The road curls like a tendril along the lake's edge, each turn revealing another architectural marvel, each more intimidating than the last. My hands tighten on the steering wheel, not just from navigating the narrow lakeside drive, but from the daunting task ahead. The mansions are fortresses, sealed behind wrought-iron gates and stone walls, bastions of wealth and power that seem as unassailable as the mountains looming in the distance.
"Christopher Hollingsworth," I murmur to myself, speaking the name like a curse. He has resources I can't even dream of and the kind of attorneys that are sharks in suits, circles of influence that extend far beyond my grasp. How do you challenge a man who could crush you with a single phone call?
I feel small here, smaller than I've ever felt before—but it doesn't deter me. It can't. There's a thread here, one that leads back to Christopher, back to Sophie, and now to Tracy Walpole. I need to tug on it, unravel his defenses, expose him for what he is. But first, I need information—something concrete.
That's where Mia Trenton comes in. She's the eyes and ears of the neighborhood, so if anyone knows whether Christopher had dealings with the Walpoles, it'll be Mia. I spot her house up ahead, the grandeur less ostentatious than some, but no less luxurious. The gate stands like a sentinel, guarding secrets I need.
I pull up, roll down my window, and press the intercom button with a finger that betrays no tremble, though my heart races. "Emily Just to see Mia Trenton," I announce into the static-laced silence that follows. Nothing happens. No buzz of entry, no voice to greet or challenge me. Just the oppressive quiet hanging between the bars of the gate like an invisible barrier.
"Come on, Mia," I whisper to myself, willing her to respond. My gaze flickers over the gate, the well-manicured hedges that peek through the bars, searching for any sign of life. Anxiety crawls up my spine, a familiar companion these days. I'm exposed out here, obviously out of place in this world of privilege. But I have to see this through. For Sophie, for Tracy, for all the secrets that slither beneath the surface of this too-still lake.
Then, as I’m tapping my fingers tunelessly on the steering wheel, I notice a figure working nearby. A gardener.
I nudge the car door open, stepping out of my safe haven into the realm of uncertainty. My feet crunch gravel underfoot as I approach the gardener, who's on his knees, hands deep in the soil that borders the grand driveway. He's a sturdy man, weathered by years of labor under the Oregon sun, his face creased like the well-worn gloves he wears. His focus is on nurturing an array of vibrant tulips. The contrast of the flowers’ colors against the earthy tones of his attire strikes me as a carefully composed painting.
"Excuse me," I call out, my voice small compared to the vastness of the estate.
He looks up, and for a moment, there's a flicker of recognition—or is it suspicion?—in his eyes. He doesn't stand, just wipes his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of dirt on his forehead.
"Can I help you, miss?" His tone is polite but guarded, the way people talk to strangers who don't belong.
"Is Mia around?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
The gardener’s hesitation is palpable. He narrows his eyes at me, assessing. He knows everyone who comes and goes; I can tell by the way his gaze pierces through my pretense.
"Sorry, can't say," he replies finally, turning back to his flowers as if signaling the end of our discourse.
I take a step closer, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Look, I really need to speak with her—it's important." I offer what I hope is a disarming smile. "We're friends."
"Friends, huh?" He still doesn't look at me, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch, as if he's fighting back a smirk. It's clear he doesn't buy it. In this world, I'm as inconspicuous as the dirt beneath his fingernails.
"Listen," I continue in earnest, “I really need to speak with her. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Life and death.” He nods, his lips pressed together in an expression of doubt that borders on mockery. “If you really were her friend, then you wouldn’t need her gardener to let you in, would you?”
I bite my lip, frustrated. Before I can reply, however, I hear an engine approaching. I turn to see a sleek car—an Aston Martin, maybe?—sliding up the driveway. The tinted window rolls down, revealing Mia Trenton's curious gaze. "If it isn’t Emily Just," she says cheerfully. “What are you doing here?”
“I was hoping we could talk,” I say with all the confidence I can muster.
She studies me with her shrewd gaze, as if trying to pick up more details than my words provide. Finally, she jerks her head toward the passenger seat. “Come on in. I’ll drive you up.”
“What about my car?”
Her eyes sweep over my old sedan parked by the gate. "Don't worry—someone will move it for you."
I hesitate only a moment before opening the door and sliding into the leather embrace of the passenger seat. As the gate swings open, we glide forward.
We ascend the winding drive and Mia’s mansion looms ahead, an opulent testament to wealth and power—marble and glass crafted into something both grandiose and imposing. It's as if the house itself is watching me, sizing up my intentions. Gardens manicured to perfection line our path, leading us on.
The car comes to a smooth stop, and Mia leads me inside. The foyer is massive, the ceiling stretching upwards into what might as well be its own atmosphere. Light floods in through towering windows, casting intricate shadows over marble floors polished to a reflective sheen. Artwork that likely costs more than I'll make in my lifetime adorns the walls, and I can't help but feel out of place, like a smudge on this picture of perfection.
"Come on, we can talk outside," Mia says, her heels clicking authoritatively against the stone as we pass through hallways lined with doors that promise more extravagance. I nod, taking in the glimpses of rooms that speak of a life far removed from my own.
Finally, we step out onto the deck, and the lake stretches before us—a vast canvas of tranquility.
"So," she says with a long sigh, "what brings you to my humble abode?"
“I need to talk to you about the Walpoles.”
"Ah, the Walpoles," she says, nodding as if it's a subject she's discussed many times. "They were quite a family."
"Were?"
"Well…I'll just start from the beginning, I think. The Walpoles lived by the lake before it was surrounded by multi-million dollar houses. They're an old family, even got a family crest with a lion on it clutching something or other. The father, Jeremiah Walpole, owned a landscaping business, and when all these houses started going up, they naturally hired him on."
"Including the Hollingsworths?"
"Including the Hollingsworths. Tracy worked for the Hollingsworths as a maid while Jeremiah and his sons ran the family business. Tabitha, the mother, stayed home to raise and educate the other six children—they were old school that way."
I frown, trying to piece all of this together. "If the Walpoles owned such prime real estate, though, why not sell? They could've been quite wealthy somewhere else."
Mia sighs and nods as if she's considered this already. "That would make sense. But they were blue-collar people—they just liked getting their hands dirty. Besides, it was important to Jeremiah and Tabitha that their kids earn a living in a…respectable way." She shrugs as if to say she doesn't judge how people make a living.
"Anyway," she goes on, "they had a fire once at the Walpole house—faulty electrical wiring, probably should've been updated a decade earlier. Most of the house burned down, and while Jeremiah was working on rebuilding it, he and his family were taken in by the Hollingsworths."
So Christopher and Tracy would've spent a good amount of time around one another, I think. I keep quiet, however, not wishing to interrupt her train of thought.
"Looking back," she says, "it's a surprise that someone like Christopher would be so generous. But it was really Lauren's idea. Looked good for the cameras, taking them in—especially with that orphan of theirs."
"Orphan?"
She waves a dismissive hand as if to say it's of little consequence. "The Walpoles adopted a boy—there was some tragic story involving his parents and a boating accident. From what I heard, he had quite a fascination with Lauren, even though she had to be at least twenty years his senior at the time."
"What happened to him?" I ask.
Mia shrugs. "Disappeared. Ran off shortly after the Walpoles moved back into their own house, and as far as I know, he was never seen or heard from again. It was quite devastating to the youngest Walpole, Keller. I got the impression the two boys were close."
I fall silent, pondering Mia's words and searching for a loose thread to pull.
"Why the sudden interest in the Walpoles?" Mia asks.
"It's about Tracy. She's the woman who was found dead in the lake several months ago."
Mia's eyes cloud over. She shakes her head, pressing her lips together regretfully. "I'm very sorry to hear that."
"Is there any way she and Christopher…?" I trail off, hoping Mia will fill in the blanks.
"Got involved?" Mia laughs, a soft, tinkling sound that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You're as bad as I am, Emily Just. The truth is I have no idea—there was certainly plenty of opportunity for them to make it happen."
“Did you know Tracy personally?”
“A bit,” Mia answers, her gaze sweeping across the placid lake. “We’d chat whenever she was off duty. She was a nice girl, really. Sometimes, I think she was a little overwhelmed by the Hollingsworths and all their grandeur. I haven't spoken with her in ages, though.”
“And Sophie?” I press. “Did Tracy know Sophie, by any chance?”
“Sophie Dennison?” Mia frowns, studying me more closely. “You think the deaths are related? You think the same person killed them both?”
"Not just killed," I say, swallowing hard against the thick knot forming in my throat. "Murdered."
Mia's eyes hold a new depth of interest, her gaze sharpening on me. "That's a serious accusation to throw around," she murmurs, her earlier cheerfulness entirely drained away. Her eyes survey me anew, perhaps wondering if I am a liability or an asset.
"I’m not accusing anyone, not yet," I explain hastily, my heart pounding against my ribcage. "I need more information before I can do anything."
"And you think I can provide this information?" she asks.
"I'm hoping. You seem to know a lot about Lakeside Estates and the people in it."
Mia looks out at the lake, her gaze distant. I can't help but imagine what's running through that observant mind of hers. After a long pause, she finally turns back to me.
“As far as I know,” she says, “Sophie and Tracy never met. Sophie doesn’t live in Lakeside Estates, so there’s no connection except…” She pauses, frowning, and then shakes her head in surprise. “Except Christopher Hollingsworth.”
I nod, thinking the same thing. “Sophie was his secretary, and Tracy worked for Lauren’s family. Christopher was in close contact with both of them.”
“Christopher Hollingsworth,” Mia says again, as if testing the sound of the words. “You really think he’s capable of murder?”
"The evidence is circumstantial," I admit.
“Where’s the motive?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “There’s a lot I’m still trying to figure out.”
“Emily…” She purses her lips as if deciding how much to say. “If you’re right, then what you’re doing is very dangerous. You should get away, create some distance. Go ahead and play gumshoe if you want, but don’t do it inside the home of the man you suspect of murder.”
“I wish it were that simple. But I’m afraid for Lauren’s safety.”
Mia lays a hand on mine. “Lauren can look out for yourself. And you should think about doing the same.” She stares at me for a few moments before withdrawing her hand. Then, with a relaxed shrug, she says, “But what do I know?”
We both fall silent. Even though Mia hasn’t given me anything concrete, my suspicions of Christopher’s guilt are stronger than ever. I need to talk to Vaughn again, convince him to look into Christopher. Maybe he can find something I can’t.
“Well,” I say to Mia with a smile, “I appreciate you listening to me. It means a lot."
Mia gives me a small smile, her own hand brushing the railing. "Just...be careful," she says finally. "You don’t know what you’re up against."
I wait to see if she’ll explain what she means, but she doesn’t. I nod. “I’ll be careful. Thanks again, Mia.”
She nods, and I make my way back through the house to where someone—the gardener, perhaps?—has parked my car out front. I climb inside, drive down the hill, and pull over to the side of the road as soon as I’m out of sight of the house.
My phone feels as heavy as a brick as I pull it out. With a deep breath, I dial Vaughn’s number.
"Vaughn," his gravelly voice answers after two rings.
"Detective, it's Emily Just again.”
“Ah, Miss Just.” He doesn’t sound particularly happy to hear from me.
I just start speaking, and the words all tumble out like a landslide. “I've been thinking about the Walpoles—Tracy and Keller. Tracy was a maid for the Hollingsworths, and Keller... well, I think you’re probably right that he's not the killer. But Christopher—he knew both women, probably was romantically involved with both women. I think he killed Sophie because she learned he was trying to get rid of Lauren, and I’m not sure what would’ve caused him to target Tracy, but maybe she—”
"Emily," Vaughn interrupts, patient but firm, like a teacher guiding a wayward student back on track. "You're way out of your depth here. This isn't your job; you're not trained for this."
His words sting, and I stop abruptly in my tracks. "But you don't understand," I protest, my voice rising with frustration. "He’s been messing with Lauren’s medications; I’m sure of it. It nearly killed her once, and if you don’t do something—”
Vaughn cuts me off again, more sternly this time. "Emily, you need to leave this to the professionals. If you have evidence, bring it to us and we'll take it from there. Otherwise, I suggest you leave this alone, for your sake as well as everyone else's."
"But you're not listening!" My heart is pounding now, a furious drum in my chest. “If we don't do something about Christopher Hollingsworth now, someone else might get hurt. And what about Lauren? She's vulnerable, and I can't—"
"Let it go, Emily," Vaughn cuts in, and there's an edge to his tone now that wasn't there before. "You’re making way too many assumptions.”
Why can’t he see what I see? Why is he being so obtuse?
“A woman’s life is at stake here,” I say.
“And so is a man’s. Do you realize what will happen to Christopher’s reputation if you’re wrong?”
I’m stunned. “His reputation? I’m saying he’s a serial killer, and you worry about his reputation?" I can barely breathe, my words coming out in ragged gasps. "That's absurd!"
"Emily," Vaughn says, softer now. "You're getting emotional."
"Emotional?" I'm nearly shouting. "Of course I'm emotional! There's a murderer on the loose, and you're not doing anything about it!"
There's a long pause on the other end of the line. When Vaughn finally speaks, his voice is as cold as ice. "I suggest you reevaluate your priorities, Miss Just. This isn't your fight."
And then there’s a click as the line goes dead.