Chapter 23

Jess

It's early, still dark outside when I wake.

The bed beside me is empty, the sound of the shower running in the bathroom.

Mac.

I get dressed, grab my cane, slam some things into a backpack, and leave before he gets out.

Some ghosts haunt us long after we think they're gone. Like William Faulkner said, The past is never dead. It's not even past.

I swim laps for an hour, then roughly dry my hair and hurry into a morning that is bleached gray, clouds swollen with impending snow. I arrive at Jack O'Brien's glass-and-steel office to see Shane waiting out front.

He's fresh-faced, eager-looking, a constellation of freckles standing out on his nose. Today he's wearing a tie, black slacks. At least he's learning. Getting reamed at the press conference probably taught him more than I could.

We exchange awkward good mornings. Neither of us mentions the press conference.

We head through the revolving doors of O'Brien Group Development into a bright, soaring lobby, white walls, lots of glass. A thin, dark-haired beauty greets us from behind a mahogany desk. Shane tells her we have an appointment with Jack O'Brien, and she shows us to a waiting area, heels clicking against polished concrete. We sit in egg-shaped chairs. I rest my cane at my side.

"We've got the sniffer dogs at the property today," Shane says. "Khandi also found what she thinks is part of a fingernail and a partial fingerprint on the suitcase's zipper. It's running through AFIS now."

The Automated Fingerprint Identification System uses a computer to match fingerprints, although it doesn't work as well with partials.

A minute of silence passes. "I'm sorry about your sister," I say.

"I'm sorry about your daughter." Shane looks down at his hands. "I work her case every night. My sister. Hoping to find a new lead, something that was overlooked. How can someone just be there one minute, then not there the next, you know?"

"I do know, yeah."

"My family fell apart after Kiera went missing. My mom had a heart attack a few years later. My dad became obsessed with her case. He got sick a few years back, so I took over for him."

I think of Shane's rumpled clothes, the dark circles under his eyes, how he always looks like he's been up late. Partying, I'd assumed. What would that be like, I wonder, looking for someone you don't know is dead or alive? That tiny kernel of hope in the face of that cruel gut instinct.

"I can't even imagine," I murmur.

Shane looks at me, eyes sad as a poet's. "I think you can."

Maybe he's right. My daughter is dead, but I'm still chasing her ghost. Still looking for her, even though I know she isn't here.

"Look, there's Jack O'Brien." I nod to the tall, fit man with wavy auburn hair exiting the elevator.

He's talking to another man, a city council member I recognize. Jack shakes his hand goodbye, then crosses to the receptionist. He touches a palm to her waist, whispering something in her ear. Her eyelashes flutter as his breath dusts her ear.

I see it then: they're sleeping together.

He straightens, catches sight of us. "Detectives!"

Jack is classically handsome with high cheekbones, a straight nose, full lips. His suit is expensive, shiny black Italian loafers, a navy silk tie. He is smiling, all charm and charisma, his teeth very white.

"Fuck me, he's a redheaded George Clooney," Shane mutters under his breath.

I smother a laugh. I remember someone once saying charisma is power that can make others drink the Kool-Aid. Jack O'Brien is the type to make others drink the Kool-Aid. His success isn't just because of his good looks, but his ability to get people to like him, trust him. It's made him one of the richest property developers in the state.

Jack shakes our hands in turn. He smells slightly of cedarwood.

"Thanks for coming," he says, as if he's the one who reached out to interview us.

For some people, every interaction is about power, control. I've learned the only way to win with people like this is to give in.

"Happy to help," I say, ignoring the crush of his fingers on mine.

He leads us to the elevator, which whisks us to a top-floor conference room laid for serving coffee. Steam wafts from a steel pot in the middle of a glass table, sleek and modern and important. A snow-white orchid sits next to it.

No lawyer. Encouraging. A series of black-and-white photographs of steel skyscrapers, smooth and sleek against a nighttime sky, lines the room.

"Pete took those," Jack says. "He was very talented. Coffee?"

We nod, and he pours into delicate white china as we sit in plush leather chairs.

"Are you reopening my sister's case?" he asks.

"It was never closed, sir," Shane says.

"So the mayor tells me. And yet you haven't found them."

"We're working on it. Sir." Shane's tone is firm, and I'm glad. It takes a strong person not to be intimidated by a man like this. "We have a few more questions. I'm sure you're aware we found a body in a house near Killer's Grove on Monday."

"I did hear something, but I'm afraid I've been in back-to-back meetings every day this week."

"The owner of the house," Shane says, "is you."

Jack's eyes widen. He's off-balanced by this but recovers quickly. His face hardens. This is a man who built himself from nothing to a net worth most people could only ever dream about. He's clever. Shrewd. Calculating. I wonder how honest he'll really be.

"Is it . . . ?"

"We're still working on identifying the body, but we don't think it's any of the Harpers."

"Then why . . . ?"

"We found Ella's backpack near the body. We're investigating a connection."

Sadness darkens Jack's features. "Ella. Do you know what happened to her?"

"We don't have those answers yet, Mr. O'Brien," Shane says. "We wanted to speak to you again to see if there's anything else you remember, any new thoughts or information that's come to your attention."

Jack sips his coffee, gaze thoughtful. "You know, there was one thing. I didn't think about it until recently, but it was ... strange."

He glances up as a pale, hollow-cheeked woman who looks more like a librarian than a personal assistant slips in, replacing the coffee with a fresh steel pot.

"Thanks, Rose." He returns his attention to us. "Maybe a few months before she went missing, I saw Laura with one of my guys. It was strange because the builders wouldn't usually know anybody in the office. There's no point where their jobs would intersect. But she seemed to know him. Theo Moriarty was his name."

"Do you think they were having an affair?" I ask.

Jack laughs. "No way. Laura and Pete were like this." He twists his pointer and middle finger around each other.

Interesting. Rumors usually stem from a kernel of truth. So who thought Laura had been having an affair?

"No, it looked like they were arguing."

"Do you know how we can get in touch with Theo?" Shane asks.

"No idea. He quit before Laura disappeared. My assistant can give exact dates."

"The family Christmas gathering at your house, did Laura or Pete seem ... unusual? Were they fighting?"

"No."

"You and your wife were at the hospital when they went missing, correct?" Shane asks.

"That's right. Mel was having chest pains."

"What time was that?"

Jack looks exasperated. "As both my wife and I have told you, Mel went up to check on our son, Finn, shortly before Pete and Laura left, and she fell asleep with him. That was around midnight. After they left, I went to my office to catch up on emails. My mother was staying with us, and she went to bed at eleven. Mel started having chest pains around two a.m., so I took her to the hospital. And no, you can't check the house alarm data. We didn't set it that night. We didn't want my mother to accidentally set it off if she opened a door or anything."

I hear a gentle shushing sound and turn. The personal assistant has been listening to our conversation. She drops her gaze and exits quickly.

Jack checks his watch and stands. "Now, if you don't mind, I have a meeting to get to."

We follow him out of the conference room.

"I'll leave you with my assistant. Rose, can you confirm when Theo Moriarty picked up his final paycheck?"

Rose taps her computer as Jack shakes our hands and leaves. She confirms that Theo Moriarty collected his final paycheck on December ninth, a few weeks before the Harpers disappeared. She prints out the résumé they have on file for Theo and hands it to me with a polite smile. I expect her to say something, but she quickly turns away.

Shane and I walk back to the elevators with more questions than answers.

"We need to find out more about Theo Moriarty," I say.

"Let's call everyone on that résumé," Shane says.

"Detectives?" Rose is behind us, her eyes worried little brown caves. "I thought you should know, Theo Moriarty picked up his last paycheck, but it was never cashed."

Shane and I exchange a look.

"And there's something else ..." She looks over her shoulder. "It isn't exactly true what Jack said. Laura and Pete were having problems."

"What makes you say that?" I ask.

"I heard her on the phone a few times, snippets of angry conversations."

"Was she speaking with Pete?"

"I ... think so?" Rose looks flustered. "Laura was usually quite sunny, upbeat. But the last month or so she became, I don't know ... withdrawn. Jumpy. Maybe the month before they went missing, Pete came in to surprise her for lunch. She got really annoyed and told him to leave." Rose looks embarrassed. "It was shortly after that I noticed bruises on Laura's belly. She was reaching for a file, and her sweater rode up. And then she came in wearing a cast on one arm."

"You think he hurt her?" Shane asks.

"Maybe?" Rose glances over her shoulder again. "I think Laura needed money. I heard her and Jack arguing about it."

"When was this?"

"Maybe the summer before they disappeared? I came into work a bit early, and they were in his office. Jack sounded angry, and Laura was crying. It sounded like Laura had asked him for a raise and he said no. I didn't want them to think I was eavesdropping, so I left."

"Did you talk to her about it?"

"No!" Rose wrings her hands, looking horrified. "Anyway. I should get back to work."

"There was nothing to suggest Pete and Laura were struggling financially," Shane says as we head to the elevator. "Their finances were modest, but they'd paid their bills on time, their car was paid off, they had no credit card debt."

"I thought Laura's art business had folded."

"It did, but she didn't go bankrupt. She just closed everything down."

I think about that. What would make someone voluntarily close their business down? "It's interesting Theo Moriarty picked up his last paycheck but never cashed it."

"Maybe we've found out who our body is," Shane says.

"Let's find out who this Theo is and get dental records to compare to our body."

"On it." Shane makes a note in his phone.

"What about the house? Were their mortgage payments on time?"

"They didn't own the house. Jack did. Still does."

" Jack owns their house?" I say, surprised. I'd missed that in the file somehow.

"Yeah. They'd rented from him for over a decade."

I shake my head. "Anything to do with money is bad when it comes to family. Especially if they can't pay it back."

"We looked at that angle. The Harpers always paid their rent on time, which was good for Jack; he gave them cheap rent, which was good for them."

The elevator dings, and we step inside.

"So Laura asked Jack for money and she had bruises on her body and a dislocated shoulder before she disappeared. I don't like that Jack didn't tell us any of this," I say.

"Should we bring him into the station?"

"What do you think?"

Shane ponders this. "He'll lawyer up. Rich guys like him, it's all about appearances. He wouldn't want anybody thinking he's being officially questioned about this case. Maybe I'll take a crack at him on my own. Mano a mano."

I roll my eyes and laugh as we step outside. Freezing wind bites at my neck. "You know that means hand to hand, right?"

"Oh." Shane laughs, too. "What's man to man?"

"Hombre a hombre. Jesus. Didn't you take Spanish in school?"

"Sure, but I didn't really pay attention."

"Busy paying attention to girls?" I tease.

"Actually, I'm gay."

"Oh, shit, sorry."

He shakes his head, faux disapproving, as the elevator slides open. "And here I thought you were a detective."

I laugh. "Let me try again. Busy paying attention to boys?"

I smile, and he smiles back, that easy, likable smile, and I do like him. Maybe we'll make it as partners after all.

"Pretty much. But I'm paying attention now, and it feels like Jack O'Brien is hiding something."

I tell Shane I'm going to stop by the Harpers' on the off chance there's something about Theo Moriarty the CSIs missed last year. I grab the key from evidence and fifteen minutes later step inside the Harpers' house.

It's cold, dusty. The Christmas tree looks sad and lonely, surrounded by dead pine needles and fallen baubles. But I can see what the house used to be. Much-loved suede sofas, tasteful vintage lamps, one wall painted aubergine, Laura's paintings and family pictures scattered around. There are PlayStation games, a shelf with well-read books. It was lived in, a family home.

Now there are just shadows drawn in charcoal. Ghosts whirl like moths, mouths twisted in silent howls.

There is nothing obvious downstairs, but upstairs I see a set of stairs has been pulled down, leading to the attic. Left open by the CSIs? I know from my research that Jack O'Brien has kept the house, ostensibly for Alice when she turns eighteen, but has anybody been here since the Harpers disappeared?

I climb the stairs, a high-pitched buzzing beginning in my ears. The fine hairs on the backs of my arms stand on end, a cold breeze dusting my cheeks.

"Hello?" My throat is bone dry.

The man on the other side of the attic studio doesn't acknowledge me. He's staring at a painting on the wall. I skirt the room until I can see his face.

It's Pete Harper.

He's dead. A ghost. I know that. I wait for him to speak, to tell me what he wants. But no words pass his lips. He doesn't seem to know I'm even here.

I follow his gaze. The painting is different from the others, which are soft, abstract. Lovers walking a moonlit path, a misty autumn morning.

This is a self-portrait. Laura's face is clear, but the rest of her disappears in a whirl of red and black. It's like she's emerging from the darkness or, no, being ripped from it. The expression on her face is distinct. Despair. Self-hatred.

"What did you do, Laura?" I murmur.

The wooden frame is cracked, a narrow fissure at the bottom. I lift it off the wall, but it's heavier than I expect and tips out of my hands, thudding hard against the floor. The crack widens.

Pete Harper continues looking at the painting. I flip it over, my fingertips following the split in the wood. I ease my nails into the crack and pull at the thick cardboard back. It snaps easily away.

Something falls to the ground with a thunk.

It's a bundle of cash. Followed by another. And another. I peer behind the cardboard, looking for more.

Taped inside the false back is a small, thuggish-looking gun.