Page 91 of Trust No One

I shoved out my breath. I was alone. My mind had been on overdrive for weeks, and it conjured trouble even when I slept.

I yanked on sweats and a T-shirt and, phone in hand, descended the stairs. I made a pot of coffee and powered up my laptop.

On my phone, a half dozen messages were all variations on “Happy birthday.”

Bill: Happy Birthday. Welcome to the dark side.

Mike: Looking good. Canes on sale on Amazon.

Sally: Miss you. Seize the day.

Ken: Love ya, babe.

Unknown number: Enjoy your day.

I skipped over Ken and studied the last text. Enjoy your day. Why did the nice thought feel like a threat?

Seemed trivial, considering. I thanked everyone for their kind thoughts, quipped at the “getting older” jokes, and promised to meet for drinks or a lunch.

As the machine gurgled, I searched Maria and Gabe Durant. Not likely to find much in an internet search, but if I could find friends or associations, I could start talking to people.

Maria, eight years at the hospital. Gabe started his landscaping business, then prison, now more landscaping. I scribbled names, anyone who might know something.

Next: Amy Stocker’s name. Real estate agent. I clicked through the site. Another picture of her popped up on the agency page. She wore a familiar classic button-down, hoop earrings, and a pearl necklace.

I opened the City of Alexandria’s public defenders’ page. Among the staff pictures, my headshot from five years earlier was smack in the middle. In it I wore the exact same button-down, hoop earrings, and a pearl necklace.

I’d forgotten Amy until recently. But she hadn’t forgotten me.

My phone dinged with a text.

Edith: I took Molly to school. She needs her friends. I’ll pick her up this afternoon.

Anger spiked, hot, bitter. Leave it to Edith.

I typed a response. Paused. Counted to ten. Deleted it. Edith could be a problem.

And I was very sure she wouldn’t win.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Raine

Wednesday, October 21, 2026, 9:00 a.m.

The bail bondsman’s office sat on a side street off North Barracks Road. The squat brick building had BPS Bonding painted on the glass front door.

The lot was cracked pavement, dotted with a few potholes and six cars. A couple of drivers lingered inside their vehicles, waiting for someone to walk out with a bond receipt or refund check.

Inside, three people sat slumped in plastic chairs. Two women. A man. All looked drained and worn thin.

The lobby was painted gray, furnished with a metal coffee table stacked with tattered sports magazines, a desk, and a large sign directing newcomers to register on a clipboard. Hardly high tech, but effective. I jotted my name.

Thirty minutes dragged before the door opened and a man in his mid-fifties appeared. Thick, gray hair. Starched white shirt. A potbelly pressing against dark slacks.

“Ms. Hale?” he asked.

I extended my hand. “Mr. Danvers.”