“Super weird. I’m thinking that has to be the person who killed him.” Hope mimicked a shiver going down her spine. “But now you’ve got me wondering more about this other call,” she said, pointing to a 316 number on the list. “That’s the corporate headquarters of LockeHome in . . . guess where? Wichita, Kansas.”

Lindsay knew the company well. She had even read Melanie Locke’s book, How to Be a Lady Boss.

Hope had written “LockeHome” next to the number, along with “April 12,” approximately two months earlier and, more interestingly, exactly one day after their fishing trip with Alex Lopez. Lindsay pointed out the timing to Hope.

“I didn’t think anything of it until you started asking me about Wichita. It has to be connected, right? Maybe he recognized me on the boat, and then called someone we both used to know?”

“Does Edgemoor Park ring a bell for you? Or COP summer camp? It’s a summer camp through the police department in Wichita.”

“Not really, but we do know I’m good at softball.” It was one of the many tiny clues that hinted at Hope’s past. Her writer’s bump. Her unexpected crushing of the ball when they were goofing around at the batting cages at Chelsea Piers. The fact that she knew how to make homemade lemonade that was so freaking good that people who drove through Hopewell would swing by the diner for a to-go cup. “Why?”

Why, indeed. The camp was just one of a thousand ways that Alex and Hope might have known each other in Wichita. “Just a theory I’ve been working on. First things first, we’ve got to figure out a way for you to turn yourself in—” Hope rose from the sofa, but Lindsay grabbed her forearm. “They’re going to argue that hiding shows consciousness of guilt. Right now, you’ve got an explanation for it. This crazy person attacked you, and you had no way of knowing whether the police here would believe you. But now that they’ve got an alert out for you, I promise: the best move is for you to present yourself voluntarily.”

They were interrupted by a ringing sound coming from the bedroom. “Don’t go anywhere,” Lindsay said, heading for her cell phone. Seeing it was a call from the local area code, she picked up.

“Hello? I got this number from a flyer on the beach—about a missing woman?”

Not missing anymore, Lindsay thought. “Yes, I posted those. You’ve seen her?”

“She’s . . . what?” the woman asked. “Your daughter or something?”

The s in something was slightly slurred. A nut job, or a little help from a bottle? From the heavy background sounds of wind, Lindsay’s best guess was that the woman was calling from a beach.

“A friend,” Lindsay said. “A very dear friend. So you’ve seen her?” she asked again.