Most of the contents of Hope’s bedroom closet had been tossed onto the bed. Lindsay carried a few articles of clothing at a time back to their proper place until she spotted what she was looking for—the royal-blue St. John suit that she had given Hope last year. Lindsay thought she’d won the lottery when she found it 70 percent off on a Saks clearance rack. The skirt was a few pounds away from fitting, but Lindsay bought it anyway, convinced it would be an incentive to make healthy choices. Two years later, she found it at the back of her closet, tags still on. She gave up and passed it on to Hope. To Lindsay’s knowledge, Hope had never worn it either. She was relieved when the skirt zipped into place effortlessly. All that worrying had taken a toll.

Her phone buzzed as she looped the top button of the jacket. A text from Scott: Making sure everything is okay.

He was waiting in the driveway, taking care of emails. All good. Be right out.

As she hit the send button, an incoming call appeared on the screen. Area code 316. Wichita, Kansas. She picked up immediately.

“May I please speak with Lindsay Kelly?” The voice itself was smooth and appealing, like a public radio host’s, but the caller seemed rushed. Nervous.

“This is Lindsay.”

“You left a message for me yesterday—Emilia Lopez? You said it was about my brother? Are you his lawyer? I told him he needed to get one.”

Clearly the police had not yet located Alex’s sister or notified her about his death. Lindsay needed to be careful about how much she disclosed, and in what order. “Your brother’s name came up on another matter I’m handling, and it dates back a number of years. I actually got your name from a summer camp the two of you attended as children—the COP camp at Edgemoor Park—”

“Wait, you’re defending that camp?”

Lindsay wanted to start the conversation over again. This would be an entirely different exchange if they could meet in person. “No, I definitely don’t represent the camp.” Why had Emilia jumped to the conclusion that someone was suing the camp? Lindsay took a guess. “I have been looking into allegations that kids may have been abused there in the past.”

There was a long pause. Then: “What does my brother have to do with this?”

“The Wichita Police Department got a cold hit from a DNA database. Alex’s blood was found at the house of a woman named Janice Beale.”

“She was the nicest lady. She made us sandwiches and Kool-Aid and taught me how to hem a skirt with Elmer’s glue and an iron.”