Since I have no leads on where Casey might be, and the Pace family insists I keep looking for her, I go talk to her older sister, Hannah. As I drive up, she’s out in her small front yard playing with her baby, who’s sitting in a tiny plastic pool full of floating toys, splashing water. Hannah’s clothes are wet, but she sits on the concrete beside the pool. She looks at me suspiciously as I pull into her driveway and get out of the car. Her hand goes out to steady her child.
“Hi,” I say. “My name’s Dylan Roberts. I’m working for the Pace family. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
Hannah doesn’t move from her crouch. “You have any ID?” she asks.
I show her my credentials. She glances at my name, then says, “I’ve told the police everything I know. I don’t know where my sister is.”
“Can we still talk?” I ask. “I’m just trying to get a clear picture of what happened with Brent Pace.” I squat down next to the pool. “See, Brent was a good friend of mine. We grew up together. I’m just trying to make some sense out of it.”
Hannah pulls the baby out of the pool, throws a towel around her. “I’m sorry about your friend,” she says grudgingly as she dries her. “I met Brent several times. He was a nice guy. A really good friend to Casey.” She gets up with her baby. “I have to go. Have to get her dressed.”
I smile at the baby, who’s kicking to get down and grinning at me like she knows me. “How old is she?” I ask.
Hannah looks at me as though she doesn’t know whether to answer. “She’s six months old. Why?”
“Just curious,” I say. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been around a baby. It’s hard to judge age.” I hold out my hand and the little girl grabs my finger. “She’s really cute,” I say. “Looks just like you.”
Hannah softens the slightest bit. “Look, I really don’t have anything to talk to you about.”
“Please. I wanted to ask you some things about your father.”
“My father.” I half expect her to turn and run, but that perks her up, and finally she says, “Okay, come in.”
Inside, she throws a T-shirt over the little girl’s bathing suit and settles her on the floor with her toys. “I’m only letting you in because I want you to understand,” she says. “I don’t talk about my father. His suicide was upsetting and I don’t like dredging it up.”
“Your mother thinks it was homicide.”
Hannah stares at me. “My mother has issues.”
I’ve investigated suicides several times in my career in the military. In every single case, their close friends and family members didn’t want to believe it unless there was a note or something they couldn’t deny. Hannah’s break from that pattern throws me. “I’m really sorry for his death,” I say. “I’m sure it was hard on the family.”
“It was hardest on Casey,” Hannah says.
I’ve heard that before, so I’m not surprised. “I just want to know, did it change her?”
That turns Hannah’s face red. “Not in the way you want to hear me say. She didn’t become a psychopathic killer, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m not suggesting anything like that. I’m just wondering . . . did she have depression, anxiety, anything like that as a result?”
She shakes her head. “We were all depressed for a couple years after that. We were all anxious. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
The other shoe? I tilt my head. “What do you mean by that?”
She’s bending over her baby, but her head snaps up. “Nothing. I just mean that it was a bad time in our lives.”
I’m quiet for a minute, processing.
“Listen, my sister didn’t do what they’re saying. Casey is the bravest, most decent person I know.”
I watch her as she picks up her baby and heads to the adjoining kitchen. She gets a teething ring from the fridge and gives it to her.
“Have you heard from Casey?” I ask.
She won’t look at me. “I told the police already that I don’t know where she is.”
“But have you talked to her?” I repeat.
“No!” Hannah says finally. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. If Brent were here he would tell you. She would never hurt anyone, much less a good friend.”
“Did your sister have any drug problems? Alcohol?”
“Not at all,” she says. “She doesn’t drink or use drugs. She’s never liked losing control.”
That’s pretty much what I’d gleaned from the video. I step toward the kitchen counter. “I asked your mother this. Do you have a theory about who killed Brent?”
Hannah lets out a bitter laugh, but then she seems to catch herself. “I’ve said all I’m gonna say. I have nothing else to add. I have to ask you to leave.”
As I’m walking out, I see an empty box on the floor by the wall. I glance at the FedEx label—it came from Seattle. Was it from Casey? What could have been in it? “If I could just ask you a few more questions—”
“Sorry,” she says, coming around the counter and opening the door for me. “I need you to go.”
I don’t like overstaying my welcome, even when I’m doing a job. I can be tough when I have to, but this is not the time, so I let her show me out. I linger in the doorway and look back at the box long enough to read the address label: Hannah Boon, c/o Sam and Cheryl Boon. The company that shipped it is Jack’s Sporting Goods in Seattle, handwritten. I try to see the address when Hannah blocks my view. I bend down to pick it up, but Hannah sees what I’m doing and jerks it away.
As she closes the door behind me, I stand on her porch for a moment, staring down at the little pool. Sam and Cheryl Boon. FedEx. If I were Casey and needed to get something to my sister, I might send it to a relative. Someone who would get the box to her without being suspicious.
I go to my car and open my laptop, link to my phone’s personal hotspot, then check out the Boons. They’re Hannah’s husband’s parents. Intent on getting the information from FedEx about where the package originated, I start my car and pull away.
Is Casey still around here somewhere, maybe even at the Boons’, hiding in plain sight? Or did she just use them as a delivery address?