He pulled off the road. “Here we are.”

Three sheriff’s department cruisers were parked on the long gravel driveway leading to the single-story, red-brick-and-vinyl-siding home. The only unofficial vehicle present, a lime-green Ford Focus.

“If you’re sure Michelson and Amireau are the guys, what are we doing here?”

He opened his door. “Could be wrong.”

Chapter 18

CHAPTER

18

THE BLOND DOLL in nineties plaid had a camera strapped around her neck and a red and silver wheelchair beneath her. According to the box, Becky was not only the school photographer, but Barbie’s friend. Though there were over fifty similar containers around the room, Becky appeared to be the only non-Barbie. The rest housed the Mattel namesake herself in various frozen moments of dazzling but impossible anatomy and wardrobe.

Caitlin tapped the girl’s plastic prison. “You’re better than all these bimbos, Becky.”

Paige Lauffer not only collected Barbies, she sold them online. Taped to the wall over a small desk, Caitlin found a spreadsheet with multiple listings.

1920s Flapper—The Great Eras Collection—1993, new in box, $22.00—eBay since 3/22.

1999 Erica Kane—Champagne Lace Wedding—never removed from box—1999—$22.00. Craigslist 3/25.

A bright pink section of wall above the printout, maybe a foot and a half wide by eight inches tall, stood out from the rest of the faded paint. A single drywall screw remained in the center.

Caitlin moved back to the living room and its plug-in air freshener’s impression of lavender.

A gray-haired man in a sheriff’s department uniform, brown top and tie, traditional five-point star, and gray slacks, held a wide-brimmed hat. “See anything we haven’t?”

“Just dolls,” Caitlin said. “Maybe something missing from the wall in the bedroom. Besides that, I wouldn’t know what to look for, Deputy.”

“Actually, it’s Sheriff, Miss Bergman.” He held out his hand. “I’m Douglas Hopewell, and I doubt your eyes miss anything.”

She gave as firm a shake as she could, then gestured toward Greenwood, two county detectives, and the crime scene investigator working the living room. “I’m not in the way here?”

Hopewell shrugged. “New York says you’re all right with him, you’re all right with me.”

“ ‘New York,’ huh?”

“Didn’t know? Jerry might be a local, but he spent plenty of time away. I’ve got four detectives total in my department, all great people, but there’s nothing like experience. He’s handled more violent crime out East than I have in my whole career. Since his wife passed, he’s done nothing but work his ass off.”

The first time Caitlin had met Greenwood, he’d mentioned his mental state two years back had nothing to do with Chapman. Now she knew why.

Hopewell moved toward the door. “This air freshener is killing me.”

Outside, the sheriff leaned against a cinder block wall. “Sweetheart of a day, and you can quote me on that.”

Homespun, but apt. Close to five PM and still beautiful.