When Mr. Fields was asked about his talk with Mr. Whitman, he said:

“I feared from the first that my wife is dead. Since I publicly expressed this belief, I have received letters convincing me that my theory is correct, which I have communicated to Mr. Whitman. I have given him my word that I will not divulge these letters, but I will say that I have every reason to believe that Alvera was kidnapped on April 16, and afterward murdered. Her body, I am convinced, has been disposed of.”

He continued to say:

“The stories that my family has been concealing information are absolutely without foundation. We are in perfect harmony with the police and working with one objective—to find Alvera if she is alive or dead. No one is more anxious than I am to clear up the mystery.”

A number of personal advertisements, which have appeared over the signature of “Suffragette C,” have been generally credited to one of Mrs. Fields’ chums. One of these advertisements appeared in a Pittsburg newspaper this morning. It was as follows:

“Expect you here this week. Affairs will be arranged to your satisfaction. SUFFRAGETTE C.”

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Marin

Cody had two tells when something was wrong.

The first was when he came home from his brother’s house drunk. Check.

The second was when he dredged up past grievances. Check.

When the front door slammed shut, shaking the bones of the house, and Cody muttered his way throughout the first floor about being the only family member with any sense, I had a feeling he’d crossed out both on the list. Checkmate.

“They underestimate me, but I’ll show them,” he grumbled somewhere in the…kitchen? “They think they’re better than me? They’re nothing. Nothing!” His argument with himself had reached the foot of the stairs and grew louder as his footsteps rumbled closer. Closer. Until they were stomping into the bedroom where I was lying on the bed reading by lamplight. He moved with a lumbering gait.

“I hope you got an Uber,” I said.

“I’m not drunk, Marin. I only had one beer.”

“Just one?”

“Fine, two. But I swear I’m not drunk. I’m just pissed.”

More like piss drunk. But whatever. He was home. “Another fun family get-together?” I smirked.

Cody scowled.

“I’m so sick of being treated like garbage by them. You know, I was always the smart one. Oliver just got handed everything to him while I worked my ass off. Fuckin’ assholes—all of them!”

I had forgotten about his third tell: swearing like a sailor.

I set the book down and turned on my side, propping my head up on my hand.

“Want to talk about it?” I offered.