Jessica wanted to reach out a hand and comfort Chuck Lawrence, but she couldn’t move. “You mentioned Eleanor was planning a trip?”

“I spoke to her in the post office on York the day before,” he said. “You know I was also the last known person to see little Alicia before she vanished?”

Jessica nodded, shifted uncomfortably on the bench, and averted her gaze.

He said, “Eleanor and I spoke for a few minutes about the usual kinda stuff, like the weather. She told me she was expecting a parcel so would probably see me again over the weekend and would make sure to have a nice pot of coffee ready for me when I made the delivery. Then she made a comment about how she’d miss our chats when she was gone.”

“Gone where?”

Lawrence shrugged. “She didn’t say. All I know is she was planning on leaving town for good. Said she wanted a better life for her and her daughter. Told me she was just waiting on some news, and then they would be off. The way she spoke, we’re talking a matter of days or weeks rather than months.”

“Did you tell the police about her plans to leave Eagle Rock?”

Chuck frowned. “No, they never asked. Didn’t seem too interested in what we spoke about in the post office. All their questions were about finding Eleanor the next day and whether I’d seen Alicia at all on the Saturday morning. Which I hadn’t. Why? Do you think her planning on leaving town was important?”

“I’m not sure, Chuck,” she said. “How did Eleanor seem when she spoke about the trip?”

“Excited, I guess. Maybe . . . something else too.”

“Like what?”

“Not fear exactly.” Chuck looked at Jessica and frowned. “But I’d say, thinking back now, she was definitely on edge about something that day.”

24 PRYCE

24

PRYCE

Pryce slowly turned the pages of Eleanor Lavelle’s murder book.

He had requested the file—and then made a copy—years ago, and it had been well thumbed since then. He didn’t read novels, like Dionne and Angie did, but he read murder books. From cover to cover, over and over again. He knew the contents of every page of this one by heart—the autopsy report, the newspaper cuttings, the witness statements from the bar owner and the best friend and the McCools. He had searched every single line for any indication, anything at all, suggesting Brad Ferezy could have been a killer.

Less than an hour ago, he had looked Jessica Shaw straight in the eye and told her he had never once doubted his best friend’s innocence.

It had been yet another lie to add to the growing collection.