I go back to the police department a while later, and when I’ve made sure Keegan isn’t on the first floor, I quickly push into the evidence room. The place is dimly lit and smells of dust and mold. The little woman I saw earlier—the one from the video Keegan was watching—is sitting at the desk, trying to open a bottle of pills. I wait quietly and watch as she gets the bottle open, pours some out in her shaking hand, and throws them into her mouth. She gulps down a glass of water, then puts the bottle of pills into her purse.
She shoves her reading glasses higher on her nose, chains hanging from each side.
Though I’m only a few feet away, she hasn’t heard me come in. I walk quietly across the floor and stand in front of her like a student waiting for his teacher to acknowledge him. The plaque on her desk says Sara Meadows.
Finally, she pulls her glasses down her nose and looks up.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Dylan Roberts. I’m a private investigator working with the department on the Brent Pace case.”
Her eyes narrow, and she takes her glasses off now, lets them drop to her chest. “Do Detectives Keegan and Rollins know that?” she asks in a smoker’s voice.
“Yes, ma’am, they know. I’ve been hired by the Pace family to find the girl they believe killed their son. I understand you knew Brent.”
She sits up straighter and looks at the door, as if expecting someone else to come through. Her eyes are dull as she moves her gaze back to me. “How do you understand that?”
“I knew Brent. We were friends since childhood. That’s why his family hired me.” I know that doesn’t answer her question, but I’m hoping it will make her trust me.
She’s already pale, but I watch her blanch even more. “I . . . I don’t know who you’re talking about. Are you allowed in here?”
“I have some police privileges,” I say.
She tries to get up, knocks her chair over. It crashes to the floor, and I lunge to catch her before she falls. A metal door opens at the back of the room behind her desk, and another small woman rushes to the front. “Sara? Are you okay, hon?”
Ms. Meadows rights herself and reaches for the chair, but she can’t quite bend to get it. I set it up for her.
“Excuse me,” she says in that shredded voice. “I need a minute.”
“Sure, hon,” her coworker says. “You go back and lay down. I’ll take over here.”
Ms. Meadows hobbles to the back.
“May I help you?” the other woman asks.
“Is she all right?” I ask in a low voice. “I just wanted to talk to her, but she doesn’t seem well.”
The woman leans across the desk. “Cancer,” she whispers. “She’s worked here so long. She insists on still coming in, but she’s in stage four.”
That explains the meds.
“I’ll help you,” she offers. “What do you need?”
I draw in a deep breath. “I really just wanted to talk to Ms. Meadows. I’ll come by later.”
“Yes, do. She’ll probably be okay after she rests a little.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “We have a cot back there for her. Honestly, I don’t know why she doesn’t want to be at home. If it were me . . .”
“I’m surprised the department allows her to stay,” I say quietly.
“Chief Gates refuses to let her go,” she says. “He says she has a place here as long as she wants it. Bless her heart. Do you want me to give her a message?”
I’m not sure I want to give her my name. Keegan might hear that I was here. “No, that’s okay. I’ll talk to her later. Let her rest.”
I leave the department and get lunch. An hour or so later, I go back to the department, again careful to avoid Keegan as I slip into the evidence room.
Ms. Meadows is back at her desk. She looks up when I come in, and this time she glances toward the back as if making sure we’re alone. When I reach her desk, she says, “What do you want?”
I keep my voice low. “I know that you did an interview with Brent Pace before his death. I wanted to talk to you about it.”
She swallows nervously, then gets up and turns away. She picks up the file she’s working on and slips it into a tall cabinet behind her. She stops to write on a Post-it note. When she comes back to the desk, she hands it to me.
“Be there at seven thirty tonight. I’ll talk to you then.”
My heart stumbles as I take the card and see her address. She turns away again, dismissing me. I want to tell her I’m sorry about her cancer, that I appreciate her agreeing to talk to me, but I can tell she wants me out of here. I slip out into the hall and hurry to my car.
At seven fifteen, I drive to Sara Meadows’ house—a small Craftsman with an open carport. Her car is in the driveway. It’s still light out, and her neighbor is working in the yard next door. I start to pull into the driveway, then I think better of it and park at the curb. I go to the cobwebby front door, ring the bell, then after a moment, knock hard in case she’s hard of hearing.
A dog barks behind the door. Some of his barks flip to yelps, then lower to barking again. She doesn’t come to the door, so I knock harder, ring the bell twice more. The dog is going crazy inside.
I walk around to the carport, find a side door, and knock on the glass. The dog changes rooms. He’s closer and more frantic. There’s no way the woman doesn’t hear me.
“Can I help you?”
I swing around and see the next-door neighbor standing at the edge of the driveway, her pale blue capris dirty at the knees. “Oh, hi,” I say. “I have an appointment with Ms. Meadows, but she’s not answering her door. Have you seen her?”
She takes off her gloves. “I saw her come home from work. I know she’s in there.”
The dog keeps barking and yelping, as if in pain.
“Do you think she’s all right? I know she’s not well.”
The neighbor knocks hard on the side door. “Sara?” she calls through the glass. “Sara, are you all right?”
I imagine it’s the door to the kitchen. It’s probably the door she uses most of the time.
“Sara?” The woman turns to me and says, “She’s been getting sicker. She might not be able to get to the door. Let me call her.” She pulls her cell phone out of her pocket and dials. We hear the phone ringing in the house, but no one answers.
Now I see the concern on her face. “Wait here,” she says. “I’m going to get the key she gave me.”
I wait as the woman disappears into her house, then comes back. “Who did you say you are?” she asks as she puts the key in the lock.
“A friend from work,” I say, not sure I want her to know my name.
The door opens and the woman steps inside. I wait on the steps as the dog goes nuts, yelping and barking and leaping in circles. Before she goes far, she bends over to stroke him, and he gets quiet.
The screen door closes behind her, and I can’t see in as she walks farther into the house. I hope Ms. Meadows is just asleep after a long day of work in that dusty evidence room. If her neighbor wakes her up, she’ll be groggy when we talk. Not ideal, but better than nothing.
Then I hear a scream.
I reach for the latch of the screen door as the neighbor comes stumbling out. She’s already calling 911. “There’s an emergency,” she says into the phone. “My neighbor is bleeding on the floor. I think she’s dead!”
Bleeding? From cancer?
I push past her into the house and find Sara Meadows lying in a pool of blood. I kneel and check her vitals. “Tell them there’s no pulse,” I yell to the neighbor.
I get on both knees and start to apply CPR, but then I see the bullet wound right over her heart. I look up and scan the room. There’s a bullet hole through the back window.
Sara Meadows was murdered.