Page 103 of Three Steps Behind

“All right,” Grey said. “Focusing. We ran the guys who were in the frat during the same years as Nick and George, and two other men, Hank Weathers and Randolph Palmer, also lost their wives.”

“That’s unbelievable,” Harper said—exactly what he was thinking.

“Who?” she asked.

“Well, you know about George. His wife died of a heart attack a year before Taylor, and the circumstances surrounding it are eerily the same. George was a teacher at Northwestern in biology, then took a job with a big pharmaceutical company.”

“We plan to pay his work a visit too. See what kind of lab he works in,” Harper interjected.

“And the other two wives?” Deck asked.

“One died of a heart attack in Georgia. The other died in a car accident in Chicago.”

“How long ago?”

“Uh . . .” Papers rustled. “The heart attack victim was five years ago, and the car accident happened the year before that. It was really sad. The guy and his wife lost their son to a playground accident, then the wife died in a car accident.”

“That’s terrible. Which frat guy was that?”

“Randolph. Like George, he lives in Chicago and works at Northwestern,” Grey said.

“That’s it for now, but we’ll keep digging,” Riley said.

“Thanks, guys.”

Deck turned right, taking them down a beautiful row of houses. Well maintained. Kids playing on the lawns. Looked like an idyllic neighborhood, but he knew too well that how things looked on the surface wasn’t always what they actually were. He hated being jaded, but he’d seen it over and over again.

“Third one on the left,” Harper said, pointing.

Pulling into the driveway, Deck noted the car in the open garage. He glanced at Harper. “Looks like he’s home.” He put the SUV in park and cut the engine. He hopped out, moving around to get Harper’s door, but she was already out.

“He knows we’re here.” She pointed to the drawn-back curtain in the front window.

George pulled back, the curtain falling into place.

“He’s a runner,” Deck said, racing around back.

The rear door stood open. He scanned the property. George was trying his best to scramble over the six-foot privacy fence. Deck reached it just as George went over the top.

Come on, man.

He scaled the wall, dropping down on the other side. He surveyed the area and caught sight of George running through the neighbor’s wooded backyard.

Deck bolted through the trees, getting whacked by evergreen branches. “George! You’re not going to get away. You might as well stop.”

George kept going, darting around the neighbor’s house. If he kept to this direction, he’d hit the road.

Pulling out his cell, he called Harper, his breath coming in rhythmic spurts. “He’s going to hit the road soon. Grab the car and see if you can cut him off.”

“On it. Which road?”

He burst through another batch of trees, popping out on the ice-covered road.

“He’s crossing Trambo now,” he said, thankful for the green sign with the street name. “Go one past it.” He was wagering George would continue in the same direction.

Deck’s muscles warmed more with each stride. George barreled straight ahead. They hit the next road, and Harper rushed in, then slammed on the brakes, cutting them off.

George slowed just enough for Deckard to grab him. “In the car,” he said, his hand gripping hard on the man’s shoulder.