Chapter 35

Jess

I hang up my cell phone, my skin tingling, thoughts racing.

I stare at the seven tiny grinning elves someone has hung on the edge of my cubicle, a feeling sweeping over me, the aura of the case humming and fizzing. That sensation, like fine gravel collecting under my skin. Like a chemical rush. Like an itch. Telling me I'm on the right track.

I dial Shane's number. He doesn't answer. I leave a message. "Just got a call back from Logan Hills Credit Union in Boston. That's where the bank account number on Theo Moriarty's paycheck was from. It's for"—I check the Post-it note I've stuck to my desk—"DIY Building Supply Ltd. And the owner of that account is none other than Laura Harper. She had a bank account no one knew about. The manager's sending me over financial statements, but I think we're onto something here. Call me."

I press "End," then text him the same information, adding that I'll be at Black Lake Hospital if he needs me.

Outside, the day is gray, the color of ash. Snow dribbles from the sky, landing on my parka like dandruff. The pavement is icy in spots, slippery. I carefully make my way to my motorcycle, pull my helmet on, and hit the throttle.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm walking into the local hospital. The smell of antiseptic and artificial fragrance hits me like a slap, making me feel faintly nauseous. Too much on my mind and too little sleep, a week's worth of restless nights digging in their claws.

The ER is busy. Crowded. A kid has spilled something sticky near a poorly decorated Christmas tree. A janitor swipes murky gray water over it, wetting the tree skirting.

I push my way through the crowd and tell the receptionist I have an appointment with Dr. Sarika Patel, the doctor who treated Laura's dislocated shoulder. I sit in a hard plastic chair to wait. I'm overtired, jittery and twitchy, my foot jiggling against the floor.

My phone vibrates. It's Mac. I stare at my phone until it goes to voice mail.

Dr. Patel approaches, apologizing for the wait. She's tall, slim, intense, with serious dark eyes and dark hair pulled into a severe bun. She takes me to a small waiting room and shuts the door, blocking out the insistent beep of an alarm going off somewhere down the hall.

We sit across from each other.

"How can I help you, Detective?" Her accent is sharp, precise. A hint of British in the Indian.

"You treated a woman called Laura Harper last year. December."

"Yes. December first," she says. "I checked her file."

"Can you tell me your impressions of that meeting? You thought she was possibly a victim of domestic abuse?"

"We flagged that, correct. My colleague was interviewed by one of your detectives shortly after she went missing."

"Was that Detective Bill Liu?"

"I believe so."

"Only your colleague was interviewed? Not you?"

"I was back in India at the time."

"So you didn't speak to him?"

"No. Detective Liu spoke with Sheri Lin, the nurse who treated Mrs. Harper. I believe she expressed her concerns about possible domestic violence to Detective Liu. This was due to Mrs. Harper's extensive bruising and her dislocated shoulder."

I note her rigid posture, the tilt of her chin. "But you didn't agree with that assessment."

She folds her long, slim fingers together on her lap and inhales. "Certainly all the signs were there. The bruising was in the areas that could indicate abuse: neck, chest, abdomen. Often in these cases, the victim claims to have been clumsy or just had a fall . They have bruises inflicted in places where the injuries won't show. This was all true for Laura Harper."

I wait for the but .

"But Laura did not appear to be afraid or nervous around her husband in any way. There were no signs of previous abuse or any old fractures or prior wounds. Honestly, I didn't believe her story about falling on wet pavement, but I also didn't feel that Pete Harper had hurt her."

"Was there any proof of this?"

"Just my gut feeling. Laura Harper left without being discharged, which was certainly another flag. But when I saw them walking by, she was leaning against him. Open. Trusting. She wasn't afraid of him."

"Did Laura mention anything hinting they were planning on leaving?"

"No, nothing."

"So you saw no indication there was tension between them? Any reason to believe he might have been behind their disappearance?"

"No, but ..." She weighs her next words carefully. "One thing this job has taught me is that good people are capable of doing very bad things. Did it look like he was abusing her? Not in my view. But that doesn't mean he wasn't. It also doesn't mean he wouldn't kill her. People kill for all sorts of reasons, as I'm sure you know."

She glances at her watch and stands. "If that's all, Detective?"

"Just one more question. Can you confirm Melanie O'Brien came into the emergency room in the early hours of December twenty-fifth last year?"

"I'll do my best."

I follow her back out to the front where she whispers with a receptionist, presumably about patient confidentiality. In the end, she tells me Melanie checked in just after 3:00 a.m. but declines to tell me any more, which is fine. I only needed confirmation.

"Thanks for your time, Doctor." I shake her hand and leave, having learned two important things.

One, Melanie O'Brien was admitted to the hospital with chest pain that night. And two, something that aligns with my gut instinct: Pete Harper hadn't beaten Laura Harper.

My phone pings in my pocket. This time it's an email. The bank manager has sent through statements from DIY Building Supply Ltd., confirming what Mel told me.

Laura Harper was embezzling money from her brother's business.

How we missed this the first time is anybody's guess. Not enough manpower, not enough money, the lead detective becoming ill, the case going cold.

I forward the email to Shane, and my phone starts ringing almost immediately.

"You're at the hospital?" Shane asks.

I hesitate, then both of us speak at once.

Shane: "Sorry, I got back late last night from Boston and haven't had a chance to ..."

Me: "Sorry, I couldn't get in touch with you, so I thought I should ..."

We laugh awkwardly. "You go," I say.

"I just saw your email. The bank statements. Jesus. Listen." He lowers his voice. "Jack O'Brien's voluntarily showed up to the station. He's here right now with his lawyer. Shall we have a crack at him?"

I grin. "I'm on my way."

When I arrive at the police station, at least half a dozen reporters are gathered out front. Shane released the identity of the body yesterday, although not Theo Moriarty's connection to the Harpers. But that hasn't stopped them from doing their own digging.

An industrious journalist from Boston broke the news that Laura Harper—O'Brien at the time—and Theo Moriarty dated in college. There's some speculation that it was a love triangle, that Laura Harper had gone back to her ex, that Pete had killed Theo, then his wife and daughter. Others speculate that Laura got caught up with Theo's drug-dealing associates. That she and her family were killed by the powerful mob boss he was rumored to work for.

I push past the yowling reporters and swipe my ID badge. In the bullpen, Will calls out a greeting, a paper plate with a slice of red-and-white Christmas cake balanced in one hand. I wave as I hurry to the interview room.

Shane's already there, sitting across from Jack O'Brien. He's wearing a navy suit and a tie, shiny black shoes. His hair is gelled into place, and a pair of black glasses frames his eyes. It suits him.

Next to Jack is his lawyer, a bloated middle-aged man with rosacea and a bulbous nose. Tom O'Connell, one of the most high-profile lawyers in the state.

I slide into the seat next to Shane, and he introduces me, surreptitiously tapping a folder sitting on the desk, indicating he's printed out the financial statements.

Jack again goes over when he last saw the Harpers. "I didn't realize Pete was so drunk. Or that Laura had been having an affair with Theo."

He looks genuinely distraught, and his lawyer whispers something in his ear.

"Where'd you hear Laura was having an affair?" Shane asks.

"I believe it was Rose who mentioned it."

"Your assistant?"

"Yes."

Shane lifts an eyebrow. "Your assistant told you your sister was cheating on her husband?"

Jack looks away, his eyes and the faint, mottled flush crawling up his neck giving him away. He's basically just admitted to pillow talk with one of his mistresses.

"Yes," he says, quieter now.

"Did you know Laura and Pete were having financial difficulty?"

"Sure, that's why she closed down her art studio. I wanted to help, so I gave her a job. And then she came to me asking for a raise ..." Jack rubs a hand over bleary, exhausted eyes.

"Did you give it to her?"

Jack hangs his head. "No."

"Did you kill your sister?" I ask. I'm trying to unsettle him, to catch him off guard, and it works.

Jack's head jerks up. "What? No!"

O'Connell's eyes flare. "Don't say anything else," he says to Jack; then he turns the full force of his lizard eyes on me. "We came here to help, not to be accused. My client wants the truth as much as you do. That was his family who disappeared."

I tap the folder. "But Laura was stealing from you."

Jack holds my eyes. "I know."

I sit back. That I hadn't expected.

"That's enough," O'Connell snaps, standing. "Jack, let's go."

Jack puts a hand out. "No, they need the truth. Yes, I found out Laura was stealing from me. Rose had suspicions and came to me with an invoice, and when I looked into it, I tracked the company back to her. I confronted her about it. Laura promised to pay back every cent."

"Did she?"

"She disappeared before she ever got the chance."

"So you never got your money?"

"No, but that's exactly it. Why would I hurt Laura? First of all, I loved my sister. For all her flaws, and all of mine, we were family. But she was planning to pay me back. Now that she's gone, I'll never see any of that money."