“Join the club.” He points to the door. “You can see yourself out—” Then his arm falls limply to his side. “Wait a minute,” he says. “I thought you wanted to talk about another suspect. That’s what you said when I let you in. That’s the only reason I opened the door for you. And I’ve heard my fair share of whacked-out theories about the case. People call me on the phone. I have an unlisted number, but they find me. They message me. Everyone in this town thinks they know who killed Sophia, but none of them has been right. What are you bringing to the party?”

“I think there might be someone they haven’t thought of,” I say. “Someone who might know more about this than either of us.”

“Okay, you’ve got my attention, friend. Who? A name. Say a name.”

“Madeline O’Brien,” I say.

If I’d stuck Zachary with an electric cattle prod, he likely wouldn’t have jerked around any faster.

“Madeline,” he said. “What the fuck are you bringing her up for?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Zachary jumps out of the chair and comes toward me, taking several quick steps across the room.

Maybe I’m gun-shy from the blow Madeline delivered, or maybe my instinct for self-preservation is at an all-time high, but I move back, lifting my hands in the air between us.

“Look, just hold on,” I say.

“Why are you asking me about her? She’s dead.”

“She’s missing,” I say. “There’s no proof she’s dead.” I think about the night before. Whoever went through my pockets. A male voice saying my name. Was it Zach? “You haven’t seen her, have you?”

“She’s been dead for two years, and you’re asking if I’ve seen her. What are you smoking?”

“But you did know her?”

“Sophia knew her. A little. They went to yoga at the same place and used to talk.” He shrugs, almost too casual. “I met Madeline once. Maybe twice. I’m not really sure. When she disappeared, the cops came and talked to me about that as well. I could tell they wanted to add her disappearance to my shopping list. Might as well, right?”

“Were she and Sophia friends?” I ask. “Good friends?”

Zachary’s demeanor cools. He no longer looks like he plans to charge through me like he’s the angry bull and I’m the red cloth. But something hums beneath the surface of the guy’s body, as if every one of his nerves and cells jangles with potential lethal energy. I threw Madeline’s name out, hoping to strike a nerve. It looks like I’ve hit more than one.

“Why should I tell you anything?” he asks. “Why shouldn’t I just call the police?”

“Maybe we can help each other. By sharing what we know.”

“I can’t trust anybody in this town.”