Riley pulled another box down from her closet shelf, pried it open, and rummaged through the contents. She’d spent the better part of Tuesday afternoon poring through all of her sketchbooks, but still hadn’t found the one that contained the rough sketches for her most recent paintings. This box was her last hope, and she eagerly scanned the contents, a stack of empty watercolor tins, her first portable easel—it was broken, and she’d been meaning to repair it, an empty Blackwing pencil box. She rummaged around, but there wasn’t a sketchbook in the mix.
She leaned back against the closet wall and closed her eyes, trying to visualize where and when she’d last seen it. She managed to conjure up a memory of tucking it into her messenger bag the day she’d filled it up when the group met at the Old Red Courthouse last month, but she had no recollection of filing it away when she got home. For all she knew, it had fallen out somewhere and was lost forever. She was disappointed, but not defeated. The sketches weren’t essential to the show, but they would’ve added a nice touch, and she hadn’t wanted to disappoint Lacy.
Deciding to give up on the search for now, she put the kettle on for tea and fired up her computer. Her email inbox contained a couple of emails from Lacy with ideas for the installation and she responded to say she’d come by tomorrow to discuss. The landing site for her email contained a running ticker of recent news, and the story about the body found in Deep Ellum was in the feed. The teaser text said the police had released a statement confirming the identity of the victim and that her death was a homicide.
Riley stared at the screen for a moment, wavering between moving on and clicking through to learn more. The water kettle started whistling, saving her from a decision, and she fixed a cup of her favorite blend, letting it steep for a full ten minutes before she added a touch of cream. When she returned to the computer, the story was still there, daring her to read it. Curiosity won and she clicked on the article.
Not many more details than they’d had the day before. The reporter had captured a photo of Detective Hanlon standing at the crime scene that had been picked up by every news outlet reporting on the murder. Riley could see why. Claire Hanlon was incredibly striking, feminine yet tough, and the image of her, in the dimly lit street, against the backdrop of the mural, carried a mysterious air. Riley typed in a few search terms and read what she could find on Claire’s background. Claire had recently testified in a case of a man accused of sexually assaulting and killing his victims, and the news outlets described her as a formidable witness, impervious to the sharp questioning of the high-profile defense attorney who’d tried to grill her on the stand. Riley got it, having faced down those piercing blue eyes and knowing appraisal. She sipped her tea and let her mind wander. Was Claire grilling a potential witness right now?
No sense wondering—it was none of her business and not a good use of her time. Detective Hanlon might be beautiful, but she wasn’t pleasant. Her hard-charging demeanor at the bar said she was used to swinging her badge around and having folks fall in line. Well, she could find someone else to boss around. People who were supposed to be on the right side of the law had stepped over the line in ways that had permanently altered her life. It might not be fair to lump them all in one group, but she didn’t really care. She clicked her way back to the original story and scanned it for details. The medical examiner was still working on the autopsy, but the preliminary report was that the woman had died due to strangulation. Riley instinctively touched her neck and shuddered as she imagined the feeling of helplessness that must’ve coursed through the woman’s body as she lost the ability to breathe. What other trauma had this poor woman been forced to endure before she died?
Riley abruptly closed the website and checked the weather network, figuring that absent some natural disaster, she would find only innocuous events happening there. While she waited for the site to load, she contemplated venturing out to rough sketch some of the locations Lacy wanted to feature, but as the images loaded on the screen, the bright yellow and orange movement on the radar dashed her idea.
She stretched her arms and contemplated her options. Maybe she needed to do something entirely different today. Her mood had been dark since the visit from her father, and she worried it would spill over into her drawings. She didn’t feel like being around other people, but a movie might be nice. She switched to the site for the theater down the street and clicked on the day’s schedule, but before she could focus on the choices, her doorbell rang. She stared at the door. Except for the visit from her father, only Mormons and telemarketers darkened her door, so she ignored it at first, but the persistence of her unwanted visitor finally won out over her ability to block out the noise. She walked over to the door and peered through the viewer and sighed when she saw the woman on her doorstep. She eased the door open only a crack. “Mom, I’m working.”
“If you answered your phone, I wouldn’t drop by, but you leave me no choice.”
Riley sighed. She recognized the tone for what it was and knew her mother wasn’t going to go away until she’d delivered whatever news was so important it had to be told rather than texted. “Come in.”
She left the door standing open and walked in front of her mother back to her easel and turned it around. Her mother carried a large, oversized umbrella and carelessly shook it out in her entryway. “It’s getting nasty out there.” She pointed to the easel. “Why can’t I see your work?”
“Because it’s not done.”
“You let those people you hang out with see your work in progress.”
Riley took note of the way her mother put emphasis on those people like she was hanging with a bad lot and tried not to be frustrated at the irony. “Those people are fellow artists. We share our work so we can learn from each other.”
“I get it. Your poor little mother has nothing to offer and wouldn’t understand your work anyway.”
Riley wasn’t buying in to her poor pitiful routine today. “Please. There’s nothing to understand. I’m working on some new pieces for a show. My first solo gallery show.” She handed her mother one of the glossy flyers Lacy had sent over.
Her mom awkwardly touched the edge of the paper, and then quickly set it down. “That’s so exciting.”
She’d said the right words, but they fell flat. “It is actually.”
“Where is this gallery?”
“You don’t have to go.” Riley had a vision of her mother drinking way too much of the complimentary sparkling wine and telling everyone in sight to buy her daughter’s little drawings in a slurred voice.
“What if I want to?”
“I’ll send you the exact details as soon as it’s all confirmed,” Riley said to buy time. “But just you.”
“Your father would be so proud.”
“Don’t start.”
“He said he came by to see you.”
“He did.”
“It would kill you to join us for lunch?”
“Kill me? No, but I refuse to do lots of things that aren’t going to kill me because I don’t want to and there’s no compelling reason to do them. Please respect my boundaries.”
“He’s innocent. He spent years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Shouldn’t that make a difference?”
“Maybe, but it’s more complicated than that.” This wasn’t the first time her mom had tried to nag her into being nice to her father. Angela Flynn might be capable of forgiving and forgetting the many versions of her husband that didn’t fit with the current wrongfully convicted model, but Riley’s memories of the distant father from her teens who’d cheated on her mother with one of his teaching assistants was vivid and unrelenting. “Please let it go. I’ll deal with this in my own time.”
“I’ve forgiven him.”
Her voice was low, almost as if she was ashamed to admit how easily she’d slipped back into the time before their lives had been shattered. Riley recognized the huge admission for what it was—a desperate grab at rewriting the past. Her father’s trial and incarceration had had a huge impact on her life, but nothing compared to her mother’s. Her mother had to find a job in the working world to support Riley and also to pay the mounting debt from her father’s legal defense. Back then, it wasn’t fashionable to conduct online fundraising campaigns, and even if it had been, no one contributes money to a lost cause.
From what she’d gleaned from her own research, her father had been sleeping with his graduate TA for months, telling her he was on a path to leaving his wife and family so that he could be with her. In truth, he was merely stringing her along to get laid, and medicating his middle-age crisis with drugs and a younger woman. At the trial, they learned that Frank had told his best friend he had considered leaving his wife several times but had never been able to follow through. Riley was pretty sure that was the moment she’d gone from not liking him to actively hating him and wishing he was completely out of their lives.
When the TA’s dead body was found, his infidelity was revealed. The police focused on him as the number one suspect, causing him to lose his job, his family. When a jury decided he’d strangled the TA in a fit of rage when she grew tired of being his secret sidepiece and threatened to tell the world about their love, he’d lost the last thing he had—his freedom.
The jury verdict had been swift and the punishment phase of the trial grueling. When the jury settled on forty years of prison, it had seemed like a lifetime to Riley. Her mother had been a real stand by your man kind of spouse, but before the last appeal was exhausted, Riley vowed never to speak to him again. She’d piled everything she owned into the back of an old Ford pickup she’d bought with money she’d earned giving drawing lessons at the local community center and drove east to Denton where she did odd jobs until she started college in the fall. The university was only an hour away from her childhood home, but it was far enough to get away from him, away from the press, away from the stress of never knowing who her father really was—benevolent guy who taught her how to ride a bike or selfish prick who’d fucked over their family.
“You may have forgiven him,” she told her mother, “but I’m not there yet and I don’t know if I ever will be.” She watched her mother tear up and instantly experienced a sting of remorse, but not enough to change her mind. “Let’s talk about something else. Have a seat. Do you want a cup of tea?”
“I can’t stay.” Her mother glanced toward the door.
Riley’s stomach dropped. “He came with you, didn’t he?” She walked to the window that overlooked the parking lot. “Is he waiting in the car while you’re in here trying to smooth the way?”
“What did you expect? You won’t talk to him, but I’d thought you’d do this small thing for me.”
Riley pushed past the manipulation, but it galled her all the same. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t ever talk to him, but no, I’m not ready to talk to him right now, and you trying to push me into it isn’t going to rush things along.”
“I don’t understand you, Riley.”
“That makes two of us because I don’t understand you either.” She glanced back at her easel. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you. I have to get back to work. I’ll think about getting together with him. I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise.”
Her mother stared hard, like she was trying to divine if Riley was lying to get her to go away. She definitely did want her to go away, but she was also willing to sleep on her mother’s request rather than continue to reject her father’s overtures if only to keep the peace.
“Okay, but if you don’t call, I’m going to stalk you.”
“Deal.” She watched her mother walk down the stairs and out the door into the rain, but quickly shut the door. She wasn’t in the headspace right now to meet Frank’s pleading look. Let him be the one to watch and make sure her mother didn’t slip on the sidewalk. Lord knows she’d done her share of taking care of her mother in his absence.
Her tea was cold, and she’d neglected to leave the kettle warming, so she started her ritual over again, selecting a brew with less caffeine this time. When she’d fixed the perfect cup, she carried it to the easel and stared at the work in progress, making mental notes to assess her next steps. She’d finished half of her tea and had a solid plan when the doorbell rang again. Cursing silently, she strode to the door, ready to tell her mother or her father or whoever thought it was okay to constantly show up unannounced, that she was fucking working, but when she opened the door, words failed her as she met the intense blue eyes of Detective Claire Hanlon, and her partner, what’s his name.
* * *
Claire looked up from her desk at Nick who was waving a sheet of paper at her head. “What’s up?”
“Buster Creel, the guy who runs that sketch club? He sent the list.”
“Really?” Despite what she’d said when they were leaving the bar yesterday, she was a little surprised Buster had complied with their request. “Let me see.”
He handed her a copy and stared at his own, running a finger down the list. “There are a couple of dozen names on here, but he underlined a few that rarely show up to their meet-ups, and he put stars by the names of the ones who were in Deep Ellum last Saturday. Should be easy to find your muscled-up friend on the list.” He stabbed at the paper. “Here we go, Riley Flynn. This has to be her.”
Claire ignored his “friend” remark. Nick had made it clear several times he thought her focus on a woman as the perp was off the mark. He might be right, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the mysterious Riley and she was determined her distraction was because Riley might have some connection to the murder and not because she wasn’t able to control her own impulses. “Let’s run a background check, and then find a time to talk to her when she’s not with her friends. We should go ahead and talk to the rest of the people on the list too, and—” A sudden realization stunted her ability to speak.
“And?” Nick rolled his hand to urge her on. “What’s up?”
“Hold up. What did you say Riley’s last name is?” She grabbed the paper with the list of names off her desk.
“Flynn, why?” Nick asked. A second later, his face scrunched into a frown. “Oh, wait.”
“That would be too much of a coincidence, right?”
Nick tapped away on his phone. “It should be, but it’s not. She’s Frank Flynn’s daughter.”
“Holy hell.” Claire groaned. “This case just turned into a hot mess. Everything we do from here on out has to be discreet. If word gets out we’re talking to Frank Flynn’s daughter about a murder, we’re going to have press crawling all over us, not to mention those Innocence Project watchdog groups.”
“Where do you want to start?”
Claire stood and put on her suit jacket. “Let’s go pay her a visit. Right now, before there’s any chance of a leak.” She tossed him the keys and led the way to the car before he could comment on how out of character it was for her to relinquish control of the wheel twice in one week. He’d be wrong anyway. She wanted complete control of any information she could find out about Riley Flynn before they showed up on her doorstep, and the internet was going to give it to her.
A few minutes later, she was wading through page after page of search results from typing in the simple search “Frank Flynn’s daughter Riley.” Riley had been fourteen when her father was arrested for murder. Fifteen when he went to trial, and she’d turned twenty-nine two months before his release. Claire clicked on Google images and scanned photos of teenage Riley accompanying her mother into and out of the courthouse during her father’s trial.
Had Riley been close to her father? Had they kept in touch? How did she feel about his release? She’d never given an interview, never published anything in print or online about her father. Whatever opinions she had about his case weren’t in the public realm.
“We’re almost here,” Nick said. “You find anything interesting?”
Claire looked at him and tried to compute his words. They were driving down a tree lined street in Uptown, and a glance at the dashboard told her twenty minutes had passed, but she felt like it had only been five. “Not a lot. She doesn’t appear to have a social media presence, and after Frank went to prison, it’s like she disappeared completely from the web. There are some photos of her and her mother from the trial, but other than that, nada. Apparently, she’s debuting her work at the Lofton Gallery next month, but I haven’t been able to find any examples of her artwork online. The write-up on the gallery’s website says her work will be shown in public for the first time on the night of the opening.”
“So, the drawing thing is definitely not just a hobby for her?”
“Appears that way. She teaches a few art classes at Richards,” Claire said. “But that can’t pay a ton, so she must be making some money some other way.” She pointed at her phone. “Not much on here about her relationship with her father. She doesn’t give interviews and the only quote I could find was ‘no comment.’”
Nick pulled over in front of a large brownstone. “How do you want to play this?”
Claire hated ceding control, but Riley’s angry reaction to her when they’d first met was a sign they needed to take a different approach. “It’s pretty clear I rub her the wrong way. Guess you better pull out your sensitive guy magic and charm her into talking to us. Maybe emphasize she’s not a suspect right now, that we’re talking to everyone in the sketch club to gather info for the investigation. If we press too hard, she may lawyer up, especially since her dad’s been in the system and knows the drill.”
Nick gave her a mock salute. “Roger all that. Be nice, don’t press, but get her to confess.”
Claire ignored his mocking. They both knew she was a hyper control freak, and she’d long since given up trying to change. Her methods meant they closed more cases than any other team on the squad, and her theory was don’t mess with success. As for confessions, she didn’t expect Riley to break down and admit to killing Jill Shasta, no matter how they handled the situation. Deep down, she was wavering about whether Riley was involved. Riley’s reaction to them at the bar could be explained as a natural distrust for law enforcement, a by-product of her father’s case. But Claire sensed there was something deeper, and Claire was determined to find out what it was, even if it meant she had to play second to Nick’s lead.
The front door to the brownstone was about one-third glass panels, allowing them to see into the foyer. There was a door on either side and a set of stairs that likely led to two more apartments upstairs. Neither of the numbers on the downstairs doors matched the address they’d obtained, which meant she must have an apartment upstairs. Claire filed that fact away with a note to talk to the downstairs neighbors about Riley’s comings and goings. She tried the door to the foyer and was surprised to find it unlocked. A newer apartment building would have security in place or at least an intercom, but not here, thankfully. She started up the stairs but paused at the first landing and motioned for Nick to go first. When they reached Riley’s door, she took a moment to assess the second level of the building. There wasn’t another door opposite hers like there was downstairs, which she took to mean the entire second floor was one apartment, which meant it was larger than most in this part of town. Riley must be doing okay to have this kind of space.
Quit jumping to conclusions. For all you know she has a roommate or… Claire shook away the idea that Riley was part of a couple and actively ignored why she didn’t want to go there. She was saved from further examination of her motives when Nick knocked on the door. Claire fixed her face in what she hoped was a friendly, talk to us because we just want to see justice done expression, and waited for Riley to answer the door.
“Mom, seriously—” Riley froze in the doorway and stared them down. “What are you doing here?”
“We’d like to talk to you,” Nick said. “Buster mentioned you know the city better than most and you have an eye for detail. We need all the help we can get.”
Claire nodded along with him, both proud and surprised at how smoothly he was able to lie. Judging by the slight relaxation of Riley’s features, he’d hit exactly the right note. Riley hesitated for a moment, but then she invited them in.
“I don’t have a lot of time,” she said, standing in the middle of her apartment. “What do you need?”
Claire looked around, in awe of the large open space. A room screen on the far side of the room likely hid a bedroom, and directly in front of it was a weight bench and a small rack of various weights. Floor to ceiling windows let in tons of light, and easels were scattered around the room, all covered except one. She zeroed in on the painting, a few feet from the door. A work in progress judging by the paint palette and jars of water on a high table next to it. She stepped closer. It was a painting of the Eye, a three-story sculpture of an eyeball in the middle of downtown. She’d seen several renderings of the funky sculpture in galleries around town, but this one stirred a feeling in her none of the others had. Riley had used oil paints to depict the eye, set against a backdrop of a brewing thunderstorm with rolling black clouds and shards of lightning piercing the dark sky. Had Riley been standing outside painting when the storm came up? Had it chased her away or had she stood her ground to document the incredible scene?
Riley stepped closer and stood in front of the easel, blocking her view. “You have questions?”
They were standing close now and Riley’s nearness made her agitated. Claire rarely blinked, but disconcerted, she filed away her questions and took a step back. She shot a look at Nick who was watching them with a curious expression.
Nick motioned to the couch and chairs in the middle of the room. “Mind if we have a seat?”
Riley looked hesitant, but not many people could resist Nick’s easy charm. “Okay, but I’m serious. I don’t have a lot of time. I’m on a deadline.”
“Art show?” Nick asked as he settled into the chair, leaving the couch for Claire and Riley. Claire silently cursed him and sat as far from Riley as possible on the opposite end of the couch.
“Yes,” Riley answered.
“I think I read something about that. It’s your first solo show, right?”
“Yes.”
Claire forced a smile. “That’s exciting.”
“I suppose.”
Claire met Nick’s eyes and telegraphed her annoyance. It was as if Riley had been schooled in witness stand behavior by a skilled defense attorney. Or the next best thing—her criminal father. Her willingness to let someone else control the conversation was fading fast. “I get why you might not want to talk to us.”
Riley turned slightly and fixed her with an icy stare. “Really?”
Claire hadn’t expected Riley to warm up right away, but the total freeze was surprising. Claire knew everyone viewed her as kind of a hard-ass, but she thought she did a good job of projecting an engaging persona. She was used to people opening up, not shutting down, when she tried to engage. Back at the bar, when she and Riley had exchanged flirtatious glances, she wouldn’t have predicted being completely shut out of the conversation, but she also didn’t have Riley’s history. What must it have been like having a father who was convicted of murder when you were still in high school? Claire could only imagine the taunts and bullying Riley must’ve endured during her father’s trial, and after his conviction. If she could channel some compassion here, she might be able to get Riley to open up to them.
“Really,” she said, not looking away from Riley’s intense stare. “Your dad’s case is fresh on everyone’s minds these days.”
Riley kept up her stare for a few more seconds before looking away, but before she did, Claire spotted a slight twitch. Certain she’d tapped into some level of emotion, she pressed on. “Yes, we are eager for you to talk to us or we wouldn’t have found out where you live and showed up unannounced, especially after you made it clear the first time we met you weren’t interested in talking to us. But I can promise you this—we are only after the truth. Someone brutally killed a young woman yards away from where you and your friends were meeting. If it were me, I’d want that someone caught and locked up as quickly as possible for society at large and for me and my friends who value their ability to feel safe while they roam around the city.”
Riley’s flinch was almost imperceptible, but the reaction convinced Claire her words had struck a chord. “I’m thinking it’s possible you might have seen or heard something you may not even realize is important but talking about every detail might be revelatory. Will you help us?”
For a second, it looked like Riley was about to waver. A slight quiver of her lip, again with the intense gaze. She folded and unfolded her hands, and then used them to push up from the couch. Claire watched her every move, not even looking away for a moment though she could feel Nick watching them from his seat on the chair. Once Riley was completely upright, she motioned to the door.
“It’s time for you to go.”
Claire was genuinely surprised. She’d been certain she’d tapped into some emotion, that Riley would talk, but apparently the outer shell was harder than she’d thought. She couldn’t resist one more try. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Riley pointed at the door again, leaving her hand in the air. “Now.”
Claire caught Nick’s eye and gave a slight nod. Together they walked to the door, but Claire turned back before they left and held out a card. When Riley made no move to accept it, she set it on the table next to the door. “Give me a call when you’re ready to talk.” Then she followed Nick out the door, determined that one way or another she was going to unfreeze the icy stare Riley had cast her way.