocked. Footsteps came quickly, and the door opened to a familiar face. The glasses were new, but her dark hair was still pulled tight in a ponytail. A few more lines around the eyes, still slim.

“Mrs. Thompson.”

“Jennifer, please. We’re the same age, Agent Blackwood. Judson. We went to high school together.”

“Right.” Encounters like this were always strange. People never knew how to balance the kid they remembered with the badge in front of them. “Jennifer.”

“Come on in. I have your photos all organized.”

The house mirrored its owner. Nothing fancy but clean and precise. “What do you do these days?”

“Librarian.” She tossed a grin over her shoulder. “Reference. I love cataloging facts. Life’s one big yearbook.”

Books survived. Memories didn’t. My own yearbook had sat untouched for years, until today. Most of what I carried from the last seventeen years wasn’t worth remembering. But the memories had stuck anyway. Some haunted. If I did look back, it was to the ten months with Raine. My life had felt as if it would come together. But as one piece fell into place, another dropped away. A teetering house of cards. My life stayed upright—until a stiff breeze blew it down.

“That’s great.”

On a polished walnut dining room table, there were six stacks of pictures. Some black and white, some color. On each stack was a note indicating the subject. Raine Hale, Gabe Durant, Maria Cooper Durant, Amy Stocker, and Ken Watson.

The order impressed me. Annoyed me, too. It reminded me of my own need to compartmentalize.

I reached for Raine’s stack. Snapshots. Group photos. Her senior portrait. Carefully, I set her stack aside.

Amy’s pile was the thinnest—three photos total, but the change over time was sharp—an awkward and lost image morphed into polished mimicry. A Raine look-alike. In one photo, Amy wore the same heart-shaped necklace still displayed in her current professional picture. I was certain the necklace had belonged to Raine. Had Raine lent it . . . or had Amy taken it?

In each image, Amy hovered in the background, off to the side, head bowed or turned. Easy to miss. In the final shot she was standing on the football sidelines close to Gabe. Not looking at each other but with only inches separating them.