“But Jess couldn’t even remember Alex’s name. Would Alex know Jess’s?”

“Yeah, because girls talk. Hope probably knew all about Jess from her friend TC.”

Ellie’s next question took Lindsay by surprise. “Tell me what you think about Carter Decker. We’re going to need his help.”

37
Friday, June 25, 7:17 p.m.

Lindsay could not get over the flatness that was Wichita, Kansas. She had expected it to look a bit like Pittsburgh, but she saw nothing resembling Steel Tower or the Mellon Center or any of the other skyscrapers that converged over downtown Pittsburgh. If she had to guess, the tallest building in Wichita was twenty floors at best. Flat, flat, flatness, as far as the eye could see.

Lindsay had broken down and called Scott before the flight. He didn’t pick up, but she left a message that she was taking a short trip and was sorry for everything. His only response was a text message: I wish you all the best, Linds.

From the passenger seat of the rental car, Ellie had finished pecking on the screen of her cell phone. “Decker’s all done in Boston, and he confirmed the timeline,” she said. She slid her phone into the side pocket of a backpack on her lap as she gestured toward the high-end strip mall ahead of them. “It’s coming up here on the right.”

The place in question was a restaurant called the Rimrock Grill, where Ellie had arranged for them to meet Steve Thompson, supposedly for Lindsay to pick the retired detective’s brain about the Richard Mullaney case on behalf of her client, Hope Miller, aka Tara King.

The sun was still high, and a hot gust of wind washed over Lindsay when she stepped out of the rental car. She immediately felt sweat bead above the collar of her silk blouse. “I don’t know if it’s my nerves or this heat,” she said, futilely trying to fan herself with one hand.

“One of the great mysteries of my childhood—how the wind somehow makes it worse. It’s like standing in front of gigantic blow-dryer on full blast.” Ellie led the way to the restaurant entrance and paused before reaching for the door. “You ready?”

“Just a second.” Lindsay slipped her phone from her purse and sent a quick text. Heading in now. I love you. No legal ID meant no airplanes, not to mention the assurances they had given to the court about Hope not leaving New York.

A series of dots, followed by a brief reply. PLEASE be careful. Love you too.

She hit the voice memo app on the phone, pressed record, and returned the device to her bag. Kansas was a one-party state, meaning that she could lawfully record any conversations as long as at least one participant consented.

“Let’s do it.”