Page 16 of The Guilty Trial

“Probably both.” Grier set the bag on the desk. “Look, I’ve dealt with plenty of parolees who violate their terms. Some of them run because they’re scared, some because they’re stupid. Bennett’s neither. He’s calculating. If he’s gone, it’s because he planned it.”

Allie nodded. Bennett had been out for three weeks. That was enough to settle into a routine, to observe his surroundings, and plan an escape if he needed one. Or long enough to plan something worse.

“Did he ever mention anyone from his past? Anyone he blamed for his conviction?”

Grier’s eyes narrowed. “You mean like the prosecutors? The judge?”

“Anyone involved in his trial.”

“He mentioned them, said they destroyed his life and ruined his career. He didn’t name names, but the resentment was there. Thick as mud.”

Allie’s pulse quickened, but she kept her features neutral. “Did he have access to case files? Transcripts?”

“Not that I know of. But he’s had plenty of time to dig around, especially if he’s been planning this for a while.” Grier crossed her arms again. “Whatever he’s up to, wherever he turns up—he’s going back to jail. That’s for certain. Violating parole is bad enough, but if he’s involved in a homicide?” She shook her head. “He’ll never see the outside of a cell again.”

“We’ll need copies of his file,” Jason told her. “Contact information for his ex-wife, the siblings, anyone he might reach out to.”

“I can get you that.” Grier stood and moved to a filing cabinet against the wall. “But I’m telling you, I’ve already talked to all of them. If any of them know where he is, they’re not saying.”

Allie watched as Grier pulled files and began making copies at a machine in the corner. When it was done, she gathered the pages and tapped them against the desk to align the edges. “Here. Everything I’ve got on him.”

Jason took the papers and tucked them under his arm. The stack was thin. For a man who'd once had a career, a family, and a reputation, Bennett's post-prison paper trail was almost nonexistent. “If he contacts you or turns up anywhere⁠—”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Grier interrupted. “Believe me, I want him found as much as you do. Maybe more. I really hate it when they skip on me.”

Chapter Eight

Allie Bishop’s Residence

Gig Harbor, Washington

The hot water beat against Allie’s shoulders, mercifully washing away the tension that had accumulated throughout the day. She stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat work into muscles that hadn’t rested since morning. When she finally stepped out, the bathroom mirror had fogged completely—a blank slate, just like she wanted the evening to be.

She pulled on sweatpants and an old FBI Academy T-shirt, the fabric soft from countless washes. Her copy of David Copperfield waited on the nightstand where she left it that morning. She’d read it in high school, dutifully checking boxes for her English class. This time though, she was enjoying it more; the words landed differently, richer somehow. Dickens knew something about complicated families. Then again, most good writers did.

Allie grabbed the book and made her way down to the kitchen. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove, watching the blue flame curl around the bottom. While the water heated, she retrieved her favorite mug. The tea bag released its earthy scent when the water hit it, bergamot and something darker she could never quite name.

The back porch welcomed her with its familiar creak of boards beneath her feet. She settled into Grams’s old wicker chair as the cushion molded to her shape. Early evening painted the sky in shades of amber and rose, the light softening everything it touched. Across the lawn, the pond reflected the luminous colors like brushstrokes on dark canvas.

Allie opened the book and found her place. She read two chapters and quickly lost herself in the story before the shrill ring of the house phone cut through the quiet.

Marking her place, she went inside. Grams insisted on keeping the landline, claiming that cell phones weren’t reliable in emergencies. The phone sat on its cradle in the kitchen, that same avocado-green model that had been there since before Allie arrived all those years ago.

“Hello?”

“Allie? Oh, thank goodness you’re home.” Connie’s voice carried that particular blend of worry and determination that meant trouble. “I’ve got a situation over here.”

“What happened?”

“Damn fox got through my chicken wire. I just scared the thing off, but there’s damage, and I can’t reach to fix it properly. Could you come help?”

Allie glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. “I’ll be right over.”

She traded her slippers for boots and quickly laced them. The walk to Connie’s place took her across the side lawn and through the fence gate that marked the property line. The latch was loose and had spots of rust on it. Allie made a mental note to get it fixed.

The gate swung open with a metallic groan, and memory rushed in with it. How many times had she crossed this threshold as a girl? Connie’s house had been a refuge of sorts—different from Grams’s quiet routines, alive with the chaos of chickens and gardens and whatever project Connie had taken on that week. There had always been a treat waiting: cookies still warm from the oven, lemonade so tart it made her mouth pucker, or sometimes just a piece of hard candy fished from a jar on the counter.

Connie had conscripted her help even then. Allie had weeded flower beds, collected eggs, helped paint the shed one blistering August. The work had felt good in her hands, solid and simple in a way nothing else was.