“Just turned sixteen a few days before she left,” Annie said on a sigh. “Teenagers.”
Lucy hummed a little agreeable sound, though her experiences with teenagers were usually as victims of a brutal crime, so she didn’t quite share the irritation—tinged with affection, though it was.
The age range put Molly Thomas close to Eliza, so that made her interesting. But the fact that the girl had run away close to her birthday was a good indicator that she’d just jumped on a bus, probably headed to LA or somewhere equally glamorous-sounding to a kid from Nowhere, Idaho. It was a common-enough pattern. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to run a search on her, see if anything pinged in the databases.
“Well, breakfast is at six a.m. sharp, and my sister and I take our tea at seven p.m. if you would ever like to join us in the sitting room,” Annie said, interrupting Lucy’s thoughts.
“Thanks.” Lucy smiled, but it was a dismissal. It was already Friday afternoon, and she still had the Cooks and the Dawsons to talk to yet.
Annie glanced around, her fingers fiddling with her belt, looking like she wanted to linger, but she finally let herself be nudged out the door with just a little more prodding. Once it was closed, Lucy stripped out of her rainwater-stiff jeans. She pulled on a different pair, calculating that the people around these parts would probably be more willing to talk to her if she were wearing denim instead of the dress trousers she’d also packed.
As she shoved her hair back into a remade ponytail, she tried to better order her thoughts. There were oddities here, ones that continued to undermine the idea that this was the open-and-shut case that it looked like.
She wished she had a whiteboard to write on so she could see the information in a single glance. That always made it easier to figure out where the holes were.
Instead she called Vaughn, putting the woman on speakerphone as soon as she picked up.
“Eliza say anything?” Lucy asked first.
“Nothing.” Vaughn confirmed what Lucy had already guessed. “And what have you found?”
A frustrated sound caught in Lucy’s throat. “More questions.”
“Isn’t that how it always is?” Vaughn said, laughter instead of censure in her voice.
“Noah was killed on Monday night, Tuesday morning at the latest.” The silence on the other end of the line seemed to confirm that Vaughn had been just as guilty as Lucy in making assumptions.
“That’s . . .” Vaughn trailed off. “Odd.”
“Right?” Lucy dug in the pockets of her discarded jeans for her keys. Vaughn knew just as well as Lucy that guilt-driven confessions didn’t look like Eliza’s. They were messy, usually immediately after the fact or years later when it got to be too much. There had been nothing sloppy or emotional about Eliza’s confession. It had been cool. Calculated. Well thought-out.
“And there’s something weird going on here,” Lucy continued. “Both Eliza’s and Noah’s families are part of a, uh, religious cult. They call themselves a Church, but seems a bit more sinister than advertised.”
“The verse,” Vaughn said, not sounding surprised. “That’s how she knew the victim?”
“Yeah, but it’s more than that,” Lucy said, shoving her feet back into boots. “I don’t know, I’m going to go talk to the families now and get more information. But . . .”
“What?” Vaughn prodded.
Lucy sighed, trying to feel out her own instincts, trying to make sure she wasn’t spinning off into tangents. “There might be something bigger going on here.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Church, the verse.” Lucy knew she wasn’t quite making sense yet, but she was still feeling a bit scattered even in her own thoughts. “Did you look it up? R. 3:23?”
“Yes.”
“It seems like a message, right?” Lucy said. “Maybe Eliza to Noah? Maybe Eliza to the Church?”
Maybe a message from someone who didn’t like how this particular Church practiced?
Vaughn was quiet for a minute. “Talk to the families. And when you’re done, call Dr. Ali. He’s watched the interview tapes.”
Dr. Syed Ali. He was the body language consultant whom Vaughn brought in occasionally when they had a tricky interrogation to deconstruct. Lucy always appreciated his advice, but something in the way Vaughn had said it had her hackles up.
“What is it?” she asked. “What aren’t you saying?”
There was a quiet, indrawn breath, the kind that came before bad news. “I think you have doubts that she killed Noah, but he’s fairly certain of her guilt.”
It didn’t come like the blow Vaughn might have been predicting. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean she did it alone.”
“A second person?” Vaughn’s voice was threaded with renewed interest.
But Lucy wasn’t ready to test out her theory yet. She needed more information. “Let me call you back in a little while. I’m still figuring this place out.”
Vaughn hummed a soft acknowledgment. Then, after a beat of silence, asked, “You’re okay?”
“Yeah,” Lucy said, though she wasn’t sure what exactly had prompted the question.
She headed into the hallway, locking the door behind her.
“Keep me updated,” Vaughn directed, all clipped professionalism once again.
“Of course.” She was about to hang up when she got to the loose step. As she skipped it, she got Vaughn’s attention before the woman could disconnect. “Hey, can you have someone run a search on Molly Thomas. She’s sixteen, lived in Knox Hollow.”
There was typing on the other end. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know,” Lucy said, her eyes sliding back to the step. Two teenage girls, one missing and one sitting in FBI custody for murder. Was it just coincidence? “But I think we should find out.”
CHAPTER TEN
MOLLY THOMAS
Three weeks earlier
It was hard for Molly to walk beside Eliza as if nothing had happened.
They were at the grocery store to pick up Italian dressing and macaroni for Mrs. Cook, who always made pasta salad for the Church’s socials.
Eliza was quiet now, but that wasn’t unusual. It didn’t mean that she could sense Molly’s guilt, even though it felt like it was pouring out of her in waves, the rotten smell of it nearly unbearable.
Why had she gone to try to talk to the pretty deputy? She hadn’t even meant to. It had been morning, and one minute she’d been eating her eggs at the breakfast table and the next she’d been watching the deputy buy coffee while talking to Hicks on the phone.
Molly had hovered in the back of the shop, blinking fast when she’d realized where her feet had taken her.
The deputy spotted her before she’d been able to duck out, before she’d been able to pretend she’d never been hovering like an anxious bird, ready to spill everyone’s secrets to . . . Deputy Zoey Grant. That was the woman’s name.
Zoey had nodded toward the back exit, toward the alley behind the shop. Molly had been thankful. Darcy Dawson had been there; so had another lady from the Church. If either of them had seen her meeting with Zoey, they would have asked questions. At best, they would have told her parents. At worst, Josiah. People told Pastor Cook everything.
So Molly had scuttled out, praying that neither Darcy nor the other woman had even noticed her, and met Zoey around the back.
She’d had to swallow against bile—she’d been so nervous—her mind caught on a constant repeat of she couldn’t do this, couldn’t do this, couldn’t . . .
And she hadn’t, Molly reminded herself. Not really. She’d watched Zoey through her own tears, murmured Hicks’s name, something about someone dying, and then bolted the second Zoey’s eyebrows had collapsed down, anger and confusion and mistrust in her once-friendly eyes.
It had still been damning enough, though. Even approaching the woman. Mentioning Hicks. Molly knew she would have to warn Eliza, and she wanted to be sick all over again.
Maybe Molly would be
forgiven for panicking, for talking to Zoey, but she wouldn’t be forgiven for bringing Hicks in. Never for that.
“The fence? Tonight?” Eliza murmured, stopping to pluck a bag of granola off the shelf as if she were actually considering buying it.
“Y-y-yes,” Molly managed to get out. She could tell Eliza then, when the comfort of darkness would mute the sharp edges of anger into something more bearable.
“I might be late,” Eliza warned, still watching Molly. Because she was, Eliza didn’t notice the boy rounding the corner of the aisle, and he had been moving too fast to stop himself.
Eliza and he collided. Not hard enough to go down, but enough for Molly to reach out as if she could do anything to help.
A woman had followed the boy and stood on the opposite side of the human crash, a mirror image of Molly.
To Molly’s ever-increasing horror, she realized the pair was Darcy Dawson and her son Noah. Had she seen Molly? In the coffee shop the other day? Would she mention it? Molly’s fingers curled into her own palms until she thought they might draw blood.
It was only when Eliza glanced at Molly quickly that she realized how terribly obvious she was being. She needed to calm down. No one had seen her talk to the deputy, no one. Certainly not Darcy Dawson.
“Mrs. Dawson, hello,” Eliza said, her voice as wispy and gentle as always, her hands resting on Noah’s narrow shoulders. Molly noticed how Darcy’s eyes dropped to them, froze there, her mouth pinched.
Eliza didn’t back away, as Molly probably would have had she been the one on the receiving end of such a half-panicked, half-angry look.
There had been talk recently that there was something wrong with Darcy Dawson. It was never said outright, but Molly had seen women in the Church whisper behind their hands whenever Darcy passed, had seen members of the congregation give her a wide berth at social gatherings, had seen Rachel Cook watching the woman carefully, concern etched on her face. When the pastor’s wife started paying attention, it usually meant it was something more serious than idle gossip.
Molly hadn’t wanted to listen to the rumors—she had enough problems of her own—but as the slight mania blinked in and out of Darcy’s eyes now, Molly thought there might be something to the talk.
“Girls,” Darcy said, finally tearing her gaze from where Eliza was touching Noah. The smile she offered was a weak twitch of her lips at most. “Eliza, dear, I heard you were at the hearing yesterday.”
Molly’s stomach heaved and beside her Eliza stiffened, though Molly doubted anyone who didn’t know her well would notice. When she spoke, though, she had lost some of the easiness she’d had earlier.
“It was very moving to watch,” Eliza said, in what Molly knew to be a well-rehearsed sound bite. “Uncle Josiah and Senator Hodge talked a little about Rosie. And how strong you are in caring for her.”
It wasn’t unusual for Josiah to use Rosie and Darcy as examples of the ways their community cared for its own children without medical intervention. Rosie Dawson had been born with a degenerative disorder that would have probably led to a lifetime of hospital visits had she not been born into the Church. Whenever Josiah was proselytizing, he always claimed that through her mother’s loving attention, Rosie was thriving in ways that she never would have in institutionalized care.
Molly had always assumed Darcy was all right with being included in Josiah’s little speeches. So the woman’s reaction to Eliza’s offhand mention was unexpected.
In one quick move, Darcy lashed out, grabbed Noah’s arm, and yanked him out of Eliza’s grip, pulling him into her side. The violence of it all left behind a stunned, sour silence where they stared at each other as if afraid to make a move.
Noah watched them, now half-hidden behind his mother, his big eyes so much like Darcy’s. Molly tried to give him a reassuring smile, though she knew it must look weak. He just blinked back, his forehead creased into a deep vee that looked so out of place on such a young face.
“They . . .” Darcy was the first to break the unofficial standoff. She coughed around the word that Molly nearly didn’t understand because of its roughness. “They talked about Rosie? Josiah mentioned Rosie?”
“I . . .” Eliza trailed off, licked her lips. “I’m sorry, yes.”
Darcy pressed the heel of her palm to her temple, her eyes dropping to the floor as she rubbed at the vulnerable spot. A headache, probably, maybe a quick and vicious one, brought on by the mention of the hearing.
Molly didn’t blame her. She wouldn’t want Josiah Cook talking about her kids, either. If she had any. Especially if there was any question about doctors and hospitals and using a sick girl as an anecdote to prove a point.
Eliza glanced over at Molly and then back to Darcy.
“Mrs. Dawson, why don’t you take a break?” Eliza’s voice had turned gentle again, crooning almost, like she was talking to a child. “Do you have a list? I can finish the shopping while you get some water.”
“No, no.” Darcy shook her head along with the denial. Emphatic. But Molly agreed that Darcy looked on the verge of fainting right there in the middle of Albertson’s cereal aisle. She was swallowing air as if she were trying to drink it, and there was something both feverish and pale about her skin.
At Darcy’s side, Noah whimpered a bit, just a small sound of distress that made Molly want to wrap him in her arms.
“Molly, why don’t you take Mrs. Dawson to the café?” Eliza said, motioning toward the small grouping of tables clustered invitingly in the front corner of the store.
Darcy opened her mouth as if to argue, but no sound came out. Molly could have warned Darcy it was pointless anyway. Once Eliza made up her mind, there was no changing it.
No matter the consequences.
Molly nudged Darcy’s elbow after the woman had handed over a crumpled list, directing her toward the café chairs as Noah and Eliza disappeared down the next aisle.
“You must think I’m . . . ,” Darcy started as she accepted the water Molly purchased from the bored barista.
Reaching out, Molly covered Darcy’s free hand, squeezing once and meeting her eyes. “I d-d-don’t think you’re anything.”
At face value, it could have come across as an insult. But Darcy relaxed with a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “Sometimes, I don’t know where my head is at these days.”
“It must be tough,” Molly said, going for gentle. “Raising three kids.”
Everything about Darcy hardened once more, and Molly knew it had been the wrong thing to say. Molly retraced their interaction, from when Noah had crashed into Eliza. Her children seemed to be a sore spot for her.
“I just . . . I just . . . ,” Molly stammered, but it had nothing to do with her stubborn tongue and everything to do with how tight and awkward the silence stretched.
Darcy jerked her head toward the directions of the aisles. From a bit away, Molly could see Noah and Eliza coming toward them, both wearing big smiles.
“Can you not mention this to anyone?” Darcy asked quietly. “Especially not to Pastor Cook.”
The request should be easy enough, but in reality it scared her. It seemed too big, too mature for Molly to handle. She was just a teenager, and she shouldn’t be tasked with these burdens, these fears that were clearly deeper than whatever Darcy was saying. Ones that seemed to align with Molly’s own.
“Of course,” she said anyway. Because that’s what Molly did. She held on to secrets, dangerous ones, terrifying ones. Ones that might get someone killed someday.
She just hoped it wouldn’t be her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LUCY THORNE
Friday, 3:00 p.m.
The Cooks lived in a humble one-story rancher that would kindly be described as well loved.
Lucy parked beside a dull green minivan and studied the place as she grabbed her bag. The poverty in the joints of it was a quiet kind, the kind that knew the paycheck-to-paycheck life too well. Or—in this part of the country—knew the fickleness of modern-
day ranching too well.
Still, the property was clearly cared for, the horses sleek and fed, the firewood stacked in neat piles, a tractor and its disemboweled guts contained closer to the barn so that it didn’t block the yard.
A man Lucy guessed to be Josiah Cook stood on the wraparound porch, waiting for her. He was shorter than she’d expected, with a barrel chest and the paunch of a middle-aged man who enjoyed a beer now and then. Where Eliza was light in coloring, this man was dark. Dark hair, dark eyes, skin that veered toward tanned and weathered. There was almost no resemblance between the two of them.
It was easy to guess that the aunt was the blood relative here.
“Come on in, if you’re coming.” Josiah waved her up the steps after she called out an introduction.
The brusque welcome, the stoic mask—they reminded Lucy of Hicks. Lucy had deliberately neglected to tell the sheriff she was going out to the Cooks. She hadn’t wanted any tension Hicks had with members of the Church to bleed into the interview.
Once she followed Josiah into the house, he proceeded to lead her to a living room right off the entryway. She didn’t know if the location was deliberate, but it was an effective strategy to appear cooperative and at the same time severely restrict what she saw of the house. She would have liked to get a better sense of the layout—the knickknacks that could reveal so much, dog-eared books or magazines, scattered shoes or jackets. Figure out if Eliza had a presence in the common areas or not.
A broad-shouldered woman sat waiting on the couch, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes on the window. Behind her the wall held dozens and dozens of picture frames filled with roughhousing boys at various ages, the family wearing holiday clothes paired with stiff smiles, Josiah and a few other men on horses, smoking cigars. Eliza made an appearance in a few, as did a woman who could have been her twin.
“Cora.”
Lucy’s eyes snapped to the woman on the couch. Rachel Cook, in all likelihood. “Excuse me?”
“My sister, Cora.” Rachel pointed up toward the photo Lucy had been studying. “Eliza’s mother.”
When Lucy’s gaze drifted from Rachel’s face to the picture and then back again, Rachel laughed, not with humor but in a rueful way that signaled she was in on the joke. “I know, we look nothing alike. She’s the spitting image of our grandmother, though.”
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