It was seven blocks from Blondie’s to the mouth of the alley on Sarah Hutchins Drive. The sun was setting, and the sky ranged from pink along the horizon to purple overhead. The cleanup was ongoing, although the volunteer crews had thinned out. There were big piles of trash awaiting collection on every corner.
Natalie walked past boutiques, bookshops, restaurants, and bars, while the old clock in the town square tower struck six o’clock and the streetlights blinked on. Most of the businesses hadn’t reopened yet. Their storefronts were dark, with a few exceptions—hardworking merchants taking inventory post-Halloween.
Natalie checked her watch. If Morgan had left Blondie’s at around eleven P.M. on Sunday night and entered the alley at 11:44, that would leave forty-four minutes unaccounted for. On a normal day, at a leisurely pace, it was about a ten-minute walk to the alley at best. However, the size of the crowds would’ve slowed her down considerably. On the other hand, the crowds would’ve kept flowing, since the streets were closed to vehicular traffic. Only foot traffic was allowed. Therefore, there would’ve been no bothersome walk lights to wait for on Halloween’s Eve.
Bearing in mind that Morgan was seen on tape pushing her way through the crowd—in other words, fighting against the tide—Natalie checked her watch and headed slowly down Sarah Hutchins Drive toward the alley, imagining hundreds of people around her. It took her fifteen minutes. That left twenty-nine minutes unaccounted for. Even if it had taken Morgan twenty minutes to get to the alley, that would’ve left a gap of twenty-four minutes.
So what happened between Blondie’s and the alley?
Standing at the mouth of the alley, Natalie wondered what could’ve happened during those lost minutes. The dumpster was gone. They were still sorting through the garbage at the impound lot. She imagined the oblivious staff from local businesses throwing their trash away, tossing it in the top bin and leaving the alley, unaware that there was a body inside.
Natalie’s phone rang, startling her.
It was Lenny. “The surveillance tape we pulled from the front entrance of Blondie’s shows Wonder Woman, presumably Morgan Chambers, leaving the bar at ten fifty-four.”
Natalie furrowed her brow. That was worse—now they had thirty-five minutes unaccounted for.
“So now, we’re reviewing dozens of CCTV tapes from all the businesses on Sarah Hutchins Drive, following Morgan’s steps and looking for any Batmen or zombies in the crowd around her. It’s an eye-straining exercise, and we’re all pooped. But we loaded up on pizza and Red Bull and energy drinks and Snickers bars, so…”
“You’re my hero, Lenny.”
“Now I can die happy.” He hung up.
From the mouth of the alley, she looked back at Blondie’s neon sign, seven blocks away from where she stood. Across the street was Rainie’s New Age boutique, all lit up tonight. Rainie was talking on her phone at the back of the shop, bathed in a warm light. This was what normalcy looked like. Now she laughed flirtatiously and touched her hair, and Natalie wondered if she was talking to Luke and grew jealous. She had no right to be jealous, but still. She studied her own reflection in the storefront window, familiar lines of grief etched on her face. Jesus, she thought. Time to move on to the next stage—fighting spirit.
Natalie headed back the way she came. Seven blocks of prime real estate. The moon was high in the sky. The old-fashioned, wrought iron streetlamps lit the brick sidewalks. It was eerie with the crowds gone. A dampness invaded her bones. For a while, the town had transformed itself into a bewitched Halloween village. Now it was all over.
Earlier that day, Lenny had sent her a list of bars, restaurants, and pubs on Sarah Hutchins Drive that corresponded to the ink stamps on Morgan’s hands. Now Natalie thought it was possible that Morgan had patronized another bar before making her final mad dash for the alley—that would certainly explain the thirty-five-minute gap.
She activated her phone and found two matches—a pub named Sir Martin’s and the Barkin’ Dawg Saloon. Both establishments were closed for business tonight. She tested the doors, but they were locked with the lights out.
As she approached Blondie’s, Natalie walked past the bronze statue of the founder of Burning Lake, Thomas Latham, one of the magistrates who’d condemned Abigail Stuart to death. Light from a nearby storefront fell across his stern, puritanical face. She turned to face the only other business open on this side of the street tonight and spotted an antique violin in the storefront window. The sign above the front door read BERTRAND ANTIQUITIES.