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“Every time his name made the paper—for some lawsuit, when his father died, when he ran for County Attorney—she kept the article. It’s a thin file, but …”
“But it’s a file. Holy cow. What’s the second thing?”
“The secretary, what was her name?”
“Renee Harper.”
“Right. She told you they’d taken the computers and printers to check for evidence that Lucas wrote the letters to you, Holly, and Janine. They also took a laptop from his house, and according to Dan Fleming, quizzed both him and Misty on whether Lucas had access to any other computers, in their home or offices. This is preliminary”—she held up a hand—“but they don’t think Lucas wrote that letter.”
“Well, of course they didn’t find a copy. He didn’t save it. Any idiot would delete it, and Lucas Erickson was not an idiot.”
“As I said, this is preliminary—they’re still searching hard drives and automatic backups for evidence of the letter itself. But they can match documents to keyboards and printers. Not like in the typewriter days, but pretty close. And no match.”
“What about fingerprints on the paper, or DNA on the envelopes. From licking.”
“No such luck. These were gummed. You pull the strip and press to seal. Same with the stamps. But they don’t match any envelopes found in Erickson’s home or office.” Nic scratched her cheek, in front of the ear. “But here’s where they got lucky, sort of. They found a partial print on one of the envelopes that matches a print on the stamp from the other envelope. Meaning the same person sent both.”
“But it wasn’t Lucas …”
Nic spread her hands, the gesture and the somber expression in her eyes asking one question.
If Lucas Erickson hadn’t sent those letters, then who did?
> * * *
From deep in the cellar came the buzz of the dryer. Sarah picked up her basket and fetched the last load of towels. Could Janine really have sent the letters, sending one to herself to send the rest of them down the wrong track?
She’d never imagined her old friend could be so devious.
But then, she’d been wrong about so much lately.
When she reached the kitchen, Nic stood at the window, the two ironstone mugs in hand. Without a word, Nic put them in the sink, wiped her hands, and began folding towels. This wasn’t the time to ask about the clippings, and if Nic thought there was a snowball’s chance that Janine was behind the letters. Later.
The basket half empty, Sarah glanced up. She had forgotten Nic’s habit of biting her lower lip when she was worried. She was practically chewing a hole in herself right now.
“It was kind of shocking-not shocking to hear about what happened at your house,” Sarah said. “I guess I don’t really know what kind of backlash you get from your work, and just from being who you are. I’d like to hear more, if you want to talk about it sometime.” You couldn’t be irked at people for not telling you things if you never let them know you were interested.
“Thanks.” Nic glanced up, her eyes soft. “That means a lot.”
“You get hold of Kim?”
“Yeah.” Nic exhaled heavily. “Turns out not to have been the best time to leave town.”
Sarah stopped folding. “Not more vandalism?”
“No. There was an—incident at school. It’s our fault. My fault.” Nic snapped the wrinkles out of a hand towel, but didn’t fold it. “I get so fired up. I want gay and lesbian couples to have the same rights to jobs and housing and health care as straight couples. I want queer kids to know they’re worthy of love and respect and not be afraid when they walk down the halls at school.”
“You sound like you’re running for office,” Sarah said lightly.
“I’ve been approached. I said no—I think I can make a bigger difference as a lawyer and an activist. And my wife doesn’t want that public a life.”
Sarah reached for the towel in Nic’s hand, folded it quickly, and added it to the stack. Sat, and so did Nic. “What happened at school?”
“Tempe might not be my apple, but she didn’t fall far from the tree.” Nic flashed a crooked smile. “She’s straight, but there’s a trans girl in her class who’s been getting grief from other kids and Tempe stood up for her. Someone shoved a note into Tempe’s backpack calling her a lesbo loser with lesbo loser friends and parents. It happened Monday afternoon, after I’d left to come up here. She didn’t tell either of us, but the school called Kim yesterday.”
“Two days later? Why did they wait? Abby and Noah’s school had a zero-tolerance policy against bullying, whatever the reason was. Not like when we were kids.” When kids like Lucas could torment weaker classmates and get away with it. She’d bet good money.
“Because my kid—and I can’t decide whether I’m proud of her or mad at her—didn’t report it. Instead, she and her friends took matters into their own hands.”
