“I seriously need to get up on my home maintenance priorities,” I mutter to myself as I head to the laundry room to get another of the new light bulbs. Getting back to the bottom of the steps, I decide it's too late to climb up into the dark, dusty attic and try to change the lightbulb right now. Or maybe it's too early. Either way, I'll leave it for the next day. I set the light bulb on the steps and close the door behind me. I go outside to shut and lock my car and then go back in the house, securing the front door behind me.
My alarm wakes me up four hours later. It's just enough time for me to take a fast shower and get dressed so I can make it over to the police station for Sam's arrival. I get there just as he's crossing the parking lot. He looks up from a notebook he's holding but doesn't look particularly thrilled to see me.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Morning,” he grumbles.
That's the extent of our interaction until we get back into the conference room. Pictures and folders of documents take up a good portion of the oblong table in the center of the room. It's the evidence for the murder investigation, and I'm immediately drawn to it.
"What did you find out?" I ask, heading for the table.
"Emma," he frowns. I don't like the tone of his voice, and I stop to look at him. "I haven't authorized you to be a part of this investigation yet."
"Sam, I can help," I insist.
"I know that. But I can't entrust you with something this delicate and important if I can't be sure you are going to see it through," he says.
"Why would you say that?" I ask.
"I need to know if I put you on this case, you aren't going to leave to go investigate Greg or run off to Iowa or find something else you need to chase. You need to be here, doing this."
My eyes narrow. "Is this about the case, or is this about Greg?"
He crosses his arms over his chest, his jaw squaring as he stares back at me.
"You were gone for a week," he says. "That sounds to me like a long time to watch security footage."
"Are you implying something?"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm saying maybe you aren't as separated from that life as you thought you were."
"That life?" I ask. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"When you said you were going to take a leave of absence and stay here, I thought that's really what you wanted," he says. "But then all it took was someone catching a glimpse of your ex-boyfriend, and you dropped everything to chase after him."
"I went back because the Bureau asked me to. And because I had to testify! Whether you're going to choose to understand it or not, it's not about any feelings I might have left for Greg. I want to know what happened to him. Anyone would. But maybe that's just not something you could ever understand."
I start out of the room, then stop and look back at him. "And just for your information, I did drop everything and come here for you."
I turn back to the door, but he reaches out to stop me.
"Emma, wait. I'm sorry.”
I glare at him. Taking my sweet time.
“I appreciate you coming back here, and if you're willing to give it to me, I would like your help on the case," he finally admits.
I give a single nod, not trusting myself to say anything about what he said yet. "What do you have?"
He walks over to the table, and I follow him. He pulls a picture over and orients it in front of us, pointing down at the first image of Everly's body I've seen. In the picture, she's still hanging and most of the room is visible.
"Do you notice anything about the room?" he says.
"Not really. It looks perfect. No sign of a struggle."
"Exactly. Including," he runs his finger over the picture and points to the bed behind her, "the bed. If she climbed up onto the bed to put the rope over the ceiling fan and the noose over her head, she would at least mess up the comforter. But it's perfect."
"That's what you have? Evidence Maggie is a magnificent housekeeper?" I ask.
"You have such faith in me. No. That's just something that caught my attention. It got me thinking about the rope and how it was tied. Everly's ankles were tied together, and then the rope went around her neck. I had an expert in knots look at it, and he said there was no way she would be able to tie the knot she did around her own ankles, then also be able to do the rope around her neck. The positioning of the knots doesn't make sense. Someone else had to have tied them," he points out.
"Before they wrote the words on her," I say.
"What?"
"The words. They were written on her body after the ropes were tied around her. Look, you can see where the marker rubbed against the rope right here, and where it says 'failure', the word is scrunched up, like its condensed, so it doesn't hit the rope. If the words were written before the ropes, they would be underneath them. She wouldn't tie herself up, then decide to write on herself."
"You've got a point. Add to that the coroner saying she didn't actually die from hanging, but from a separate strangulation, probably with a garotte, and you've got yourself a murder," he nods.
I let out a sigh and look at the pictures and papers in front of us.
"So… who do we look at first?"
Chapter Twenty-Seven
One year ago
She hid behind the door, hoping no one would notice her standing there. She bided her time, listening carefully to what was happening on the other side of the door. She had to wait for the absolute perfect moment. If she went too fast, too soon, it would ruin everything. So, she waited. Tension built up in her stomach. Her heart started to beat faster. Finally, she heard the signal and burst through the door.
“Happy birthday!” she shouted along the dozen other waiters and waitresses flanking her.
The woman at the head of the table jumped in surprise and clapped her hands with delight at the cake held out to her. A single tall candle in the center of the cake glittered and sparkled, the flame shifting colors as it burned. Everyone sang, then cheered when the birthday girl blew out her candle.
“I'm just going to bring this back into the kitchen so we can slice it up, and we'll bring it out to you in a second,” she said.
She grinned as she went back into the kitchen and set the cake down on the brushed metal counter. Taking a knife from the canister in front of her, she carefully started portioning the cake out onto a long row of small dessert plates they arranged ahead of time.
“You always seem so happy when people come in here to celebrate their birthdays,” Lila said.
She grinned a little wider and shrugged.
"Birthdays are still kind of new to me," she said.
"You didn't celebrate your birthday when you were a little girl?" Lila asked.
She shook her head.
"Not really. My family isn't the kind for celebrations or anything frivolous."
"Yikes. They sound kind of awful."
"No," she shrugged, shaking her head as she tipped another slice of the tiramisu torte onto the next plate. "They weren't awful. Just strict and very traditional. I know they love me. They're just not particularly affectionate or demonstrative."
"But, let me guess, they were very good at making sure you got good grades," Lila teased.
"That they excelled at," she laughed.
"But you're an adult. No one ever threw you a party or anything?"
"I wasn't very social in high school or college. Then I lived with some people who didn't believe in any type of celebration at all, even holidays."