“Unless it isn’t,” she said.

“Nothing I say is gonna convince you to move on without knowing more about that DNA hit. Sound about right?”

“I’m meeting her as soon as this report gets filed.”

13
Monday, June 21, 11:15 a.m.

“Are you sure you don’t want to order something else, Ellie?”

The name sounded overly familiar to Lindsay’s ear, but Detective Hatcher had insisted on first names, making clear that she was here in a personal capacity, not as a cop. When Ellie suggested meeting at the Bluebell Café, Lindsay had assumed they were eating lunch and ordered accordingly, but then the detective asked only for a cup of coffee. Now she felt weird, fumbling with this stupid avocado toast while talking about serial murder.

She had already laid out everything she knew about the blood sample from the Stansfields’ house and its connection to trace evidence found at the home of Janice Beale. “The police in East Hampton, at least, are chalking it up to coincidence.”

“I worked an interstate case once with an older detective from the LAPD. He said there was no such thing as coincidence. The longer I’ve been on the job, the more I agree. You’re a lawyer: What’s your gut?”

“That it’s connected. I might be willing to say otherwise, except Hope is missing. One possibility is that it’s a person from her past—someone who’s been looking for her this entire time and finally found her. Another possibility is that it has nothing to do with her or her amnesia, but it’s connected with this College Hill Strangler case. But the odds that it’s a completely random coincidence that has nothing to do with either Hope’s disappearance or your father’s case?”

Ellie shook her head. “Would be weird.”

“William Summer could have had an accomplice,” Lindsay said. “Maybe when Summer went inactive, the accomplice left the region. Who knows how many places he has lived since then, and how many women he could have killed.”

“It’s an interesting theory.”

Lindsay waited for the detective to say more, but Ellie simply took another sip of her coffee. Lindsay was familiar with the tactic. Say nothing and force the other person to fill the silence. She could play the game as well as any police officer, but in this situation, she was the one who needed the detective’s help.

Fine.

“In some ways,” Lindsay said, “the modus operandi itself suggests the possibility. The amount of control. The time spent with the victims. It all seems slow and methodical. That could mean more than one person.”

Ellie nodded. At least it was some kind of feedback. But instead of working the angle with Lindsay, the detective abruptly changed the subject. “Tell me more about your friend.”

Still my turn, Lindsay thought. This woman didn’t share in the sandbox.