“What do you mean?”

After the right amount of hemming and hawing, Branford said he’d told Caitlin about Angela Chapman’s MDMA pills. When Caitlin learned about the Molly, she said she’d done all she could and that the FBI had the case. Then she’d asked about the fastest way to the airport. Branford told her to take state road 37.

Greenwood followed up with questions about the timing of events, details about their route from the school to the house, then thanked Branford for his time.

“Not a problem, Detective. Please, call anytime. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about Angela Chapman.”

He hung up and returned to his laptop. The feed from Caitlin’s room showed the mess she’d made. He rewound, watched her tuck the plastic fork under her strap.

What a woman. So much smarter than Paige Lauffer. He smiled at the thought until the inevitable followed. And Paige escaped.

Caitlin would fight him, maybe even to her death. He had no desire to watch her die, but she had to be taught.

He went back downstairs. Outside Caitlin’s door, he opened a wall panel and turned a small plastic valve, then twisted a knob clockwise to the five-minute mark. Then he went back to the shelves and pulled the manila BPD folder from Caitlin’s laptop bag. Five minutes. More than enough time to learn the details of Caitlin Bergman’s personal hell.

Chapter 64

CHAPTER

64

GREENWOOD HANDED MIKE Roman a page still warm from the laser printer. “That shows the path of Caitlin’s rental from campus to Professor Branford’s house.”

Mike leaned against Greenwood’s bullpen cubicle and stared at the map, a solid line with marks every mile or so. “The dots are the GPS pings from the car’s tracking system?”

“Right.” Greenwood handed him another. “Next trip went from Branford’s house to the guesthouse.”

Mike compared the two. “How much time between trips?”

Greenwood handed him a third. “You mean sitting in Branford’s driveway? Thirty-seven minutes.”

A patrol officer passed by, slower than necessary, another set of screw-you eyes. Mike had received the same cold look from every cop he’d met in the station house until they’d placed him with Greenwood. He was used to it. Like the FBI agents at Michelson’s house, nobody still on the job liked someone who’d gone dirty anywhere near their shop.

Mike smiled and waved. “It’s not contagious.”

The officer sped up and walked away like it was.

Ignoring Greenwood’s latest page, Mike looked back down at the second sheet. “Long time to sit and talk after the drive across town. Is pot legal in Indiana?”

Greenwood laughed. “Nope. Why do you ask?”