Chapter Thirty-one

There was a knock at the door to the den and Sam pulled her gaze away from the paper. She’d read the hateful article a dozen—no, two dozen—times and she still couldn’t believe it. The ramifications, the implication of the words were impossible to digest. But the idea that one person was fabricating all of it—providing the victims and framing Sam for their deaths—made perfect sense. Whoever he was, he was doing a damn good job.

She’d talked to her attorney, been advised to just sit tight and not say anything to the press. Easy for him to say, but all she could do was think about it.

Someone had accessed her old cases somehow. Had whoever it was been in her office? Gotten into her car and taken her flashlight? She cupped her hands, feeling the urge for a drink, almost tasting the liquor burning her throat.

She heard another knock.

“Sam. Open up,” Rob called.

“I’m not taking any phone calls. Just let the machine pick up.” She’d been listening to the messages as they came in. Aaron saying he was worried and asking what he could do. Nick speaking in a somber tone about the different size of the twigs on the latest victim. He didn’t need to tell her what that meant—she knew. The one murder she’d had an airtight alibi for hadn’t been committed by the same killer.

Or if it was the same killer, it was meant to look different. Did the killer know she’d been with Nick last night? Was that why the eucalyptus was different? Was he following her, watching her all the time? She picked up her pen and jotted down “first officers at new scene.” Was it possible that the killer could have found out about her alibi and changed the twigs?

“This isn’t a phone call, Aunt Sam,” Rob said through the heavy wood. “It’s me. Can you unlock the door?”

Sam exhaled, wishing everyone would just leave her alone. She’d drawn the shades, but she could still hear the banter of the press outside her windows. Dragging herself out of her chair, she went to the door and pulled it open. “I’m not much company right now.”

Rob brought in a sandwich and a glass of juice and set them on her desk. Then, scrunching up his nose, he flipped on the lights. “It’s like a dungeon in here.”

“I like the dark.”

“Aaron’s called a bunch of times, and Nick too. Don’t you want to talk to them? They’re worried about you.”

She shook her head. She’d already left Nick a message telling him she wanted to know who had been confirming the information about her old cases to the media. Cops and agents lost their jobs for leaking the kind of information she’d read about herself, but that didn’t stop them from doing it. And whoever had been talking had intimate knowledge of the case. As far as Sam was concerned, that person was the prime suspect.

“You can’t stay in here forever,” Rob said.

“I might just try.”

Rob plunked onto the loveseat and crossed his arms. “It’s just a stupid article.”

“It’s a stupid article that says I killed two people—maybe more. Plus, they ransacked my house—” She waved her arms around.

“So what? What did they take? Some gum.”

Sam dropped her head into her hands, remembering the gum wrapper she’d found on Sandi Walters’ foot. Extra brand, her favorite kind. The kind she bought at Costco in twelve-pack boxes. And now the police had taken her gum to see if they could trace the wrapper from Walters’ foot to a pack she had in the house. It was a method that the evidence labs used on duct tape, too. They would check the evidence against another piece of tape from the suspected roll. They could determine how close together the two pieces were manufactured, and, therefore, what the probability was that they came from the same roll, or in her case, pack. She’d always thought it was cool until now.

“And you’re just going to let them say that you’re guilty?”

Rob’s blue eyes were wide. She saw Polly in those eyes and looked away. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Rob.”

“Don’t they have any idea who the real killer is?”

She shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “No idea. We don’t have a damn clue.”

“Then you should find him.”

“Or her.”

Rob shrugged his shoulders. “You should find him or her. Then they won’t blame you.”

Sam stared at the expression on his face. He believed it was that easy. Just go look and she could find the real killer and she’d be free. The article, the murders, all of it would be gone. She nodded. “Okay.”

Rob sat up. “You’re going to do it? You’re going to find him?”

She smiled. “Sure. I’ll find him. And then I’ll be free. Now, I need to do some thinking. Are you okay?”

He nodded.

“Where’s your brother?”

“He went out.”

She didn’t say anything to that. If she weren’t being accused of murder in the press, she’d want to get out too. As innocent and simplistic as Rob’s advice was, it was true. She knew she wasn’t guilty, which meant someone else was. She took a sip of the juice and wished it was something stronger. But alcohol wasn’t going to help her right now.

Rob was right. The best way out of the noose she was in was to find the right neck to put it around.