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As far as he knew, Dr. Richard Moretti was still around, working at a clinic in Astoria.
Cade thought about Violet Sperry and Luke Hollander. Both died on this date, twenty years apart. Two people who went to high school together. Two people who’d been at the Sea View cannery the night Luke was shot—Luke the victim, Violet one of the witnesses who had seen what had happened in that dark warehouse.
So what?
This was a small town; people were bound to cross paths.
Just a bizarre, tragic coincidence.
Nothing more.
Or so he tried to convince himself.
He closed the file, locked it in a drawer.
The Luke Hollander case was closed. Long ago.
Violet Sperry’s homicide was fresh.
But unrelated.
And, again, remember: Not yours.
“So what?” he said aloud.
Jurisdiction issues hadn’t stopped him in the past.
He was pretty sure they wouldn’t now.
CHAPTER 10
Rachel followed Lila into the house, walking across the marble floor of the expansive foyer, where the stai
rs swept upward and an antique chandelier Cade’s mother had restored glittered grandly. Suspended from the ceiling three stories overhead, the crystal fixture had been Sandy-Lou’s last renovation to the old house before cancer had claimed her, a sparkling reminder of the frailty of life.
At least that’s how Rachel saw it as she stepped into the living area, where the committee members were gathered, preparing for “the best reunion this town has ever seen,” according to Lila.
Yeah, right.
She took a deep breath, looking past the eclectic blend of period pieces, antiques, and modern furniture that she’d seen during other visits to the baby grand piano, positioned near the bay window, and the hardwood floors that gleamed, shiny and cold. The walls had recently been painted a dusty rose that Lila had discovered and referred to as “period authentic.” Lila’s new sound system was cranked and Rachel heard the familiar refrain from a song from her school days. The retro music seemed forced, almost haunting.
Of course, Mercedes was the first person she saw.
Perched on the edge of a curved couch, Mercedes was in a deep, whispered conversation on her cell. Short. Curvy. Exotic looking. And smart as a whip. Her black curls were tossed over her shoulder as she talked, her eyebrows pulled together in concentration. Rimless glasses were propped over the bridge of her nose. Her skin was still flawless, a smooth mocha color; her eyes big and expressive; her lips compressed. With her free hand she typed on the keyboard of a laptop propped open on the glass table. Rachel remembered her—the girl who was always whispering, listening for gossip, the editor of the school paper.
She glanced up, caught Rachel’s eye, and the corners of her mouth tightened almost imperceptibly as she quit typing long enough to pick up a can of Diet Coke and take a long swallow.
“I want to talk to you,” she mouthed, still listening to whoever was on the other end of the call.
Great.
Rachel’s stomach clenched as she scanned the faces around her. All of these adults had been there that night, every last one of them. Her gaze shifted to Nathan Moretti, seated a cushion away from Mercedes and engrossed in his iPad. He glanced up. “Hey, Rach!” He slanted her that friendly smile that he’d flashed her on the day Luke had died.
Oh, God.
Her heart nearly stopped at the memory.
Twenty years ago today Nate had been behind the wheel of his black BMW, parked in the driveway near the huge pine tree, obviously waiting for Luke. The window of Nate’s Beemer had been rolled down and he’d caught sight of Rachel hurrying across the patchy lawn.
