3

Josh looked up from his paperwork as his partner sat down on the edge of his desk in the middle of the precinct bullpen.

“I’m beginning to wonder if you ever go home, or if you’ve started sleeping here,” Quinton said.

Josh waved off the comment. “I go home at night.”

Which was true. For the most part.

“You know you’re working too much. This case will still be here tomorrow. Just like it was here yesterday and the day before that. Burn yourself out, and you won’t be able to work at all.”

Josh frowned. He’d tried going home early, but his job gave him a purpose for what little life he had left. It was the one thing that made him feel like he was doing some good in the world. The one thing that kept him from thinking about what he’d lost and continued to hold him together when everything else was falling apart. And as long as it did that, he had no desire to change anything.

“Tell that to the crazies out on the streets that won’t stop killing each other.” He sat back in his chair and caught his partner’s gaze. “I want this scumbag put away and going home isn’t going to make that happen.”

“A good night’s sleep in your own bed might clear your mind and make it happen faster. As your partner, I’ve always appreciated your attention to detail. As your friend, I’m telling you to go home. We’ll pick up in the morning.”

Josh frowned, though he knew his friend was right. Over the past year, Quinton had become more like a father than a partner. Part counselor, part spiritual advisor. And the only real reason he was still on the job.

After Olivia’s death, he’d gone along with everyone’s advice of not doing anything rash for at least six months. Eventually, he planned to sell the house and find something smaller and closer to his work. Maybe it was time he did that. Took another step forward.

“Don’t forget Val is expecting you for dinner Friday night.”

He stared at the folder in front of him. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

“Josh?”

He looked up. “Sorry. I’m just focused on this report.”

“Like I said, you need to go home and get some sleep.”

“I’m waiting for a call. As soon as it comes through, I promise I’ll be gone.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

He checked his messages, hoping his informant had called back. Instead there was a message from a number he didn’t recognize. He pushed play and listened to the message.

“Josh Solomon? This is Caitlyn Lindsey . . .”

Josh dropped the phone like it was on fire as he finished listening to the message. Why would Caitlyn Lindsey be calling him about his wife’s death? Why would anyone be calling him about Olivia’s death?

“Was that your informant?”

Josh stared at the phone, unable to reply.

“Josh? I haven’t worked with you for the past three years to not know when you’ve seen a ghost. Who was that?”

He still didn’t answer. Instead he pulled out his keys, fumbled for the smallest one, then unlocked the bottom dented desk drawer and pulled out a thick binder.

Quinton shook his head. “Man, why do you still have that book at your desk? Your wife’s case is closed. You know all that’s going to do is torture you.”

He’d asked himself the same question more than once. Her murder investigation had ended in two arrests followed by convictions. Hanging on to her murder book was nothing more than holding on to his pain.

“Do you remember Caitlyn Lindsey?” Josh asked.

“The name’s vaguely familiar.”

“She worked in the same lab as Olivia. They were pretty good friends. Same age. A lot of the same interests. They ate lunch together at work a lot. We actually double-dated a couple times when Olivia managed to get her to agree to a blind date. It never went very well though. I don’t know if it was the guys Olivia picked or what, because she always seemed really nice.”

“Is that who called?”

Josh rubbed the back of his neck. “She wants to talk to me about Olivia’s murder.”

“Why would she want to talk to you about that?”

“I don’t know.”

Quinton drummed his fingers on the desk. “If you ask me, you need to just erase the message. The men who killed Olivia are in prison. There’s no reason for you to meet with her.”

“Tell me why it is that just when I think I’m finally dealing with the fact that she’s gone, something brings up that night all over again.”

Like her birthday last week. And their anniversary next month.

He shook his head. Maybe that was what was bothering him. He’d almost forgotten the anniversary, a fact that bothered him as much as the fact that he still kept her murder book in his desk drawer. He missed her, but parts of her were starting to slowly fade, and he didn’t know how to bring them back.

“I’ve sat with hundreds of people over the years,” he said. “Had to tell them that the person they loved wasn’t going to come back. But do you know what happens when you’re on the other side? You feel as if you’re drowning, and just when you manage to make it to the surface and catch your breath and feel like you’re finally headed in the right direction, something happens, and you’re pulled under again.”

“I think you should erase the message. Nothing she has to say is going to change anything.”

Josh considered his partner’s advice, but he wasn’t sure he could just ignore the call.

“When’s the last time you saw Caitlyn?” Quinton asked.

“I don’t know. Probably the funeral. She was also the last person Olivia called before she died. She was interviewed at the time by the detectives handling the case.”

He flipped open the binder, avoiding the crime scene photos, and instead went straight to the section that held the notes and transcripts from the lead detective’s interviews with Olivia’s friends and coworkers. He stopped at Caitlyn’s interview, though he wasn’t really sure why. He’d memorized every haunting detail of his wife’s case.

“According to the interview that was collaborated with phone records, Olivia called Caitlyn from our house an hour before she was murdered. But Caitlyn could never answer the one question that has bothered me ever since Olivia’s death. Why didn’t she call me and tell me she was home? It just . . . it doesn’t make sense.”

It wasn’t the only thing about her death that still bothered him. Her final words implied she’d been hiding something. And he had no idea what.

“What did they talk about?” Quinton asked.

Josh skimmed through the notes. “Olivia wanted to meet for breakfast the next day and talk about a project she was working on. It was nothing unusual.”

“So it was just a normal call between coworkers.”

“Yeah.”

“Did she mention to Caitlyn that she was home from the conference?”

Josh nodded. “Told her she’d be at work in the morning, and that she’d come home early because she’d decided to skip the afternoon and evening sessions. Which made no sense to me at the time. Olivia told me she was looking forward to the speaker.”

Quinton stood back up and folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve gone over this hundreds of times, and like I said, nothing’s going to change. The case is closed.”

That was true, but there had been a handful of inconsistencies in the case that had plagued him—besides why she’d come home early and not told him. The only items stolen, a handful of jewelry, had been explained away by the fact that they’d encountered Olivia and panicked. The other robberies in the area had taken place when no one was home. The district attorney said the suspects had gotten careless. In the end, they were able to prove that her murder was connected to the string of robberies. And that Olivia had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It had taken the DA less than an hour to present his case, and the jury even less time to make their decision. They’d deliberated forty-three minutes then were back in the courtroom with their verdict. Rudolph Beckmann and Larry Nixon had been convicted of capital murder and sentenced to life in prison.

“So you don’t think I should call her back?”

“I can’t make that decision for you, but I have a feeling you won’t be able to let this slide. And I suppose you’re right. If she does have information for you, then what can it hurt? If what she has turns out to be nothing, then you haven’t lost anything but an hour of your time.”

He picked up his phone. Quinton was right. As much as he’d rather ignore the call, he knew he wouldn’t.

“Go see what she has to say, then go home and get some sleep.” Quinton must have known that as well. “We’ll finish up the rest of this paperwork tomorrow. You’re not going to be worth anything if you don’t get some sleep. In fact, what you really need is a vacation.”

“A vacation? Right.”

Everyone kept telling him that he should get away for a week or two. That he needed to find time to relax. But the thought of getting away—alone—only meant he’d have more time to think. And that was something he wasn’t ready to do.

A minute later, Josh grabbed his coat off the back of his chair and headed out into the cold.

Josh slid into the booth at the back of the diner and signaled to the waitress for a cup of coffee. He glanced around the space, surprised he beat her here. She’d sounded so urgent on the phone. He was still uncertain he’d made the right decision to show up, but there was no going back now.

The waitress greeted him with a tired smile and a pot of fresh coffee. “Cream or sugar?”

“Black’s fine. Thanks.”

Olivia had managed to talk him into drinking his coffee straight, instead of the three spoonfuls of sugar he preferred. Somehow, even after her death, the habit had remained.

Five minutes later, Caitlyn walked into the restaurant, wearing an army-green jacket and high-top winter boots. She wore her dark hair down past her shoulders like he remembered it. Dark brown eyes. A smattering of freckles across her face. But it was the worry lines across her forehead that caught his attention.

“Caitlyn?”

“Sorry I’m late.” She slid into the booth, then set the backpack she was carrying next to her. “It took me longer than I thought to get a taxi.”

“That’s okay.”

She caught his gaze. “I was afraid you wouldn’t show up.”

“Honestly, I almost didn’t.”

The redheaded waitress was back at his table. “Can I get you anything?”

“Coffee’s fine for me as well.”

The waitress grabbed the pot and filled the empty mug.

Josh studied Caitlyn’s expression. She was clearly nervous about something. She kept looking at the door, as if she were worried someone was about to find her.

“You sure you don’t want anything to eat?” he asked.

“This is fine for now. Thank you.” Caitlyn held her coffee mug in both hands and took a sip. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“You’re welcome, but I’m not sure why I’m here. Your message was cryptic, to say the least. And my wife . . . Olivia . . . her murderers were convicted months ago. I’m not sure what there could be to talk about.”

“I know.” She pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear before reaching for a packet of sugar, exposing a bruise on her left cheekbone.

Josh leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “Caitlyn . . . what happened?”

Her hand reached up to the spot. “I was in an accident earlier tonight, but I’m all right.”

“That doesn’t look like you’re all right.”

She shrugged. “Someone ran me off the road and my car flipped into a gully.”

He studied her expression, realizing it wasn’t just jittery nerves he saw reflected in her eyes, but fear.

“I’m sorry. Did the police catch whoever did it?”

“No. Thankfully, a Good Samaritan stopped and called 911. But my seat belt was jammed, which means if he hadn’t found me, I could have been there all night.”

“You went to the hospital, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. They checked me over, though I . . . I left before being discharged.”

“Caitlyn—”

“I’m fine. Really. There was no need to stay.”

“You don’t look fine. You’ve got a bruise on your face, and what if there are other . . . internal injuries.”

“Really, I’m fine. They checked me out. I’m just cold. Which seems funny.” She shot him a forced smile. “I grew up braving New York winters. This is nothing, but I can’t warm up.”

“None of this sounds like nothing. What about your car?”

“A tow truck took it away, so it can get looked at by a mechanic, but I’m pretty sure they’ll say it’s totaled. But that doesn’t matter right now.” She took another sip of her coffee. “That’s not why I’m here.”

He tried to remember everything he knew about the woman from the few times he’d been around her during work-related parties and on the double dates. Caitlyn always seemed incredibly focused on her work. She was funny and had never hesitated to talk about her faith and church. But the real reason he was here was because Olivia had always spoken highly of her and liked her. And he couldn’t walk away from possible new information on his wife’s murder.

Caitlyn ran her thumb back and forth across the top of the mug. “I was at Olivia’s funeral, but never really had the chance to tell you how sorry I was. Not personally, anyway. She was a good coworker and friend. I miss her.”

“Thank you.” He waited for her to continue, unsure of where their conversation was going. “But I’m still not sure why you wanted to see me.”

“Like I told you on the phone, I need to talk to you about the night she died.” She looked up from her coffee and caught his gaze. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but the men who were convicted of her murder . . . I’m not convinced they were the ones behind it.”

He leaned forward. He couldn’t have heard her correctly. “I’m sorry . . . What did you say?”

“I believe it’s very possible that either the wrong men were arrested and convicted, or if they did kill her, they were hired.”

The realization of what she was saying hit him in the gut, totally unexpected. The movements around him seemed to decelerate, to move in slow motion. Just like the night Olivia died.

He shook his head. “That’s not possible.”

“I know it sounds crazy—”

“Crazy . . . impossible . . .” He paused, trying to rein in the confusion flooding his mind. “I’m not sure why you’re coming forward now, saying this. When Olivia died, you were interviewed, and you never implied you had any information contrary to the DA’s.”

“That’s because I didn’t know then what I know now. There are some things that have happened that have made me question the jury’s decision.”

“I still say that’s not possible.” It didn’t matter that he had his own set of doubts he’d kept quiet about all these months. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what she was saying. That he wanted to relive Olivia’s death all over again. It had taken all the energy he had just to move forward with his life. “I was an eyewitness and saw the men exit my house that night. There was evidence found in my home as well that proved it was them.”

“True, but the men you saw leaving your house that night . . . they wore hoodies and it was dark. It had to have been hard to make a positive ID. And despite finding both fingerprints and DNA at the crime scene, Beckmann and Nixon always insisted they weren’t there that night. All the DA had was circumstantial evidence.”

Josh sat back in his chair. The truth was, he couldn’t refute what she was saying because he’d already thought all the same things. DNA and fingerprints could be planted.

“What if they didn’t kill your wife?” she continued. “What if they were the ones robbing the neighborhood but weren’t at your house that night? What if they were set up to take the fall for her death?”

“They confessed to robbing nine houses,” he said.

“But never to the murder.”

“Why come to me now?”

“More coffee?” The waitress stopped in front of their table with a fresh pot.

“We’re fine,” he said, waving her away. “Thank you.”

He stared at his half-empty coffee mug, wishing they were in a more private place.

“Josh . . . Detective Solomon . . . here’s the bottom line,” Caitlyn said. “I believe that the death of your wife wasn’t a random burglary. I think she was murdered by someone who wanted her silenced.” Caitlyn leaned forward. “Someone who now wants to silence me.”