Thursday, August 19
Woodstock, New York
Heart racing, I set the phone on the coffee table, forced myself to sit down on the sofa, to try to think straight. Morales had said that she suspected Cassandra of the break-ins. The detective’s words had been so matter-of-fact.
Cassandra Haywood was at odds with the family. Of course we’re looking at her.
But I hadn’t really ever believed it, had I? Even once Willa had told me that Cassandra had asked her for help, the break-ins had still felt so far-fetched. I could hardly imagine her scrawling graffiti across walls. Cassandra had never had any issues with wealth. She’d always seemed to want it, much more than I did. You didn’t cover yourself with Cartier and Harry Winston and then scrawl Eat the Rich and Fuck the One Percent in paint—did you?
Morales’s last words rang in my head.
Cassandra Haywood may be dangerous.
Could Cassandra and Willa have killed George together?
Then I heard it, another thump outside.
My body jolted, instantly in fight-or-flight. I was too scared to go to the back window, too scared to even look. I was playing with fire here, and it felt suddenly too dangerous.
I opened the front door, stepped onto the porch. “Jack!”
I wanted him back inside, next to me. It felt wild that I’d sent him out there in the dark, nothing but his iPhone flashlight to guide the way.
“Jack!” I called again, but the rain was coming faster now, and my words were swallowed up by the wind.
I stepped back inside, my heart racing furiously as the words from Morales’s voicemail flashed again through my head.
If you see her or hear from her, call me right away.
Enough waiting. Enough of all of this. I grabbed my phone and returned to my call log, tapped the number of the call I’d missed. It rang and rang but no one answered, and then I got a recorded message, Woodstock police. The station had to be open all night, didn’t it? But the staff was probably a skeleton crew this late. Someone could have stepped away from the desk.
I couldn’t wait.
I hung up, keyed in 911.
Then I took a deep breath, focused on what I had to do.
Make the call, tell the dispatcher someone was out here, prowling around my property, that I was sure the person was connected to a murder investigation, that they were wanted by the Woodstock police.
My fingers quivered, hovering over the button to start the call, and I was about to push it when something else caught my eye.
Jack’s wallet, the one he’d set on the table when he’d gotten his phone from his pocket.
The wallet had been embossed, words stamped onto it like a cattle brand.
Wright Holdings
Wright Holdings, I thought. Why were the words so familiar to me?
Wright Holdings. Wright Holdings.
It hit me like a flash. It was the name Morales had shown to me, the same day I’d seen Willa’s full name, Charlotte Anne Williams.
Wright Holdings was the other name on the call log.