Page 23 of Trust No One

“I hope it’s that simple.”

Molly ran into the room. Her curly hair was wild and haloed around her round face. Flowered pajamas draped her small frame. “Can I get more juice, Grandma?”

“Of course, baby, head on in the kitchen. There are juice boxes in the refrigerator.”

Molly stared at me. But I wasn’t sure she remembered me. “Why are you here?”

“That’s a rude question, Molly,” Edith said.

“It’s a fair one,” I said. “I’m here to talk to your daddy.”

“He’s on vacation with Mommy,” she said. “They went hiking in the mountains.”

“They like to hike?” I asked.

“Daddy loves to go. He says it helps him think.”

“Does he go a lot?”

She shrugged. “I guess.”

Edith laid a hand on Molly’s shoulder. “Honey, let’s go into the kitchen.”

Edith led the girl away. If I ever had to press the child for more details, I’d return with a social worker. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that. I wanted Gabe to call me back. The tox screens to be clean. Maria to wake up.

Edith ushered the girl, now holding a juice box, back into the TV room. She returned. “Judson, I’ll call you if I hear from Gabe. Until you have something, leave. Molly is smart. It won’t be long before she figures out there’s a problem.”

I handed my card to Edith. “Call if you hear from your son.”

She flicked the edge. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s just worried.”

“He needs to call me. We need an eye-to-eye conversation.”

“I don’t like your tone, Judson.”

“This is my nice tone, Edith. I’m taking it slow and easy out of respect for you and Gabe. But if the tox screens come back positive and Gabe is still MIA, then my attitude will shift into a higher gear.”

“Do you hear yourself?” she demanded. “You’re treating us like you’re the police.”

“Edith, I am the police. Tell Gabe to call me.”

Chapter Ten

Raine

Saturday, October 17, 2026, 4:00 p.m.

When I left for Hale House, the adrenaline was gone. Replaced with something colder. Heavier.

Grim determination.

I hadn’t slept well in months. The divorce. The lawsuit. The attack. The weight of it all pressed down. Interstate gave way to back country roads and finally the entrance to Hale House. The property’s long narrow graveled driveway wound past hundred-year-old oaks. The sun dipped low, casting oranges and yellows on tall grass. So quiet.

Hale House rose ahead. It was two stories tall, with a small attic and a deep stone basement. Regal. Weathered. Crumbling. The brick facade, gabled roof, and handblown glass windows were all relics of the past.

My father had believed the house and our family were one. When one fell, the other would, too.

So far, he’d been right.