“There’s always bribery. Or theft.”

Holliday smiled. “No need for any of that. A contact of mine works in Evidence Archives.” He patted the messenger bag. “I have a copy of the files right here.”

“And you’re telling me this because . . . ?”

“I thought we could work together. I scratch your back; you scratch mine.”

“I’m not sure we know each other well enough for such intimate physical contact.”

He laughed. “What I meant was I share what I’ve got. You share what you’ve got.”

“I just got here. I don’t have anything. At least, not yet.”

“Sure you do. Eleanor Lavelle’s mother was a junkie who overdosed when she was a baby. She spent most of her childhood in care before leaving the system as soon as she turned eighteen. There’s no record of any surviving family members anywhere.”

“So?”

“So who’s paying you to look into her murder after all this time? You give me the name of the person who sent you to Eagle Rock; I let you see the files.”

Jessica shook her head. “No way.”

He nodded, as though it was the response he had been expecting. “Think it over,” he said. “I’m staying in room six. You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

Holliday finished his drink and left, leaving her sitting on her own, staring at the faces of Eleanor and Alicia Lavelle.

Staring at her own face as a child.

6 ELEANOR

6

ELEANOR

OCTOBER 2, 1992

Eleanor Lavelle dropped a couple of quarters into the slot and carefully punched in the telephone number scrawled on the crumpled piece of paper she held in her hand. She could barely hear the sound of the ringtone over the thumping of her pulse in her ears. She gripped the handset tightly, the plastic slick with sweat from her damp palm.

The phone rang and rang.

Eleanor was just about to hang up when there was a click as someone finally picked up.

A pause. Then, “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Eleanor said.

There was silence on the other end of the line. Eleanor stuck a finger in her ear, tried to block out the sound of traffic rumbling along York Boulevard.

“It’s Eleanor,” she said. “Eleanor Lavelle.”

“I know who it is. How did you get this number?”

“It’s listed.”

“Are you fucking crazy? Phoning me like this? I told you I would be in touch with you, not the other way around.”

“I, uh, hadn’t heard from you,” Eleanor mumbled. She heard the tremor in her voice and gave herself a mental kick up the ass. If she showed any sign of weakness now, any at all, it was over. She’d lose. And she couldn’t let that happen.