Page 91 of A Gathering of Secrets

“I know what it’s like to keep secrets,” I say quietly. “I know what it’s like to make a bad decision.” I look from girl to girl. “I know that sometimes we’re not who we think we are. We’re not who we want to be. We’re not the person others see when they look at us.”

The three young women stare at me, eyes wide, expressions taken aback and wary.

I don’t know if I’m getting through to them. If I’m helping or hindering my quest for information.

“Daniel came into The Mercantile a few times,” Neva says quietly. “He’d always pretend that he was looking for something, some merchandise he seemed to need help with, but it wasn’t about the merchandise. It was about us.” She trades looks with the other girls. “All of us.”

“Thank you,” I say.

I’m debating the wisdom of pushing for more when the tinkle of keys draws my attention. I glance over to see Edna Lambright approach the café. I hadn’t heard her come in. She’s carrying a quilted tote bag on her shoulder. Two pies stacked one on top of the other in her hands.

“Looks like you girls are having a productive morning.” She reaches the railing. Narrowed eyes flick from Neva to me and back to Neva. She holds out the two pies. “These custards need to be sliced, put on plates, and wrapped.”

Neva rises so quickly, her chair screeches across the floor. I’m in the process of getting to my feet when she rushes to her mother and takes the pies. “Put them in the cooler?” she asks.

“Ja.”

“Thank you for the coffee,” I say to the girls.

Chairs clatter as the girls rise. Quickly, they push in their chairs and scatter.

Viola slants a look my way as she heads toward the rear of the store. “You’re welcome,” she mutters.

And then they’re gone.

Edna Lambright is standing at the railing, taking it all in, watching me. “What brings you here this morning?” she asks.

“I’m trying to find out where this duplicate key was made.” I pull the key from the bag as I leave the café area. “Any chance it was made here at The Mercantile?”

She lifts the reading glasses on the lanyard around her neck and shoves them onto her nose. “Looks brand-new,” she says as she squints at the key. “It’s possible we made it here, but there’s really no way to tell for sure.” She lowers the key. “Is that what you were talking to the girls about?”

I take my time answering. “I was told Daniel Gingerich used to come in here.”

“Lots of people come in here.” She looks down her nose at me. “All kinds of boys skulking around to get a look at those girls. They don’t think too much about it.”

I stare at her, wondering how much she knows about Emma Miller. “Are you sure?”

“I’m quite sure.” Her eyes latch onto mine. “We’re close, you know. All of us. My daughter tells me everything. Everything.” She hands me the key. “Sorry we couldn’t be more help.”

I drop the key into the bag.

Cocking her head, she looks at me over the top of her glasses. “This have something to do with the fire?”

“Yes, it does.”

“How does that key play into all that?”

“I’m not sure, but I think I’m going to get it figured out soon.” I stuff the bag into my pocket. “Thanks again for the coffee.”

* * *

The police station is quiet on a weeknight at seven P.M. Skid left for patrol a couple hours ago and everyone except Jodie and me has gone home for the day. I’m sitting at my desk, photos and reports and notes from the Gingerich file spread out in front of me like some macabre collage.

The thing that bothers me most about the case—aside from my victim being a violent sexual predator—is that it wasn’t some panicked response to danger or threat or physical harm, but a premeditated act of homicide. Whoever killed Gingerich conceived the idea. They thought it through. Prepared for it. Planned the timeline. Came up with contingency plans. And then they cold-bloodedly carried out an agonizing and gruesome execution.

It’s still relatively early in the game, but the thought of this heinous crime going unsolved grates on my cop’s sensibilities. All I can do at this point is keep plugging away at it in the hope that something will break.

I’m in the process of sliding my laptop into its case when my cell phone vibrates against my desk blotter. Expecting Tomasetti because I’m late—again—I snatch it up. “Hey.”