Marcia widened her eyes in a pantomime of shock. “That’s pretty mind-blowing.”

“It certainly is, Marcia. In addition to looking to question Hope Miller, police also alerted the public that they are seeking any information about this specific rug.”

Hope’s photograph was replaced by a photograph of a cream-colored Persian-style rug with green accents. “They say this is a mass-produced rug that sells for less than two hundred dollars and that it was missing from a location where Alex Lopez is thought to have been seen last. They also said that it may have been stained with blood, and that it’s possible someone could have tried to hide or dispose of it in the last two weeks.”

“Wow, that paints a dark picture, Reggie.”

“The police did not connect the dots explicitly, but, yes, they certainly seem to have a theory about how that rug may have been used. Police were also coy about why they are looking for Hope Miller in connection with Alex Lopez’s murder, and they were careful to say that she was not a suspect at this point, but simply a person who might have relevant information for their investigation. It seems safe to say, though, that we’re likely to be hearing more about this fascinating case in the near future.”

“Fascinating, indeed.”

Lindsay returned to her browser and searched for “Alex Lopez.” Too broad a search. She tried “Alex Lopez East Hampton,” but the top results were all local news summaries of the press conference announcing his murder.

“Alex Lopez Wichita Kansas.” A restaurant owner. Obituary from eight years earlier. A bunch of high-school track times for some kid named Alex Lopez who was apparently quite a runner.

Who the hell was Alex Lopez, and why were police looking for Hope in connection with his death?

The DNA hit. It was the only explanation.

The reporter said that Alex Lopez was thirty-six years old, meaning he was thirteen when Janice Beale was killed. Definitely not an accomplice to a serial killer.

Lindsay leaped from the sofa at the sound of the bolt turning inside the front door. She ran faster than she knew she could and lunged so hard against the door that she cried out in pain from the impact against her right shoulder. She fought to reengage the lock, but it wouldn’t turn. Whoever was breaking in had a key.

“I have a gun,” she cried out in desperation, even though her Glock was locked in its safe in Manhattan. She heard two thumps of a fist against the wood, then the sound of a woman’s voice.

“Lindsay, it’s me.”

Lindsay stepped back and allowed the door to fling open.

Hope’s eyes were bloodshot, and her cheeks were streaked with tears. “I messed up, Lindsay. I really fucked up.”

25
Tuesday, June 22, 3:12 p.m.

“I don’t think anyone followed me.” Hope kept her voice low as Lindsay bolted the door shut.