The realization hits me right between the eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bradley,” I say, afraid we haven’t been sensitive enough. Afraid we’ve added to her pain. Jesus, she’s a misery magnet. No wonder she needs a therapy dog. “Why didn’t you tell us?” I ask quietly.

Mrs. Bradley’s bloodshot eyes meet mine. “I don’t want anyone to know. I don’t want this. Any of it.”

“Why tell me now?”

Mrs. Alworth clenches her fists. “She’s been getting crank calls since her husband was killed.”

I dig for my notebook. “What kind of calls?”

Mrs. Alworth describes them, stopping occasionally to get corroboration from her sister that she’s got it right.

“The caller is threatening you, Mrs. Bradley?”

“Yes,” the sister answers.

“Why?” It doesn’t really make sense. How does it fit in with her husband’s murder? Maybe it doesn’t. The perp had at least two opportunities to assault Mrs. Bradley, but he didn’t. She was asleep upstairs when her husband was killed. And then when the perp came back, he went into the garage but made no attempt to get into the house, where Mrs. Bradley was alone and vulnerable.

“I don’t know,” she chokes out.

“Okay. We’ll see what we can do.” I tap my notebook with my pencil.

Chase steps forward. “I can handle it, Rita. I’ll take Mrs. Bradley’s statement and see if we can trace the calls.”

The three of them exit my office, dog in tow, and I take a deep breath. This case is getting more complicated by the minute.

CHAPTER 40 - Molly

CHAPTER 40

Molly

I’M CURLED UP ON MY BED AT CORRINE’S. SHE ASKED ME IF I WANTED to come out and eat dinner, but I don’t. My stomach is in knots. When we drove up to the apartment, several news vans were parked at the curb. Have they finally started putting the pieces together? Thank God, there’s a gated parking lot, and they couldn’t follow us.

I flip on the TV just to block out the hum of Corrine and Rich’s conversation in the other room.

An entertainment news show starts. After upbeat bumper music plays, the news anchor comes on. She’s smiling broadly, and her slick blond bob glistens under studio lights. My picture, a small square in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, appears, and my heart pounds. There has been coverage on the local news of Jay’s murder and the woman found at the mountain house, but nothing national so far that I’ve seen until now.

The anchor’s red lips part.