Saint made the drive sixty miles out to the small town of Darby Falls.
She saw the distant spires of a church and rolled her window down because right then she longed to hear the bells.
The street carried a wholeness like the memory of the girl had been varnished over with bake sales and white paling, fall parades and striped lawns.
A lone cop waited out front.
“Still waiting on the forensic team,” the cop said. He was young and skinny and anxious. “The neighbor said Richie didn’t collect his newspaper this morning. Peered through the window and saw him.”
“Okay,” Saint said.
“You know Richie was a cop—”
“Yeah.”
The cop stayed out front. She felt his anger.
Inside was the heavy movement of a grandfather clock, the green carpet bleached pale beneath each window. There was no smell at all in the lounge. Just Richie Montrose, with a single bullet hole in his chest. It was neat and ordered, and Saint knew the real mess would be found behind his body, seeping into the cream throw.
She knew how to read a scene that was not all that complex.
Richie had known his killer.
Maybe they sat and talked first.
There was no struggle, nothing knocked down or broken. It was an execution, someone intent on removing Richie from the world with as little fuss as possible. A price to be paid.
On the mantelpiece Saint saw a single photo in a gold frame.
Callie Montrose, frozen in time.
Saint recalled going to the girl’s vigil in a time so distant, yet she could still feel it entirely.
And on the table beside Richie Montrose was a letter.
Saint picked it up in a gloved hand, saw the envelope beside.
Richie Montrose.
I’ll see you in hell.
It took Saint less than twenty minutes to locate a neighbor’s security camera footage.
When she watched it back she saw him clear as day.
He had made no attempt to conceal himself or evade being seen.
She closed her eyes.
Her heart ached.