Page 87 of The Wedding Party

“She’s fucking guilty.” He stands up and walks away.

Trevor sets his glass down. “I’ll go reel him in and get him back.”

Brody leans forward. “What did you expect? He was our friend.”

“Help,” I say. “Did he own a knife?”

“You asked me that about two phone calls ago. No. He doesn’t hunt.”

I have called Brody a number of times while digging through the case, but I’m not sure why that’s problematic to him. “Who does?” I ask.

“You asked me that, too. That’s not our thing. Not this group. I hope like hell you’ve got more than ‘who likes to hunt?’”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Brody.”

“She’s a bitch. Wait. You know that.”

“You’re very angry with her.”

“She killed my best friend. Do you expect me to be her cheerleading team?”

“How many times did you sleep with her?”

“Three times in one night. Yes. I can do that. And no, never again. I know you’ve checked my phone records. I wasn’t having an affair with her.”

“I can’t access your phone records.”

“Now you can.” He grabs his phone, keys in something, and my phone beeps. “That’s my log-in to my cellphone account. Have at it. I have nothing to hide.”

I reach in my bag and pull out the key. “Do you recognize this?”

He sets down his glass. “That’s for a locker here.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. We have lockers here. Some of the married men dabble in different flavors, and I don’t mean whisky or cigars, and shower up before going home. Others just like to keep a few things here now and then.”

“Why didn’t you say that when I asked before?”

“I didn’t put two and two together.”

“Show me Oliver’s locker,” I say, because obviously from this conversation he has one.

“Yeah, sure.” He stands up and motions for me to follow.

Our path is down a set of stairs that leads me to the men’s locker room. Just outside it are a couple of rows of lockers. The key reads 221, and I find that locker. I glance at Brody. “I need to do this alone.”

“That’s screwed up. I showed you the locker.”

“Brody,” I snap.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going.”

Impatiently, I wait for him to leave. Once he’s out of sight, with my heart racing, I fit the key into the lock and it turns. Excitement fills me and I open the door. Inside are a folded-up box, a red ribbon, and a folder. I grab the folder and open it, and begin to scan the documents inside.

I’m halfway down the page when I literally gasp. I’m not a gasp kind of girl. I’m looking at Carrie’s adoption papers, and they are one big shock attack. Her biological father is Norman Morrow, whose name anyone who’s studied true crime knows all too well.

Norman Morrow is a serial killer.