Page 81 of Fate's Crossing

“Give me a second to talk to Wade.”

Chapter twenty

Lexie didn’t like being back in the police interview room, the memory of the last time she was here all too fresh. Though unlike that time, Nico was nowhere to be seen. She was seated at the same timber-topped table, on the same hard plastic chair, with the same tight knot in her stomach, as Zoe and Frank asked her question after question. They’d been at it for thirty minutes. Contrary to what she’d expected, majority of their focus was centered around Darcy’s recent visit to Rusty’s. Evidently, not too many people saw her after that day.

“And you didn’t see anything suspicious?” Frank asked for the fourth time. “Anything at all? No one followed her? No strange cars parked out front?”

Lexie repressed a sigh. How many different ways could she say the same thing? “Like I said, we were in the back alley when we spoke. I don’t remember seeing anyone around.”

“What else did the two of you talk about?” Zoe asked. “You said she was upset about Isabelle’s death. Is that all?”

Lexie liked Zoe—had even thought of her as family once upon a time. She was smart, tenacious, and fiercely loyal. Everything you could want in a sister, and the reason she made such a great cop. Right now, though, Lexie cursed her for having such qualities.

Up until this point, Lexie had been carefully omitting certain details about her conversation with Darcy. She hadn’t lied, but she hadn’t been altogether truthful either, choosing to spare herself the discomfort of repeating the same sad story she’d confessed to Annie the day they’d gone jogging. She knew it was foolish, maybe even dangerous, considering everything she’d learned about the manner in which both Darcy and Isabelle had been killed, but she’d told herself that they were the police; everything she knew, they could easily find out for themselves.

She spared a glance at the camera in the top corner of the room, the small, red light a clear indication she was being recorded. She couldn’t explain it, but something inside her knew Nico was watching.

This time, Lexie did sigh. “What are you really asking me, Zoe?”

Zoe’s eyes cut to Frank, like she was seeking permission. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“I’m sorry,” Zoe said, guilt and shame at trying to bait Lexie like some run-of-the-mill criminal tinging her tone. “We’re just trying to figure this out.”

“Figure what out?”

“Why three of your childhood friends have ended up dead,” Frank said.

Lexie flinched. Put in such blunt terms, it hit differently, like she hadn’t fully thought it through until now. Clearly, they’d done their homework, connecting Sara’s murder into the equation all on their own. She’d known it was only a matter of time.

“I didn’t bring it up, because I didn’t want to talk about it,” she said.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Why do you think?” she snapped, turning away.

“Lexie.” Frank waited for her to look at him. “We need to talk about it.”

“I thought it was just coincidence,” she said after a long moment. “I thought Darcy was crazy for thinking that it had anything to do with—” Lexie felt herself crack, the first chink of her self-control crumbling to dust. She sniffed furiously, refusing to let single tear out.

“Would you tell us what happened to Sara?” Zoe asked. “In your own words.”

Lexie agreed. Did she have much of a choice?

Starting at the beginning, she walked them through everything that had happened when they were sixteen, continuing right up to her conversation with Darcy outside Rusty’s a few days ago, this time leaving nothing out.

Since she was sharing so openly, they reciprocated. Though they said it wasn’t strictly allowed, Frank and Zoe permitted Lexie to learn directly from Sara’s case file that the terrible rumor they’d all heard had been true; after disappearing from that party eleven years ago, Sara had somehow made her way to Boston where she’d been living with a man—Bryan Fowler—a known felon who had recently been in prison for assault.

Lexie held up the mugshot, which was a black and white printout of the original photo. Bryan Fowler had short spiky hair, beady eyes, and an overall menacing appearance. His head was tilted back slightly, and his mouth was set in a derisive scowl, like he was doing the police a favor just by holding still enough to have his picture taken. The placard he held in front of him told her he stood five feet, four inches tall, weighed a hundred and thirty pounds, and had been twenty-nine years old when the photo was taken.

“This is the man who killed her?” Lexie asked.

“That’s him,” Frank confirmed.

When she shuffled through the rest of the papers, she caught a glimpse of what appeared to be crime scene photos, but Frank stopped her with a firm hand on top of the pile. “I don’t think you’ll want to see those.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Lexie shifted backward in her chair.

Frank closed file and sat on the table in front of her. “Listen, Lex, we’re flying blind here. I was hoping a look at all this might help, maybe jog your memory somehow. Even the smallest detail could make a difference.”

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