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“Are you okay?” Something in Worth’s tone had me leaning forward. I’d known enough navy friends with PTSD to recognize all the signs of someone struggling. “Do you need anything?”
“No.” Gaze distant, he shook his head. “Just ask the questions you came for.”
“What?” My concern for him had trumped my original purpose, but Worth pursed his mouth and set his shoulders.
“Don’t play dumb. Heard you did a podcast with Holden. You’re both on the trail of answers that don’t exist. But go ahead, like you always used to say, shoot your shot.” His voice was as wooden as his expression.
“What do you mean don’t exist?” The investigator in me warred with the part of me who’d always been Worth’s friend. I had a thousand questions, all tempered by concern for Worth’s mental state.
“He did it. Everyone knows he did it. Open and shut case. Tie a fucking bow on it.” Each of his words had a brittle edge, like Worth himself was on the verge of crumbling.
“And here’s your coffee.” Knox arrived back at the table, toting drinks and food, breezy tone like he hadn’t heard Worth, but a wariness in his eyes indicated he’d heard enough. “And a cinnamon roll.”
“Thanks.” Worth accepted his drink and food from Knox without a smile.
“Not everyone thinks your dad was guilty.” Leaning forward, I tried again for a congenial demeanor. “Sam—you remember Samuel Bookman, the kid who always tried to tag along with us—he’s always said he never believed that assumption. Holden thinks there’s room for other theories too.”
“It’s not a theory,” Worth said flatly. “He did it.”
“What do you know?” The investigator in me took over, tone hardening, the friend part of my brain taking a back seat.
“They fought that summer. One of the times, he said…some shit. Anyway, at the time, I told the cops things were fine because I didn’t want to believe…” Mouth twisting, he trailed off. “Fairytales, man. They rope us all in.”
“But you changed your mind?” Much as I hated it, I had to press.
“When I came back from college to help with the search and he wanted me to return to school, we argued. I accused him of knowing more than he was saying. Then I asked him point blank if he did it. And he just walked out of the room.”
“That doesn’t mean he did it,” Knox was quick to point out.
“Fairytales.” Worth scoffed like Knox was hopelessly naïve.
“What were they fighting about?” I asked before the two of them could get the conversation too far off track.
“Stupid shit, but the arguing was more than they ever had before. My mom was deep into this pyramid scheme thing, and Dad hated it.”
“A business?” I mentally reviewed my notes, all of which had pointed to Worth’s mother being a homemaker with no outside income.
“Not exactly. She never made any real money at it. That’s also why I never mentioned it. No need to tarnish her rep.” Worth’s mouth twisted like he knew that was a lost cause. “Wasn’t relevant that she was into that multi-level mass marketing shit. Selling kitchen supplies and gourmet food through parties.”
“Investigators looked at the bank statements,” I pressed. And I had, too, looking for even the smallest hint of a money trail. “No big red-flag transactions.”
“She used mattress money for her start-up.”
“Mattress money?” Knox asked before I could.
“Dad’s folks lost a lot in a down market back in the day, so he always kept a certain amount of cash on hand. Called it mattress money. She used that for her buy-in for the kitchen crap. Didn’t tell him. Hence the yelling.”
“What was the name of the pyramid scheme? Do you remember?” Eagerness rolled off Knox as he pulled out his phone. He’d be a terrible poker player, but I’d had that exact question.
“Fuck if I know.” Mouth pursing, Worth looked about five seconds away from telling me where to shove it. “There was a picture of a big chef hat with a crown and a white dude with a beard stamped on every item.”
“Is this it?” Knox held up his phone. “Kitchen Kingdom?”
“Yeah.” Worth exhaled hard. “Haven’t seen that logo in a minute.”
“That’s because they went under.” Knox was about to wiggle right out of his chair as he spoke quickly. “My mom is obsessed with true-crime shows. There was this whole exposé movie that came out a couple of years ago because this kooky dude in Florida connected with the company and offed like three women in different Florida towns who’d worked for the scheme.”
“Fuck.” I whistled low as I grabbed for my own phone to take notes.
“I’m done here.” Worth pushed away from the table and stood with jerky movements, hands visibly shaking. “No more rabbit holes. Florida’s a hell of a long commute, even for a serial killer. Some tangential relationship to a stupid money-grubbing scheme isn’t going to change what I know in my heart to be true.”
