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I don’t answermy phone for many people. Not many people have this number because it’s not the one on my card, but rather my personal one. So when it rings, I know it’s actually worth my time.
“Hello.”
“I have an update for you on the Webster case,” Louisa clips out, her fingers clicking on a keyboard in the background. She’s always like this—no greeting, no niceties, straight to the point, which I appreciate.
“Go ahead.”
“I’ve got the unknown woman’s current name and details, but no connection between her and Webster yet. Her social media doesn’t mention him by name or anything that suspiciously points to him. No overlap in friends, family, history, etc. But her history is sketchy at best.”
She pauses for a breath, and I ask, “Criminal?”
“No.” Her fingers fly over the keyboard and she reads, “Mother, deceased. Father, unlisted. Ward of the foster care system, starting at age five. There’s a list of homes before she was adopted at...”Click, click, click. “Fifteen.”
“That’s unusual,” I murmur. A cute five-year-old didn’t get adopted, but a fifteen-year-old with a hard life did? That’s not the norm, nor would it typically bode well for a teen in today’s system.
“Yeah. Ran away by sixteen, started using her mother’s last name again a couple of years ago, but legally, it’s still her adoptive parents’, which is why it took me so long. I’ll send her contact info to you now.” There’s awhooshsound as the email leaves Louisa’s computer, and a moment later, my computer makes its littleding-dingof delivery.
“Thanks.” I go to hang up, but Louisa clears her throat.
“There’s more,” she says, and I can tellthisis actually why she called. I’m quiet, waiting for her to share what she’s found. “Mr. Webster had a heart attack last week, died at St. Joseph’s. No signs of foul play, being treated as natural causes.”
“But...” I prompt. Suspicious timing, but if there’s no police investigation, it shouldn’t warrant that particular tone in Louisa’s voice.
“The wife, Mrs. Webster, is doing a quick run to settle the will. Considering there are significant assets, it seemed... interesting.”
I agree, it does. I told Mrs. Webster that I didn’t think the woman her husband met with was a marital threat, but maybe she knows something we don’t. It wouldn’t be the first time a client has done some digging of their own after I handed them a shovel and a prime dig spot.
“Thanks. I’ll follow up.”
We hang up, and I make a couple more phone calls. Tonight, Janey and I won’t be curled up on the couch for a cozy night and then move to her bed, which is admittedly more comfortable than mine.
* * *
“Thank you for meeting me,” I tell Riley Stefano. The woman from the cabin, whose hair is now striped in black and pink, is wearing wide-legged jeans, clunky tennis shoes, a cropped band T-shirt, and a half-pound of chunky jewelry as she sits across the table from me and Janey at a diner of her choosing.
“You said it was important,” she explains. She’s bouncing her leg, which might make her seem nervous, but it feels more like she’s staying at-the-ready for anything, especially given the way her eyes jump around the room, watching for danger from every angle. I don’t think she trusts easily or even at all, which makes sense with the history Louisa described. “So, what’s up?”
I take a sip of my coffee and lean back, wanting to seem as non-threatening as possible when I say this part because I can only guess how bad it’s going to sound to a woman like Riley. “I’m a private investigator. During one of my cases, you became a person of interest.”
“Me?” she snaps. In an instant, she’s standing, ready to bolt. “Tell Austin that I’m gone, or you couldn’t find me, or whatever.”
“Wait!” Janey pleads. “We don’t know anything about Austin. That’s not what this is about.”
This is why I asked her to come with me. A woman like Riley wouldn’t consider sitting down with me, even in a public place. But Janey has an aura of kindness, which I thought might help. Turns out, I was right, because though she looks suspicious, Riley sits down again.
I want to ask who Austin is and maybe see if Riley could use a bit of help dealing with that situation. But first, I’ve got to find out who the fuck she is to Mr. Webster. I pull out my phone, showing her the picture I took of her and Webster in the cabin.
As expected, she turns narrowed, eagle-sharp eyes on me. “What the fuck? That was private.”
“Hence, my being a private investigator,” I answer. “Who is Webster to you?”
“Why do you want to know?” she counters, not giving up anything.
Janey leans forward, her eyes soft and her words gentle as she says, “Riley, Mr. Webster had a heart attack last week. He passed away. I’m so sorry.”
I’d bet she’s had this exact conversation dozens of times before, but I can see that it weighs on her each and every time. She doesn’t know Riley, didn’t know Mr. Webster, but is now an inextricable part of this moment for the woman across the table. But Janey willingly carries that responsibility with grace, kindness, and care.
“What?” Riley whispers, her face looking like she just got slapped. Her tough façade slips as she sags in her chair. She picks up my phone, looking at the picture of her and Webster with glittery eyes, even touching his face on the screen.
