There’s a knock at the door. I jump up and jog to it, swinging it open immediately. It’s Rebecca, and I couldn’t be happier to see her. I give her a hug, and it’s awkward, but I don’t care. She kind of pushes me away, and we break the embrace.

“What’s gotten into you?” She shrugs me off and pushes past me. She tosses her bag on the couch and helps herself to my cup of coffee.

“Please tell me you found something.”

“Maybe.” She takes a seat.

“What do you mean maybe?” I pace the living room waiting for her response. This is it.

She’s my last hope. I’m running out of time, and Sarah and I are clearly not on the same page. She’s chasing some Jesse guy and thinks my theory is completely off-key. I broke the phone. I can’t leave this God-forsaken lake house, and my trial starts in nine fucking days. Rebecca takes a few sips of my coffee and places the cup on the table. She pulls a stack of file folders from her bag, separates three from the stack and tosses them on the coffee table.

“These three have the closest connection to Kelly’s past life and all live within a 150-mile radius of Prince William County. Each folder contains a bio, a photo, and background report. Two of them have criminal histories. One doesn’t. This is all I had time to get, but it’s a good start.”

I pick up the folders and open the first one. I hope one of these sparks something, but I’m not sure how or if it will. I need more than a good start. I need a finish line.

I open the first folder. It’s a middle-aged woman by the name of Cheryl. She lives one and a half hours south of here. Two kids. Several speeding tickets and one disorderly conduct charge. She’s hard looking with thin lips and a pointy nose.

“That’s Cheryl. She’s Greg’s cousin,” Rebecca explains.

“What are your thoughts on her?”

“She’s related and lives close enough to commit the crime, but I don’t think she and Greg were all that close and it seems she has enough problems of her own.”

I’m content with Rebecca’s explanation, so I close the folder and toss it on the coffee table. I open the next one. It’s a picture of a middle-aged man with dark eyes and dark brown, well-styled hair. My first thought is, this guy looks like a real prick. His name is Nicolas Robert Miller. He has no criminal history, and he looks familiar, but I can’t place him. I’ve seen him before.

“What’s this guy’s story?”