Outside, behind the house, Waterman stood next to Rachel, listening to her on the phone.
“Henry’s texting me what he found,” she said, hanging up.
“Good.”
Together they looked out over the expanse of open dirt and weeds where Reiff and his daughter, Elizabeth, were sitting on large rocks, facing each other, talking and holding hands.
“How the hell does he explain all this?” Waterman wondered aloud.
Rachel shook her head. “I can’t even imagine.”
“She blamed herself for her father’s death.”
Rachel frowned, still harboring remnants of her own guilt over how they deceived Reiff.
As if reading her mind, Waterman said, “You know you can’t blame yourself for any of this, right?”
“What I know and what I feel are two different things.”
“They usually are.”
He suddenly turned, noting the distant wisps of a rising dust cloud a good half mile away. Elizabeth’s husband. Rushing home.
A couple of minutes later, a white Subaru rounded one side of the house and skidded to a stop. Her husband, just over six feet with dark hair, jumped from the vehicle and began running.
He came to a halt several feet from John and Elizabeth, staring at his wife, who rose to embrace him. And after several moments, pointed to Reiff, who stood up to shake his hand.
Waterman waited patiently. They had a little time, but not much. They had to get the bodies out of the house and find a way to dispose of them, including the SUV.
But for now, introductions were more important.