I didn’t drink, and I didn’t date clients, but age had taught me to be more diplomatic. I moved quickly to my front door. Inside, I climbed the stairs, and as I approached my door, I saw a plain manila envelope leaning against it. I picked it up, judged the weight (hefty), and opened my door. Inside, I flipped on the lights, dropped my keys, food container, and bag on the table.

I unfastened the clip on the envelope and pulled out a stack of papers. The first few sheets were my accident report. The pages behind them were not on official forms but handwritten on notebook paper. The date in the top right corner was January 4, 2009. It was the date Richards had opened his investigation into Clare’s death.

Shrugging off my jacket, I let it slide off and fall to the floor. Heart beating, I read the first page written in Richards’s handwriting:

Sixteen-year-old female. Strangled. Naked. No apparent signs of sexual assault. Found in James River near the Huguenot Bridge.

The past reached out and, in one swipe, hit me hard across the face, forcing me to step back and draw in a breath. Tears welled in my eyes, and I squeezed my lids closed as I struggled to pull in a breath.

I turned from the file, realizing that Richards had done me no favors giving me the notes that he’d taken while investigating Clare’s death.

But I wasn’t looking for kindness or warm fuzzies. I wanted facts, no matter how brutal.

17 RICHARDS

17

RICHARDS

THEN

Friday, January 4, 2009

9:00 a.m.

Frank Stockton is a big man. Wide shoulders, large hands, a high-top haircut that looked twenty years out of date. He knows his height is an advantage, and he’s not afraid to use it. We’ve met before, and when he looked at me, he remembered.

Beside him stood a daughter in her late teens. That had to be Brit. She was dressed in jeans and an ironed shirt. Her hair was washed, and she was wearing makeup. She was tall and had the bearing of a person who liked to be in control.

However, my gaze settled on the second daughter, the younger one. Her thick red hair was braided, the blended strands dangling over her shoulder like rope. Her face was pale, and her hands trembled slightly. She wasn’t anywhere close to pulled together like her sibling.

Staring at the younger sister was unnerving because I’d spent the early morning staring into the dead version of that face. Lifeless, cloudy eyes and skin partly blackened and loosened by the water. I’d known Clare had an older sister and a twin, but I wasn’t really prepared for this mirror image.

“This is my older daughter, Brit, and my second youngest, Marisa.” Frank Stockton’s face was drawn, but a tan gave him a healthy glow that a distraught father shouldn’t have.