“This all happened in the summer, right? Do you remember when?”

He recited the exact date, fifteen summers ago, without hesitation.

Ellie texted Lindsay Kelly. When was Hope’s car accident?

Three days after Richard Mullaney was shot in his driveway.

Ellie sent another text. We should meet in person. There’s someone Hope needs to talk to.

35
Wednesday, June 23, 4:12 p.m.

The address to which Ellie Hatcher had summoned them belonged to a five-story red-brick apartment complex on a tree-lined street in Murray Hill. As Lindsay reached for the building’s buzzer, Hope grabbed her hand. She looked almost as terrified as she had when the police arrested her.

“What if this is some kind of trick? She’s a cop. She could be helping Decker.”

“She’s NYPD. She doesn’t even have jurisdiction over anything you’re remotely suspected of doing. And you didn’t hear her voice when she called. She was definitely worried—like she needs help as much as we do.”

Hope took a deep breath and then hit the buzzer herself. They were in.

The apartment was clean but modest. The countertop in the small kitchen beside the entry was clear except for two shot glasses next to the sink. The floors were unfinished parquet, and the walls sorely needed a paint job. The apartment’s tenant, however, was considerably easier on the eyes. Tall and lanky with dark shaggy hair, he had the look of a retired rock star. Ellie Hatcher had introduced him as her brother, Jess, before they all got settled around the steamer trunk that doubled as the living room coffee table.

“So Hope . . . ,” Ellie said. “Should I call you Hope?” Hope nodded. “Lindsay told me the police think you used to live in Wichita, Kansas, where Jess and I were raised. I don’t suppose either of us looks familiar to you?” She apologized for her “giant hair” as she handed Hope her phone. The photo was of a younger Jess and Ellie, side by side on a lawn in front of a ranch house. Jess had his arm draped around his sister’s shoulder, but his extended middle finger had made it into the shot.

Next to Lindsay on the sofa, Hope shook her head.

“What about the name Jess Hatcher? Or TC Atkinson?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

Lindsay was scrolling through her own photos. “Let me show you an older picture of Hope. Maybe—”

Ellie’s brother spoke for the first time. “I don’t need the picture. Now that I see you in person, I definitely remember you. You worked with my friend TC—short for Tricia, which was short for Patricia, but everyone called her TC. You guys worked together at the mall—at Hot Dog on a Stick.”