Chapter Six

Eighteen months ago

Shelby tried not to have expectations about the witnesses she interviewed. She wanted to listen to their testimony without any pre-judgment. But she already knew a lot about Camille Gregory—now Claire Watson—before she knocked on the modest bungalow in a quiet Bethesda neighborhood. She had watched the available video of the Chalk brothers trial and Camille Gregory's testimony against them. Camille was the same age as Shelby—twenty-six at the time of the trial—but she had the confidence and composure of someone much older. On the witness stand, she had sat up tall, chin lifted, and spoken clearly, convincingly. She almost looked as if she was enjoying the experience. The prosecution couldn't have asked for a better witness.

But the Chalk brothers had better lawyers, and their own brand of arrogance that had impressed—or perhaps intimidated—the jurors. The chief defense attorney had emphasized over and over that Miss Gregory had not seen either of the brothers shoot Judge Hennessey. She hadn't even seen them holding a gun. She had turned and run before she had seen much of anything at all.

The woman who answered Shelby's knock was smaller than she had looked in those videos—thin, but not fragile. She examined Shelby's credentials and smiled with genuine warmth. "It'll be nice to talk to a woman for a change," she said. "Come on in."

Shelby was prepared for Camille to balk at answering questions she had already been asked over and over in the two and a half years since the night Judge Hennessey was murdered. She knew how to tease out information from reticent witnesses and how to use emotion—anger, sadness, regret—to elicit information they might not have revealed before. She was very good at her job.

But interviewing Camille required none of that. The young woman was open, happy to talk about that night and everything that had followed, as if she hadn't told the same story over and over. What she said matched what was already in her file. She didn't embellish the way so many witnesses did over time, perhaps in an attempt to make their story, or themselves, more interesting. Camille knew she was interesting, the way some people accept that they are beautiful or powerful.

After the first hour, Shelby felt as if she was talking with a girlfriend. Camille had brought out flavored seltzer and popcorn, and they snacked and chatted as if they had known each other for years. Camille really came alive when she talked about her family—her parents, her deceased sister, Laney, and especially her brother, Zach.

"I wish you could meet Zach," she said. "I think you would really like him."

"Is he a lot like you?" Shelby asked.

"He's not like me." Camille tossed a kernel of popcorn into her mouth and tilted her head, considering. "Zach is quieter. More thoughtful. I mean, he really thinks about things before he says anything or makes up his mind. When we were kids, people sometimes thought he was slow, but he's actually really smart. He just takes his time making decisions. Me, I think on my feet. I size things up very quickly. Sometimes, he accused me of being rash, but it was never like that. I just made up my mind fast and stuck to my decision. That night at the restaurant, I knew what I had to do right away."

"Does Zach look like you?" Shelby asked.

Camille ate more popcorn. "We have the same dark hair and eyes, but Zach is taller and just, well, bigger." She held her hands out to her sides. "Not fat, just tall and broad-shouldered and muscular. But to go along with all that brawn, he is almost pretty. Those big, dark eyes and long lashes. I would kill for lashes like that, you know. And he has this mole right at the side of his mouth." She touched her own face to indicate the position. "A perfect beauty mark. When he was little, kids sometimes teased him about it, but then he outgrew most of them and the teasing stopped." She shrugged. "He was always my little brother, no matter how big he got. And I always tried to look out for him."

"You didn't think he could take care of himself?" Shelby asked, fascinated by this picture of the beautiful giant who needed protecting by a woman who was all of five feet six inches tall and weighed maybe 125 pounds.

"Yes and no. Zach was so quiet and easygoing. Too easygoing. I don't think he ever understood how dangerous people could be. How dangerous the Chalk brothers could be." Her expression grew troubled. "When I told him I needed police protection, I think he saw it as me being dramatic." She grinned, showing white, perfect teeth. "Not that I don't occasionally channel my inner drama queen. When it suits me."

Shelby returned to that night at the restaurant, trying to ferret out any detail they might have missed before, but coming up with nothing new. "I know the Chalk brothers can't be tried again for the judge's murder," Camille said. "So what else do you hope to accomplish?"

"I'm reviewing everything in their files, trying to find some detail we've missed that might link them to other crimes," Shelby said.

"I wish I could help you," Camille said. "But I really have told you everything I know."

Shelby gathered her belongings and prepared to leave. "If you think of anything, no matter how trivial, call me," she said and handed Camille her card.

Shelby studied the card, then slipped it into the pocket of her jeans. "Could I call you just to talk? Or go shopping or to lunch or something?"

Shelby blinked. "Uh, sure."

"It's just that I really enjoyed hanging out with you," Camille said. "I think the two of us could be friends. It would be nice to have someone I didn't have to pretend with, you know?"

Shelby nodded. She didn't know, but she could imagine. No matter who else Camille grew close to from now on, there would always be her other, secret life between them. "Call me anytime," she said. "Just to talk or hang out. A person can't have too many friends."

Camille surprised her again at the door by giving her a hug. She felt the other woman's loneliness in that gesture, and a longing that mirrored her own. Being an FBI agent, especially one of the few women in her office, was lonely, too. She and Camille had more in common than Shelby had imagined.

T WO DAYS AFTER arriving in Eagle Mountain, Shelby stood on the doorstep of Zach's townhouse once more, frowning at the smooth black paint of the front door. He hadn't answered her ring, or the knocking that followed. He might not be home—or he might be inside, refusing to talk to her. She had tried his workplace earlier, and a woman there had informed her Zach was out on bereavement leave. She might take her inability to contact him as bad timing, except that he refused to answer her texts or call her back. She understood he was probably still angry about the role the FBI had played in deceiving his family into believing Camille was dead. Frankly, that whole scenario made her uncomfortable, too.

But she hadn't been part of that deception. She hadn't even been with the Bureau back then. All she wanted now was for the two of them to work together to try to figure out who had killed his sister and her friend. She wasn't his enemy.

She walked back to her car, trying to decide what to do next. Before joining the Bureau, she had worked as a sheriff's deputy. The east Texas town she had worked for had been a little larger than Eagle Mountain and not as scenic, but she had investigated her share of crimes. It was one of those crimes—a kidnapping and multiple murder—that had brought her to the attention of the Bureau.

She needed to put herself back into the role of an investigator. Local law enforcement was being as cooperative as any of them ever were when the Bureau swooped in to take over a case on their turf. They had promised to share any information they uncovered about the crime, but that wasn't enough. This was Shelby's case, so she needed to investigate it herself.

She consulted the report she had received from Sheriff Walker, then pulled up a map of the area on her phone, plugged some coordinates into her GPS and began to drive.

Twenty minutes later, she eased her rental car down a rutted, rocky road toward the Pi?on Creek campground. The car's springs groaned in protest as she sank into a pothole, and she winced at the screech of metal on rock as she climbed up out of the hole. Mud spattered the sides of the vehicle and spotted the windshield when she splashed through water running over the road—the last remnants of the flood three days ago.

At last, she spotted the sign marking the entrance to the campground and turned in. A kiosk had a list of the rules and a map showing the layout of all the campsites. The sheriff's report said Camille's body had been found in site number 47, near the back of the campground.

She drove slowly along the dirt road. Only half a dozen sites were occupied, and she saw no people at any of them. Were they away for the day, hiking and Jeeping and fishing and whatever else people came here for? Or were they hiding inside their campers and vans, suspicious of the stranger who was clearly not a camper, moving into their midst?

Even if she hadn't noted the number of the site where Camille had been found, she would have known which one it was by the yellow crime-scene tape that still fluttered from the stunted pi?on trees. She parked in site 46, across from 47, and walked over.

Tracks in the mud showed where a wrecker had towed the rental van away. The trunk and branches of a mostly dead tree lay next to the tracks, its stump like a broken molar jutting from the red-brown dirt. The other campers, seeing Camille's body on the ground beneath the tree, had assumed it had fallen on her. But Shelby doubted the impact from this half-rotted trunk could have killed her. And, of course, it hadn't. Had her killer pushed the tree over or managed to arrange for it to fall in order to hide his handiwork a little longer and allow him time to escape?

She searched for other tracks in the mud—shoe impressions or tire or bicycle tracks—but the prints of first responders and other campers, and the flood itself, had wiped out anything that was likely to lead to Camille's killer. She paused to study the deep treads of a man's hiking boots, overlaying the van's tracks where it had been pulled from the campsite. Of course, the crime-scene tape would draw other campers to look. Who didn't love a good mystery?

"What are you doing here?"

She whirled to find Zach Gregory stalking toward her. She forced herself not to flinch or step back. He was a big man. Intimidating. And despite all the stories Camille had told her about her smart, funny, kind brother, Shelby didn't really know him. Grief changed people, and not always for the better. For all she knew, Zach Gregory had a violent streak his sister had never seen. "I'm trying to find out everything I can about Camille's death," she said, keeping her voice calm. "Is that why you're here?" She should have thought of that before. Maybe Zach hoped to feel closer to his sister by revisiting the place where she had died.

He came to stand beside her. Uncomfortably close. She caught the scent of pine, perhaps from where he had brushed against the pi?on branches, and heard the heaviness of his breathing, as if he was struggling to control his emotions. "I looked around," he said. "I didn't see anything."

"I was wondering about that tree." She nodded toward the broken trunk. "You probably know more about these things than I do. Do you think it just fell, or did the killer push it over or do something to make it fall?"

The question surprised him; she could tell. He glanced at her, then walked over to the trunk. "It looks pretty rotten," he said. He kicked at it, and bark flaked off. He bent closer and she did also, her face close to his. He had a scar by his left eye from where he had fallen on his bicycle when he was eight and had to have stitches. There was something so intimate about knowing that story, especially when he knew nothing of her childhood.

"You can see where it broke." He pointed to the jagged surface of the stump, the wood in the center dry and crumbling. "And it looks like there was a hole here." He pointed to a vacant area just above the roots on one side. "Maybe an animal dug this out to use as a den. That would have weakened the tree on this side."

"So maybe the killer saw that and shoved the tree over?" Heart beating a little faster, she moved over to the trunk. "Where would he have pushed, do you think?"

Zach joined her in examining the trunk. He stepped over it, then rolled it toward her slightly. "The hole I was talking about is right here." He pointed to the broken end of the trunk, the smoothed edge of a hole clearly visible. He stepped back over the trunk to stand beside her, then carefully tipped that side up.

"Is it heavy?" she asked.

"Not very."

He was several inches taller and more muscular than the man Brent Baker had described seeing leaving Camille's camp. "Could a smaller man, one not in as good shape, have pushed it?" she asked.

He straightened, and his gaze burned into her. "You have a suspect?"

"We have a description of a man who was seen leaving Camille's campsite about the time she probably died," she said. "We don't have a name or any definite identification."

"What's the description? Who saw him?"

"One of the other campers saw him. And the description isn't much—about six feet tall, on the thin side. He wore dark clothing and a rain shell with the hood pulled up, so we have no idea of his hair color or what his face looked like. He moved like a runner."

Zach looked back toward the tree. "If the guy was in decent shape, he probably could have pushed over this rotten tree."

Shelby bent to examine the tree trunk once more, estimating where the killer might have put his hands. "If you were doing something like that, how would you do it?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, would you put your hands on the trunk and shove, or find a big branch and whack the trunk?"

"I'd put my shoulder to it and give a big shove," he said. "Get some leg strength into it, as well as upper body strength."

She visually measured the trunk again. "So his shoulder would have been about here." She touched the tip of her fingers to a spot on the trunk.

Zach bent to examine the spot. "Up about six inches, I think."

She brushed her hands up six inches, studying the rough bark. Then she stilled, holding her breath. "Is that a hair?" Zach asked.

The single hair, perhaps six inches long, glinted in the sunlight, then disappeared as she straightened enough to reach into her jacket and pull out her phone. She snapped several photos, hoping they would show the hair in place. Then she tucked the phone away and pulled out her keys. "Go to my car and open the trunk. There's a small duffel bag in there. Inside the duffel is another smaller, black zippered pouch. Bring that to me, please." She kept her hand on the trunk, afraid if she moved, she would never find the hair again.

Zach took the keys and loped away. He was back a few moments later. She unzipped the pouch and took out a plastic evidence pouch. "Hold this." She handed the pouch to Zach, then felt in another pocket of the pouch for a small case, from which she withdrew a pair of tweezers. She used the tweezers to ease the hair from where it was caught in the bark. She carefully inserted the hair into the pouch, then sealed it. She labeled it with the date, time and location where it was collected, then signed across the seal.

"Can I see?" Zach asked.

She held the pouch up to the light so they could both look. The single hair, a light brown or dark blond, glinted in the light. She said a silent prayer of thanks that the hair was not dark, like hers and Zach's. She didn't have to worry that one of them had inadvertently deposited their own hair on the log in the process of examining it. "Do you think that belongs to the killer?" Zach asked.

"I don't know." She tucked the bag into the pouch and zipped it closed. "It could belong to another camper who stayed here. But if we do find a good suspect for the murder, DNA might help prove he was here in the camp, and that could go a long way toward a conviction, depending on what other evidence we have."

"They had an eyewitness statement for Judge Hennessey's murder," he said. "That wasn't enough to get a conviction."

"We'll need to do better next time."

"Do you think there will be a next time?" he asked. "From what I understand, law enforcement has been after the Chalk brothers for years, and they've yet to make anything stick."

"We're not going to stop trying," she said. "They're going to make a mistake."

"That was one of the hardest things when we thought she died right after the trial," he said. "That she had sacrificed everything to testify against those crooks, and it meant nothing."

"It didn't mean nothing." She gripped his arm, not even realizing she had done so in her desire to make him understand that Camille's sacrifice hadn't been foolish or useless. "We weren't able to put the Chalk brothers behind bars, but we're still investigating them. They have committed other crimes—we're sure of it. And I wish I could make you understand the way testifying at that trial transformed Camille."

"What do you mean?" He didn't look at her as he asked the question, but down at her hand around his arm.

She released her hold on him and took a step back. "I didn't know her before the trial," she said. "But when I spoke to her about it, she spoke with such pride about what she had done. She told me she had spent years feeling guilty that she wasn't doing more with her life. She wanted to make a difference in the world, but she didn't have money or power, and she hadn't excelled in school or in sports. Her life was so ordinary, and then she had decided to speak up about what she saw in the restaurant that night. She had power over Charlie and Christopher Chalk in those moments, and she had the influence to show others that they could speak up, too. Though she was working at an insurance agency as part of her new identity, she was taking college courses, too. She wanted to work as a victim advocate, and she was so excited about everything ahead of her."

"But she threw all that away to come see me."

"I don't think she thought of it that way," Shelby said. "I think she intended to talk to you, then to come back. We had protected her for four years. I believe she trusted us."

"She didn't trust you enough to tell you whatever it was she wanted me to know."

Hearing him say what she had thought so many times hurt more than she had anticipated. "No, she didn't," she said. "But I'm doing what I can now to try to make that up to her." She turned away. "Let's look around a little bit more and see what we can find."

But all they found was a site swept clean of any other evidence. She consulted the sheriff's report again. Deputies had collected half a dozen soggy cigarette butts, a faded and bent beer can, two bottle caps, a gum wrapper and half a plastic water bottle, none of which were likely related to either Camille or her killer.

"Who was this camper who saw this guy with Camille?" Zach asked when they were back at Shelby's car and she was stowing the evidence bag in the trunk.

"I'm not going to tell you his name," she said. "You don't need to talk to him."

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Maybe he would tell me something he wouldn't tell the cops."

"Or he might feel threatened and accuse you of intimidating a witness." At his thunderous look, she rested a hand on his arm again. "I know you want to do something to help, but there really isn't anything. I promise I'm going to pursue every lead. Camille was my friend, and finding the person who killed her is important to me."

"Were you even going to tell me about this man?"

"I was if you had ever returned my calls or texts."

He flushed and looked away. "I didn't feel like talking to anyone."

"I need you to talk to me," she said. "I especially need you to tell me if you see anything or anyone suspicious. You know this town better than I do. You would recognize someone who was out of place when I might not."

"Lots of tourists visit here, especially in summer," he said.

"Has anyone been paying unusual attention to you?" she asked. "Have you noticed anyone following you or hanging around your townhouse?"

He shook his head. "There isn't anyone. I think that car the other night was just a coincidence, not someone following us."

Maybe. But maybe not. "I need you to help me," she said.

"With what? You just said there isn't anything I can do."

"Maybe I was wrong." She considered him. Hurt etched every line of his face and every angle of his body. He looked so vulnerable, despite his powerful physique. "Tell me, why do you think Camille came here, to this campground? I mean, why do that instead of going straight to you? Eagle Mountain is a small town. If she knew you were here, she wouldn't have much trouble finding you."

He frowned, but she could see he was seriously considering the question. "Maybe she wanted to make sure no one was watching her," he said. "No one she might inadvertently lead to me."

"So she was cautious like that?"

He shook his head. "Not cautious. She was always pretty daring. But not rash. She made quick decisions, but they were almost always the right ones. She was smart. It was true she didn't do that well in school, but that was because classes bored her. She always wanted to be active. Like you said, she wanted to make a difference."

"Most people aren't like that," Shelby said. "Most people wouldn't risk so much to tell the truth."

"I think it had a lot to do with Laney dying," he said. "When she got that tattoo, she told me it was to remind her that she was living for two people now."

"That helps me," she said. "Knowing what motivated her. Can I come talk to you again about her?"

"Yeah. Sure." His eyes met hers, and the depth of that gaze, the openness, made her unsteady. "It would help me, too," he said. "Talking about her, to someone else who knew her."

"Then it's a deal." She got into her car before she did something wildly inappropriate like throw her arms around him. He looked like he needed a hug, but she probably wasn't the right person to give it. She was already in trouble with her supervisors for getting too personally involved with witnesses in her cases. She was well aware that they hadn't sent her to Eagle Mountain because they expected actual results. They thought exiling her to this remote mountain town for a week or two might teach her a lesson about what it took to get ahead in the Bureau. They didn't seem to understand that for her, getting ahead wasn't nearly as important as getting the job right.