Jess had always been more willing to accept that their dad did the selfish thing and took his own life. Maybe because he was older, he had been more aware of their father’s emotional absence even when he was alive. Where Ellie felt protective of her father’s memory, Jess didn’t mask his resentment.

Four years earlier, they’d received the news that the Wichita police had finally arrested a suspect. Ellie had been so certain that the breakthrough in the case would finally answer her family’s questions about her father’s death. But by the time William Summer pleaded guilty, two things were certain.

One: William Summer was definitely the College Hill Strangler. Over the course of nearly two hours, he had chronicled each murder on the record in the courtroom, reciting from memory the horrific and previously undisclosed details that only the killer could possibly know. The proceedings were both gruesome and televised, but the prosecutors justified both decisions, saying it was important the local community be convinced that they had finally caught the man who had terrorized an entire generation of Wichitans.

And two: the College Hill Strangler had a rock-solid alibi for the night Wichita Police Department detective Jerry Hatcher died. At the moment Ellie’s father was killed by a single gunshot from his service weapon, William Summer was in Olathe, Kansas, 175 miles away, serving as the best man at his sister’s wedding.

Jess, halfway done with his beer, signaled Leo for another. “You were a mess when you went back to Wichita,” he said, referring to Ellie’s decision to drop everything and fly home after Summer’s arrest to pore over whatever evidence she could get her hands on. “You told me it was like burying Dad all over again. You really want to relive that a third time?”

“Look, I know I told you that I was finally on board. I made myself accept the fact that Dad . . . well, Dad made that final decision. But maybe Summer didn’t act alone, which changes everything. If Dad figured it out, the second killer could be the one who shot him. The accomplice could have remained active this entire time.” She waited as Leo switched out the beer pints before continuing. “This woman missing from East Hampton might be his latest victim.”

“I lost count, but that was, like, five different ifs and maybes you blew through there. I’m afraid to ask, but just how much poking did you do today?”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t call Mom.” When it came to dealing with the past, their mother was fragile on a good day.

“But you did call . . .”

“Steve.”

“Of course. And what did Steve tell you?”

“That the blood came from Janice Beale’s house, which I already knew from that lawyer, Lindsay.”