“Do you have a suspect in mind?” Stride asked.

“Well, you could start with Peter Stanhope.”

Serena’s head snapped around at the mention of Stanhope’s name. “Peter was involved?” she asked Stride.

“Yes, he was the prime suspect for a while,” Stride admitted.

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” Serena asked.

Stride was silent. Peter Stanhope was an attorney from one of Duluth’s most influential families, but more important, he was one of Serena’s clients as a private investigator.

“I’ve done my homework,” Tish continued. “Randall Stanhope had the police in his pocket back then, and it wouldn’t have been hard for him to shift the focus away from his son. Somebody needs to take a close look at Peter Stanhope.”

Serena pushed her chair back with an iron screech and stalked away from the table.

Maggie watched her go, then leaned forward, shaking her head. “Look, Trish.”

“It’s Tish.”

“Tish, fish, knish, whatever. Let me give you a reality check. You can’t go around making accusations about anyone, let alone a rich lawyer like Peter Stanhope, without evidence. You can’t expect the police to help you.”

“Unless you’ve got something new to add to the investigation, we can’t do anything,” Stride added. “Even if we wanted to.”

“I do have something new,” Tish said.

Stride’s face was dark and suspicious. “What is it?”

“I know Laura was being stalked.”

WHO KILLED LAURA STARR?

By Tish Verdure

TWO

May 20, 1977

Laura showed me the letter today. I caught her reading it on her bed when I went into her room, and I saw what it was before she could hide it. I could tell she was upset. I wondered how long she had been staring at it before I came in.

The note was written on ruled white paper, the kind we use in school. The edge was jagged where it had been torn out of a binder. Someone had used red lipstick to scrawl the message.

WHERE DO YOU WANT IT, BITCH?

“What the hell is this?” I demanded. “Where did this come from?”

Laura snatched the note out of my hand. “Someone put it in my locker.”

“Do you know who?”

“I have no idea.”

I wanted to see it again, but Laura hid it away in the drawer of her nightstand before I could ask.

“You have to tell someone about this,” I said.

Laura ignored me. She hummed along to a Hall and Oates song on her record player. “Sara Smile.” Her fluffy blond hair jiggled as her shoulders swayed, and she rubbed her index finger nervously as if she were trying to wipe away a stain. She acted as if, by putting the note away, it didn’t exist anymore.

“Laura,” I chided her. “This is serious. If you won’t tell anyone about it, then I will.”

She wagged her finger at me. “Oh, no, you won’t, little sister. I don’t want to make a big deal about this. You know what boys are like. It’s just a joke. It would make it worse if I acted like I was scared.”