The squeak of the squeegee against glass punctuates my thoughts, a sharp reminder that life, somehow, goes on. I watch each droplet race down the pane, carrying away the grime, leaving clarity in its wake. But there's no such respite for the murky thoughts clouding my mind since Sophie's funeral. The solemnity of the ceremony still clings to me like the scent of lilies and damp earth.
I think of the conversation I overheard between Dr. Simmons and Detective Vaughn earlier today, and Simmons’s fear that the killer might strike again. The truth is, since nobody has any idea who the killer is, there’s no telling what the killer might do.
Vanish. Flee the country. Go on a killing spree.
So how does life move on?
The door opens with a gust that sends papers fluttering from the mahogany desk in the grand foyer. I hear Lauren and Christopher before I see them—Lauren's heels click-clacking against the marble floor like some mournful metronome.
"She was just so young," Lauren is saying in a heavy voice. “She had her whole life ahead of her. It makes no sense.”
"Indeed, it is unfortunate,” Christopher agrees dispassionately. “But we need to think about moving forward. We can’t afford to wallow in grief right now, not with all the projects we’ve got going on.”
“A woman’s dead, Christopher. A woman you worked with.”
“And I’m working on finding a replacement. Her family will get the benefit of a generous life insurance package, as well as a bouquet of flowers delivered to their door. I know it doesn’t compensate them for their loss, but…”
His voice fades from hearing. I shake my head, unable to believe Christopher’s callousness. He didn’t just work with Sophie—the two of them were having an affair. How can he be so cold, so calculating? The way he distances himself from Sophie's death, the way he shifts the conversation away from her—it’s all too suspicious.
My lips press together as I scrub at the window with more intensity than necessary. The squeegee squeals against the glass, but the noise is a catharsis for my pent-up frustration.
Could Christopher be so cold because he has blood on his hands? Sophie might have confronted him about causing Lauren’s heart attack, and maybe Christopher killed her to shut her up.
If so, I feel responsible for Sophie’s death. I’m the one who shared that damning theory with her. I should’ve kept my lips shut.
I lean my forehead against the cool window. If only my conscience could be wiped clean as easily as the glass.
You can’t undo Sophie’s death, a voice in the back of my head whispers, but perhaps you can make sure nobody else gets hurt. Perhaps you’re the only one who can do it.
Yes. I need to talk to Detective Vaughn, learn whether he's made any progress toward figuring out who was watching me through the window that night. Maybe, just maybe, I can help him get to the bottom of this.
The quiet hum of the mansion surrounds me as I slide into an alcove, my fingers trembling slightly as they fish Detective Vaughn's card from my pocket. The stiff paper feels like a lifeline—or a sentence—as I dial the number that might connect me to answers or deeper enigmas.
"Vaughn," he says, his voice both gruff and unexpectedly reassuring.
"Detective, it's Emily Just."
"Emily?" He sounds surprised. "What can I do for you?"
"I wanted to ask if you've made any progress," I say, looking over my shoulder instinctively. "Figuring out who was spying on me the night of the storm, I mean."
Silence stretches on the other end. "I assure you, I'm looking into it,” he says.
"Please," I say. "I can't just sit around wondering if that person will be back. What if they attack someone else?"
"Are you concerned for your safety, Miss Just?"
I pause to think about that. "Yes, actually, I am. What if the person staring at me was the same person who killed Sophie? Did you investigate that shack?"
He sighs patiently. "Yes, Miss Just. I went to the shack and had a look around."
"And?"
"And it's another lead I'm investigating."
I grit my teeth, frustrated. "Detective, I understand there are things you can't share with me. But my life could be in danger here. If that person comes after me—"
"He's not coming after you."
I pause, surprised. "What?"
"I believe the man who was spying on you is Keller Walpole."
"Keller Walpole?" The name feels foreign on my tongue. I perch on the edge of a tufted ottoman, the fabric's intricate patterns lost to the shadows cast by the mansion's grandeur. Who is Keller Walpole, and how does Vaughn know his name?
"He’s homeless,” Vaughn says. “Not entirely stable, mentally speaking. He's known to roam around the lake—that's his territory, you might say."
Disbelief knots my brows together as I struggle to reconcile the image of the barefoot watcher with this simple label. "There’s a homeless man living in Lakeside Estates?" The idea seems ridiculous, given the demographic.
"Life dealt him a rough hand," Vaughn replies, and I can hear the creak of a chair. "Walpole used to work for the Hollingsworths, landscaped the property—until Lauren’s father passed away, that was. She decided not to keep him on—something about him not being 'up to standard.' Ever since, he's been around. Usually keeps to himself, but he's no stranger to these parts."
I sit back, my mind racing. A former employee. Dismissed. Perhaps bitter? What does this mean in relation to Sophie and even the Hollingsworths?
"Do you think Keller could be responsible for the deaths of those two women?" I ask.
"No," Vaughn replies without hesitation.
“How can you be so sure?”
“For starters, the first victim was his sister, Tracy.”
This hits me like a physical blow. “His sister?” I didn’t realize the first victim had been identified.
“They were very close,” Vaughn says. “She was the only one who kept in touch with him, so he’s the last person who’d want to harm her. Besides that, he was in a psychiatric facility at the time.”
Vaughn has done his homework.
“And Sophie?” I ask.
He takes a hesitant breath. “Not likely. He’s not the violent type."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one he was spying on."
"I understand it must’ve been jarring to see someone at the window like that, but I don't believe Walpole is our guy. He's been questioned already, and he has an alibi for the night of Sophie's murder."
An alibi. Relief washes over me. If Keller isn't a murderer, then perhaps I can sleep tonight without jumping at every stray sound.
"But you're sure he's the one who was watching me?" I ask.
“I can’t say anything for certain, but it’s probably a safe bet. After all, who else would it be?”
Who else indeed. There’s only one person I can think of with the motive and the means.
The question is, does anything tie Christopher to Tracy Walpole?