The following morning, King hands Larson a Styrofoam cup with steam rising from the surface. His office dates him: sports memorabilia from the last thirty years adorn the walls, the most recent date stopping at around five years earlier, when he presumably ran out of space. Most are from Dorrance’s athletics, baseball specifically (the football team has never been terribly competitive), and she’s reminded of how much a part of this college community King is. It’s hard to picture him retiring and living anywhere else.
She knows she’s forgetful when she’s preoccupied, but today was a hell of a time to walk out without her winter coat. She accepts the cup with shivering hands, then brings King up to speed on Dr. Simon Martin, his widow, and the circumstances of his disappearance.
“Any of our suspects live in Florida?” he asks.
“Not that we’ve seen so far. Not one. It’s a lead, but it’s from twelve years ago in another state. We have to pull up that footage of the janitors again. Before I took the kid to the hospital, I realized if he could find them, anyone could. You said you talked to two on that team, but I was sure I saw someone else.”
“On it.” King rubs the back of his crew cut as he drops into his desk chair. His fingertips tap the keyboard as bluish light washes over his face. Larson moves behind him to see the screen. She leans so close to King’s shoulder that she forces herself back a few inches when she senses him register her nearness.
It takes a minute to find the video clip, then to toggle to the time in question. The cursor lingers above the double triangle fast–forward icons, images blurring through time when nothing happens on the screen.
Then, it does.
A blurry figure in a navy–blue shirt appears with another beside him.
“Stop,” Larson says, pointing. King freezes the frame and backs it up a few seconds, making the figure momentarily appear to walk in reverse before he starts the video in the usual direction. It’s the same footage she watched the night before at her kitchen table, but she watches unblinkingly now.
One janitor enters the building, then a second. “These are the two you talked to?” she asks.
“Uh–huh.” He glances at a note on his phone and reads their names slowly, taking care with the pronunciation. Time seems to move in slow motion, haltingly enough that a quick memory of the inaccuracy of eyewitness testimony flashes in her mind, something she’d read in—she’s sure—her introductory psychology class, years ago.
When King restarts the video in slow motion, a sleeve appears at the side of the frame.
King’s finger jumps, stopping the clip. “There’s our friend,” he says. They lean so close, the screen looks pixilated. He backs up the clip a half a second to replay as the sleeve moves forward and back until King lets it pass.
“This is what you saw?”
She nods. They watch for another minute, but nothing else appears. Larson can see why the image didn’t solidify clearly in her memory; it’s little more than a flash.
“It isn’t much, is it?” King turns, his eyes reflecting her disappointment.
“It may not even be a third person. From that angle, we can’t tell if one of them just walked past the camera again. And neither mentioned seeing another janitor?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t ask specifically about a third person, but they both said they saw no one else at Hull Hall that night.”
Larson’s eyes pinch shut. She hears the squeak of King’s chair swiveling, and they open again as he’s saying, “This investigation could take a while. I know you’re eager, but…”
“And you know it’s the first case like this in years. The more time that goes by…”
“The more evidence gets destroyed, I know. We’ll find him, Alana.”
Her eyebrow rises. “You’re assuming it’s a ‘him,’ but there are two men and three women in that department that knew both victims.”
He folds his hands on his stomach. “Not nearly as many women commit these kinds of crimes. And whoever it was overpowered Joe Lyons. He’s a former triathlete, and even if he’s not in peak condition anymore, he was still strong and capable of defending himself.”
“Unless he was completely caught off guard. But let’s say for a second it was a male who attacked him, the two obvious connections are Chris Collins and Robert.”
“Robert has a record and deceived everyone around him the whole time he’s lived here. But I don’t know how he would have set up that observation session with you after killing two people. No one calls the police after they’ve committed two murders. No one. Unless he’s completely batshit.”
“Or knows exactly how to lie.”
King hesitates. “I suppose. But the one I don’t really like is the other one, Chris, who assaulted Tom Campbell one day earlier and has a gun registered to him. We could charge him with carrying it on campus.”
“Now?” she asks.
King nods like he gets the point. Chris may have broken the rules by taking the registered gun out of his car, but pursuing his arrest on the matter would squander their resources.
“Well, he needs the fear of God put in him about his carrying limits, at the very least. But I still don’t think it means nothing. At some point he saw himself as capable of violence.”
“I know it,” Larson says. “But he has absolutely no motive beyond the fact that he didn’t particularly like Elizabeth Colton. No one in the department seemed to.”
“Except Joe Lyons.”
King’s computer emits a short chime, and they both look at the screen. A new email has arrived. The subject line is clear as Larson leans in. “That’s the cell data,” she says.
“Most of it,” King says. “Scarlett and Veronica have a different carrier than the others, but theirs should be in anytime.”
Larson pulls a chair toward the desk, and King angles the screen so she can see it. They scan the data points and times, matching each against the crime scenes and grad students’ addresses.
One point stands out immediately: Britt Martinez was nowhere near Chris on the night Joe Lyons was killed. “He insisted she was with him.”
“A few times,” Larson says.
“I’m going to go over this, see what else pops up. Where are you going?”
Larson is already at the door.
Larson calls Chris Collins from her truck.
“Detective?”
“Mr. Collins, I’m going to need you to clarify the statement you made earlier about Britt Martinez’s whereabouts on Thursday evening.”
“At your service,” Chris says.
Larson grits her teeth at the polish of his voice. “You’re at home?”
“I am.”
Larson knocks on his door five minutes later as dialogue from a movie filters into the hall. She tenses with impatience. Only now does she sense how acutely she’s pressuring herself to make an arrest. She’s about to knock again when the door opens.
Chris wears sweatpants and a loose shirt, a glass of brown liquor balanced in his hand. He makes a sweeping gesture that reminds Larson of a matador taunting a bull. “Detective, come in.” Behind him, Britt Martinez is seated on a couch in the living room. Her boots lay carelessly on the plush rug, and her feet are tucked beneath her. She squints at Larson but makes no indication she means to stand.
“Ms. Martinez,” Larson says, her tone sounding forced.
Chris closes the door behind her with a dull click, then points a remote at a massive screen, freezing the movie they’re watching. Christian Bale’s character casts a serious–looking gaze.
Larson sits as Chris drops down beside Britt, balancing his glass in his hand. The only sound is the rhythmic lapping of flames in the fireplace. “Two visits in two days, Detective. What can we do for you?”
“You lied earlier about Ms. Martinez’s whereabouts on the night Joe Lyons was killed. I need to find out why.”
Chris opens his mouth, then closes it again. His eyebrow arches as a slight smile forms on his mouth. “Lie is a very strong word,” he says.
“I’m not playing games, Mr. Collins, two people are dead. You told me something that was untrue. I’m here to clear that up.”
Chris’s smile fades as quickly as it arrived. “Two people I knew well. And yes, I’m glad you’re not playing games, I’m not either.”
He looks at Britt, who sets her jaw. “Same,” she chimes in.
These two, Larson thinks. Her fists clench with frustration even as her gut sends zero fear signals. “You’re aware that lying during a police investigation is a crime?”
“I am, yes. I’m trying to help.”
“During our first interview, you told me that Ms. Martinez was with you all of Friday night, but your cell phone data clearly shows you parted ways just before nine thirty.” Larson turns to Britt. “And you didn’t refute it, even though you knew it wasn’t the truth.”
No response.
“Why?”
“You’re wasting your time here,” Britt says flatly.
Larson notices Britt’s eyes for the first time—clear, sharp eyes. She feels like saying she’ll decide what’s a waste of time and what isn’t, but instead says, “Then help me understand why your location was worth lying about.”
“I didn’t want you distracted chasing down false leads. Keep your suspicions on me, but you can leave Britt out of this.”
“You know best what’s a false lead and…”
“I know what she looks like to someone who doesn’t know her,” Chris interrupts, his head motioning toward Britt. “And no, I don’t particularly want her front and center in a murder investigation. You can leave her alone.”
“Chris,” Britt says.
Chris turns to Britt. “She thinks what everyone does: that you look like the girl with the dragon tattoo, and I look like the president of a pledge class.” He turns back to Larson, roughly setting down the glass he’s holding on the coffee table, where the condensation makes it slide a little. “Right?”
“Look,” Larson says. “Right now you can’t provide an alibi for her, and she can’t for you, no matter how much you think she’s a good person. So, unless you have concrete knowledge of where…”
“I don’t have to know where Britt was to know she couldn’t have done it. She’d faint at the sight of blood.”
Larson leans back, her expression an invitation for Chris to continue.
“When we were kids…” he pauses to take a breath.
“We survived a mass shooting together,” Britt finishes. “In Elliston, Colorado. They happen every week now, but it was less common at the time. Chris saved my life.”
Larson’s eyes widen. She remembers grainy footage of a shooter being jerked away in handcuffs, distraught parents sobbing in parking lots. Then, temporary media coverage. “That was at a church camp, in the early two…”
“It was the summer of 2004,” Chris says. “We were eleven years old and didn’t have anything in common then either.”
Britt rubs at the semicolon tattoo on her arm. “He was the popular kid that I thought wouldn’t talk to me; then he ran into the hallway and grabbed me when the shots started. I froze and he…” She stands, pinching her lips tight, then exits the room.
A moment later, Larson hears the rush of water from a sink in the bathroom.
Chris’s expression softens. “She hadn’t uttered a word the whole camp, and kids were starting to say things. My sister is deaf, and people making fun of her made me sick, so I kept an eye on her. The whole camp was singing songs, then split into our breakout groups in classrooms when the screaming started. I smelled smoke and knew the shooter was nearby. Britt froze in the hallway, so I ran from where I was and dragged her into the room used for arts and crafts.” He pauses. “The shots were deafening, but I couldn’t tell where he was, so I grabbed a tube of red paint off the counter and smeared it onto her face and shirt, then laid on top of her until he passed by. That’s how we made it: the guy thought we were already dead.”
Larson swallows, or tries to, a lump of frustration and rage caught in her throat. She’s seen the abundance of news reports over the years and has an identical question each time: nothing can be done?
“We just started praying together. She was so scared, I realized she’d peed. We stayed on the floor until we heard police radios.”
Larson’s eyes water while her lungs won’t let her draw a full breath.
“I was a little jerk then, just like I’m a jerk now, but here we are. We look after each other.”
It was a concept she’d learned, ironically enough, in her psychology class: trauma bond.
The two of them had a relationship forged in fire. Larson clears her throat. Everyone has their own kind of armor, she thinks.
“If you’re suspicious of how she looks, think about why she needs that much armor.”
Everyone has their own kind of armor, Larson thinks. She clears her throat. “One part of the evidence includes the word Ani. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Ani? No. The name?” Chris shakes his head.
From the bathroom, the sound of rushing water abruptly stops. Britt emerges, toweling her face. “I was at home with my cat the last two nights, which is where my cell phone was too,” she announces. “Not that me and it are always in the same place.”
Noted, Larson thinks, aware that she’ll be cross–checking Britt’s statement with the cell data King is getting in. She thanks Britt and Chris for their time and then leaves.
Outside the door, she shivers as she searches her jacket pocket for her truck key. None of the facts of her investigation have shifted significantly, she knows. Understandable as them covering for each other is, it’s also clear that Britt and Chris have a history of scheming.
A second later, King calls.
“Alana, we need to search Scarlett Simmons’s apartment.”
“…what?”
“Today.”
Larson stops in her tracks, the squeak of her shoes echoing in the empty hall. How can this be true? All she can say is, “Scarlett?” It feels like she’s carefully assembling a puzzle only to have the table she’s working on knocked over, scattering the pieces. She pictures the nurturing way Scarlett comforted her daughter, her forthrightness in answering questions. Of everyone who’d had contact with Elizabeth and Joe, Scarlett was the last person on her radar.
“Alana, the other part of cell data is in. All the other grad students were home when they said they were. Scarlett was in Hull Hall at the approximate time Elizabeth was killed, then was at Joe Lyons’s residence between 11:40 and 12:00 a.m. the night he was killed. Veronica was at Lyons’s exactly when she said she was, then evidently went directly home. No one else but Scarlett went near his house.”
Disbelief rises in Larson’s gut. What she wants to tell King is: Scarlett is smarter than that. But is that the way crimes are committed? Crimes of passion, like murder? No, her training taught her murder is almost always an impulsive act. One committed with little planning or forethought. The covering up comes later, which sets people up to get caught. New evidence can be created while old evidence is being destroyed.
But Scarlett?
Just maybe this is an instance where Larson will have to check her biases, then think critically and with an open mind. Earlier, King had said himself that he assumed the killer was a male, but the tone of his voice is resolute.
“The data doesn’t lie,” King says. The variation in his voice tells her he’s walking, maybe already digging a path for one of the cruisers in the snow, or has had his friend with the snowplow cut out a path for him. Except the roads are unnavigable in anything other than a four–wheel drive, and even that is a stretch of good judgment.
No, he’ll have to wait for her.
“I’m on the way. I’ll drive us.”
It’s a short drive to the station. King’s words echo in her mind. The data doesn’t lie. He’s right, of course; the data tells a story, and it’s her job to listen. It reminds her of what Robert had told her about social science research the day before. Was the work they did studying deception so different from police work?
What if there’s information in the apartment that would make the entire case click in her mind? Like the sharpening of an image through a lens, just before a photo is taken?
She rounds the last curve before the Dorrance Police Department. The windows look nearly golden against the snow–covered woods behind the building. King is silhouetted in the light, a grim expression on his face.
Scarlett kneels beside Iris’s bed, a triangle of light from the hallway spread across the floor. Faint sounds of the spring training baseball game Mark watches filter in from the living room. He’s been a baseball fan for as long as she’s known him, and the commentators’ monotone and the occasional crack of the bat are a familiar comfort.
Iris’s eyes are focused on the picture she’s drawing. “Mom, Dad said we’re snowed in?”
Scarlett feels herself smile for the first time in days. It’s impossible not to in the presence of such complete innocence. “Yes, everyone is. Everything’s going to be fine, kiddo. Do you believe me?”
Iris nods. “I always believe you, Mom.”
Don’t ever grow up, Scarlett thinks. She closes the door softly, then makes her way into the living room, where she hears the crackle and rip of packaging tape as Mark assembles a cardboard box he’d recovered from the crawl space. It’s an absurd gesture, but Scarlett is warmed by it anyway. It’s one of the few that survived her original move into the apartment; she’d saved it to transport something loose like clothes for donations.
“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself, just a little?” she asks, dropping onto the carpet beside him, then tucking her knees to her chest. The edge of her foot touches Mark’s. It was how they used to sort out problems, sitting on the floor together. They’d called it getting “grounded” when they first started dating.
“So maybe I’m excited.” He smiles. “Besides, there isn’t much to do at the moment.”
“There’s baseball,” she says, nodding at the decade–old screen. It had been the TV in their guest room before the divorce. She hadn’t wanted Iris to spend too much time in front of it and knew she wouldn’t have time for it much herself.
“I think my team may be more put together this year. Maybe a playoff run. Hey, I think the snow has finally stopped,” he says, nodding toward the glass door. “Hopefully the roads will be clear enough by tomorrow afternoon that the moving companies reopen. I can get a few more boxes then. We could have you into my condo by the middle of the week.”
“Mark, I love the sound of that, for a lot of reasons. But what about my lease?”
“There’s a fee for breaking a lease, I’m sure.”
She nods.
“So, I’ll pay it.”
“I forgot how persistent you are!” she says, her smile wide now, warmth flooding her chest.
“You forgot?”
No, not really. She shakes her head.
Maybe they could work. It’s been done before, certainly, couples divorcing, then getting back together. And why not? Maybe it would be a twist in a love story. Most of the best fortune in her life had been unexpected, like getting into the PhD program. She’d wanted to be a professor all her life but Mark’s work schedule never seemed to allow it. His being so supportive now feels like a godsend.
Two years earlier, she hadn’t thought she’d had a chance in hell when she’d hit “Send” on her application, but when Joe Lyons had called and offered her the position, she’d struggled to believe the acceptance was real, then proceeded to wrestle with impostor syndrome for the first two semesters despite feedback from academic journals, other students, and Robert’s consistent reassurance.
Outside, an engine revs in the street, then goes silent.
Mark stands at the slapping sound of two vehicle doors closing. From the side profile of Mark’s face, she can tell his expression is serious.
The hair on the back of Scarlett’s neck stands up.
“Someone’s here,” he says.
There’s a knock on the door that’s firmer than when the police came earlier. “What’s going on now?” Scarlett asks Mark, as if forgetting the previous days’ reminder that anything can happen. He stands beside her as she looks through the peephole, then heaves a sigh and cracks the door.
Icy air filters inside, chilling her bare arms and the tops of her feet.
It’s Officers King and Larson, their expressions concerned.
No, it isn’t concern in their eyes and the tightness of their mouths, she realizes.
It’s suspicion.
King speaks first. “Ms. Simmons, we have a warrant to search your property. We’ll need you to stay out of the way while the search commences, either under supervision in the front room or in the vehicle outside. Are you clear on that?”
Scarlett senses vertigo, teetering over someplace high and then dizzied in a whoosh of air. She looks at Mark, whose expression is unreadable. Does he suspect something about her too? “But my daughter just laid down in the bedroom,” she says, as if explaining an obvious reason why a search can’t happen.
Larson steps forward. “I’m sorry, she’ll have to wait out here with us. Hopefully, this won’t take too long.”
Scarlett nods, her trust in Officer Larson a steady foothold but her mind a swirl of confusion. She’s about to ask if she can be the one to go into Iris’s bedroom to wake her when she hears her daughter’s voice peep behind her. “Mom?”
And all their heads turn at once, both officers looking away as the girl launches into her mother’s arms. “They’re just here to do a job, honey,” she whispers into Iris’s ear before repeating Larson’s assurance that hopefully the search wouldn’t take too long.
Mark steps forward, his tone aggravated as he holsters his hands on his hips. “May I ask what in the world this is about? I mean, I get that it’s your job, but really? You need to search this apartment, right now?”
King eyes him levelly. “I’m sorry, sir, but yes, we do.”
Mark frowns as he glances momentarily at Scarlett and Iris, then back at King. “Do you have a warrant?”
King patiently nods. He produces a copy of the document, which Mark’s eyes swing back and forth over. “I’ll need you to wait out here with Officer Larson,” King says to him before slipping covers over his shoes, then turning to Scarlett. “Are there any weapons or illegal items inside the apartment that I should know about?”
Her head begins to shake back and forth before it stops. Her eyes widen. “There’s a gun in the drawer of my bedside table.”
“Which belongs to me,” Mark volunteers loudly. “It’s registered in my name and is perfectly legal to have here.”
King nods. He steps into the kitchen and examines items along the countertop. With a small camera, he takes three snapshots.
“May I ask what you’re looking for in the kitchen?” Mark asks in a huff.
“No,” King answers.
Scarlett pours Iris a glass of milk, and they all four sit at the kitchen table in silence, Iris in Scarlett’s lap. She watches her daughter dreamily run a fingertip through the condensation on the side of the glass as Scarlett kisses the top of her head. Occasionally, they hear the creak of a closet door opening or the thump of a cabinet shutting from the back bedroom. Twice, Scarlett hears the squawk of a police radio, then King’s voice muttering in a low monotone. The stillness of the emptied town lies outside the windows, and the air inside the apartment so calm, the ticking of the hallway clock is audible.
Soon King appears in the hallway carrying evidence bags, wearing white paper booties over his shoes. The image is comical enough that Scarlett nearly laughs, but as she sees the way King and Larson look at each other, her stomach registers a gut punch.
When Larson follows King into the bedroom, it plummets.
Scarlett and Mark share a look across the table. He reaches over and touches her hand. “This is nonsense. It’s amateurish, and don’t think I won’t contact an attorney.” Mark says, squeezing her hand, and as her eyes well up from the tension, he mouths, It’s okay.
A minute passes. When King and Larson reappear, she’s holding handcuffs. “Ms. Simmons, I need you to stand up and turn around for me.”
The preamble is so ubiquitous that Mark bolts up from the table. “What?! What in the hell?”
But Scarlett lets Iris slide off her lap as she stands and turns, her heart thumping in her chest. A second later, her thighs are pressed against the table and Larson has latched her hands behind her back with a sickening zip, her mind too panicked to register the coldness of the metal.
Could the theft of the laptop…?
No, no, that has nothing to do with this.
It’s King who says the words that burn into her mind, “You are under arrest for the murder of Joseph Lyons. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law…”
The moment becomes surreal montage of images, Scarlett’s emotions somehow both raw and numbed. Tears stream freely down her cheeks as she cooperates, telling Iris, “It’s okay, stay with your father.” She falls habitually into prayer that somehow the situation will end, because there’s no reason for events so fickle and horrible to continue.
But other thoughts scream throatily inside of her too. That what’s happening is impossible and that there’s been a mistake or a plot against her, and that she had no need to feel the guilt or shame she somehow does because she’s completely innocent.
Outside, the streetlights’ halos make her dizzy and vaguely nauseous. Her shoes crunch through the snow as Larson explains she’s being transported to a holding cell in a personal vehicle because of the emergency weather and that she can call an attorney there if she wants to.
Mark looks down at her from the window of her own apartment as she’s taken away, his and Iris’s silhouettes backlit by the golden interior light.
It’s all enough to make Scarlett wonder: Am I losing my mind? Have I hallucinated parts of what’s happened?
And even more crazily: Does this have something to do with the things I took from the department?
Or am I missing something? Taking for granted a sharp fragment of information that would fit precisely into recent events and clarify them all?
And is it possible that I’ve not looked clearly at a critical fact for a long, long time?
Back at the police station, Larson closes the door to King’s office and drops into a chair opposite his desk. She pictures the way Iris looked at her mother as she was led into the night, and pain tears through her heart. The act may have been dutiful, but it was the opposite of why she’d ever wanted to become a police officer. “I feel sick, like we just ripped a mother and child apart.”
“We couldn’t delay that search, Alana, and it turned up even more than I’d expected.”
Larson runs her hands through her hair and gestures toward the table as if they’re literally about to lay the evidence across it. “Take me through it again, please. Slowly this time.”
King takes a deep breath. “Okay, for starters, the cell data alone was enough for a warrant. Scarlett was exactly where both crimes were committed at precisely the times they happened.”
“But she admitted to being in the department on Thursday night, and her daughter was with her.” Flashing through Larson’s mind is an image of the gore in Lyons’s office; it’s unimaginable Scarlett stepped away from her kid, inflicted that kind of violence, then calmly drove home—all without the daughter sensing something was off.
“Yes, and then there’s the fact that she texted Lyons about twenty minutes before he was killed. One word: Home?” King sighs as if Larson’s objections are trying his patience for the first time. “Alana, that wasn’t my favorite moment as a cop either, believe me. But of all of the grad students, two went to Lyons’s house: Veronica, who was there for about ten minutes before going home, and Scarlett, who arrived an hour later and stayed for about twenty minutes. Veronica admitted she was there. And if she had killed Lyons, Scarlett would have discovered the body, then presumably would have called the police. Instead, she denied having been there at all. And then there’s what CS found in the search. They called me too, while you were questioning Chris Collins and Britt Martinez.”
Larson’s head shakes back and forth, her eyes asking for detail.
King levels his eyes at her. “Direct evidence was present. Items DAs need. Forensics hasn’t analyzed everything yet, but some parts match her remarkably.”
“Like?”
“Like the size five women’s shoes in her closet. That’s a very uncommon size, and size five prints were found at both scenes. Now anyone could have been in Lyons’s office, and there actually are seven different prints in that office, but the size fives are fresh. And they match the tracks in the snow outside Lyons’s house.”
Larson hesitates.
“And through the blood in his kitchen.” King pulls a notepad toward him and uses it as a coaster for the coffee cup. “I think she’s been lying but we don’t want to believe it.”
Larson winces, her voice rising defiantly. “Maybe I don’t, fine, but I’m getting a little tired of data that doesn’t make sense.”
“There’s more. Under the sink in her bathroom was a T–shirt with flecks of dried blood on it, stuffed up in the plumbing like she didn’t have time to get rid of it discreetly. Obviously, labs aren’t back on it yet, but I’m willing to bet that blood belongs to one of two people. But the last part isn’t what I found in the apartment, but what CS found in the creek near the base of Lyons’s driveway: a knife, serrated edge, five inches long. It was tossed into the water but lodged into the rocks instead of washing away.”
“The murder weapon.”
King nods. “And from the description they gave me? It matches the set on Scarlett Simmons’s countertop.”
Larson squeezes her hands together, then releases them, her fingertips still numb from the bitter cold outside.
“One slot was empty in the block on her countertop,” King says, standing.