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“I went to school at St. Cecilia’s School for Girls,” Rayne clarified.
Henri made a sound of shock. He hadn’t been expecting that. Then, narrowing his eyes, he studied Rayne through the screen door. The seconds ticked past before Henri abruptly stiffened, as if he’d belatedly recognized Rayne. At the same time, his expression tightened, as he obviously tried to pretend he didn’t have a clue who she might be.
“A lot of girls went to school there,” he growled. “You can’t expect me to remember them all.”
Niko reached toward the handle. “Can we come inside?”
“No.” Henri stepped back, his hand on the wooden door. He was ready and eager to slam it in their faces. “I’m busy.”
“We just want to ask you a few questions,” Rayne hastily assured him.
“About what?”
“My sister.” Niko took control of the conversation. There was a hard glint in the bloodshot eyes that warned him this man could be a nasty enemy. “Natalie Scantlin.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“She was found with her wrists slit,” Niko said. “It’s not something you could forget.”
Henri licked his lips, his gaze darting from Niko to Rayne. “I didn’t have anything to do with the students.”
“That’s a lie. You spent time with them every day,” Rayne accused. “In fact, I remember that you personally taught a few of the beginner lessons for the students.”
The face that was lined with bitterness twisted into an ugly expression. “They were in the stables to play. I was there to work.” He spit out the words. “I wasn’t born into money. I had to shovel shit and polish tack to put food on my table.”
“You knew the students well enough to ask Brooke Orwell’s father for a job,” Niko smoothly pointed out.
“Yeah, well.” The man hunched his shoulders. “She was always hanging around the horses.”
“Along with Nat,” Rayne added in sharp tones, pulling out the picture to press it against the screen. “She took this picture. You were in the stall with the foal. See?”
“No. I don’t remember her. I . . .” The words trailed away, an unmistakable tremor in his voice. “I can’t. Leave me alone.”
Without warning, he stepped back and slammed the door with enough force to make the entire house shudder. Both Niko and Rayne scurried off the porch. It was close to collapse. Neither of them wanted to be standing on the rotting structure when it succumbed to its inevitable fate.
Reluctantly heading back to the van, Rayne glanced in his direction with a grimace. “That could have gone better.”
“No shit.”
* * *
Rayne used the graveled roads to head back to the city. It would take longer to reach Chicago, but her thoughts were too jumbled to feel comfortable dealing with traffic on the highway.
When she’d started this journey, she’d simply hoped that Nat’s best friend could explain the meaning of the note and the person responsible for writing it. Or, best of all, dismiss it as a hoax. As much as she’d been haunted by the thought of Nat killing herself over the years, it would be a thousand times worse to discover that she’d been murdered.
But both Brooke and Trent had only added to the mystery surrounding Nat’s death. It was obvious they knew something. Just as it was obvious they were determined to keep it a secret. Then there’d been the shocking recognition when she’d seen the picture on the wall.
Henri Wagner had worked at the Orwell farm. That might have been a coincidence. He was a stable hand in Austria, after all, and he had no doubt spent a lot of time with Brooke. She could have convinced her dad to take a chance on him. But a few minutes questioning Henri had convinced Rayne that there was much more to his presence than a quirk of fate.
He’d been hiding something, too.
So the question was whether his secret was the same as Trent and Brooke Orwell’s. Or a different secret.
Rayne slowed as they entered a small town with a four-way stop at the very center. That was the problem with taking the backroads. There was no straight shot to Chicago. The streets meandered through a dozen different communities. Pressing her foot on the brakes, Rayne glanced toward the silent man at her side. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left Henri’s property, but there was a deep frown furrowing his brow.
“I don’t care what Henri claimed. He remembers Nat,” she said, as much to draw Niko out of his brooding as to discuss the suspicions that were nagging at her. “Did you see his face before he slammed shut the door?”
“They all know something. The Orwells along with Henri Wagner.” His voice was hard. He was obviously struggling to contain his anger toward his sister’s supposed friends. “I can feel it.”
