Jessica climbed onto the seat and left the door ajar so the dome light would illuminate the truck’s interior. Then she opened the yearbook to the first page of seniors and scanned each and every photo. She didn’t have to search for too long. There, with the other students whose surnames began with F, was the man she’d shared the best part of her life with.

Eighteen years old. Dark curly hair and a shy smile. Piercing blue eyes. An awkwardness that suggested he preferred to be behind the camera rather than in front of it.

Tony Shaw.

Rob Young.

Murder suspect.

Liar.

Jessica remembered the scribbled dedication in the yearbook’s inside front cover—Life moves pretty fast!

His real name was Brad Ferezy.

20 JESSICA

20

JESSICA

The murder house was easy to spot.

All the other properties on Morrison were well-tended Craftsman cottages painted in complementary shades of cream and light gray and moss green with gleaming white trim around doors and windows. Ornate porticos hung over front doors, and empty rocking chairs sat on uncluttered porches overlooking tidy, pretty lawns.

Wrecking any hopes the street’s residents might have of ever achieving curb appeal was the ugly, dilapidated mud-brown house at the end of the block.

Paint blistered and cracked and peeled from the siding, and old leaves filled the corners of the porch like snowdrifts. The front lawn had been scorched bare by a long-ago fire, and wooden boards were nailed haphazardly over the big front window to cover the broken pane.

Jessica and Holliday stood on the sidewalk in front of Eleanor Lavelle’s former home. She had decided not to tell him about discovering Rob Young’s real identity. Or that the number one murder suspect in the Lavelle case and the man she’d thought was her father were the same person.

She also kept the previous night’s altercation with Mack McCool to herself, especially his warning not to trust Holliday. As far as Jessica could tell, the journalist was on her team. The team who wanted to know who killed Eleanor Lavelle. Not like a drunk old man who seemed determined to hide the truth.

Holliday frowned. “Remind me why we’re here?”

“You don’t want to get a feel for the place where Eleanor died?”

“Not really. It’s not like we can just walk in and take a look around anyway.”

“Why not?”

“The house is still owned by the company Eleanor rented from. Some small-time property firm with a handful of rental properties in east LA.”

“They never sold it?”