Page 11 of View from Above

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” he said to Mallory. He nodded his appreciation and started in the kitchen. Someone had been watching Virginia Green. They’d learned her patterns, were aware of when and who visited her, had most likely come into her home. All in an effort to give her an injection in the minutes leading up to her death. Could the fall from the roof been accidental then? An attempt to get what they wanted from her gone wrong? Either way, there had to be something here. Something to explain what the hell was going on.

Payton checked the small rectangular window over the kitchen sink then moved onto the glass door behind the dining table. No signs of forced entry. Low voices filtered in and out as he took the stairs to the second floor. Mallory had blindsided him with the need to share the one dark secret he carried with a combination of concern and persuasiveness. A lethal dose of power he hadn’t expected. And if Angie Green had something to do with her mother’s death, she’d never see the therapist coming.

A large master bedroom positioned to the left drew him deeper into the home. A queen-sized bed had been placed in front of another sliding glass door leading out onto a balcony. Most likely not a point of entry, but he ensured the lock hadn’t been busted all the same. A pair of modern lamps tag-teamed either side of the bed from atop minimalistic nightstands with a few potted plants in the corners of the bright space.

Police could tell a lot about a victim and their lifestyle from photographs, private collections, books, clothing, and streaming history. Here, though, Virginia Green seemed to live in a museum. No drawers to hide personal effects. No family photos in here either. Mostly modern art and mirrors. He couldn’t even see a plug to charge a phone. In fact, he hadn’t spotted a television. It was as though the victim had never made her mark in this room. Odd, considering it’d been her home up until this morning.

Payton strode into the bathroom connected to the master. Large slabs of tile constructed the facade of the sleek, modern shower. Plush rugs would’ve kept early morning chills at bay. In all, the space matched the rest of the house to curate a look-but-don’t-touch decor focused on minimalism and brightness. Not at all what he’d expected from an aging grandmother. The walk-in-closet showcased labels matching the victim’s clothing at the scene this morning. High-end, well-worn. Blouses, red-backed heels with high price tags, all different colors of pressed slacks, scarves, and sequined dresses. A jewelry cabinet installed on one wall revealed beautiful pieces of dulled platinum, clear diamonds, and bright gemstones.

Virginia Green had once been accustomed to wealth. Only now the products in the shower could be purchased at any store on the corner, an empty box of hair color and stained gloves in the trash told him the victim had taken to caring for her hair herself, and with the loss of her savings, giving it all up wouldn’t come as quite a blow.

He scanned the bathroom, taking in every detail. Angie Green had said her mother couldn’t afford a nurse or assistance because she’d lost a good chunk of her money to a scammer, but the age of the woman’s clothing suggested she’d dropped out of the one percent long before she’d been robbed. “What changed, Virginia?”

A smudge along the wall demanded attention, smeared vertically from a section of quartz bordering the vanity countertop. Odd, considering every inch of this home looked as though a crime scene clean-up crew had already come through. He traced his thumb along the wall beside the stain and pressed into the sharp ridge of quartz. The seal between the drywall and the stone had been cut, and his interest instantly had him prying the slab free. “Now, what’s so important you had to hide it in your own house?”

He tugged the rectangular white quartz piece free—too easily—and crouched to get a better look. A section of insulation had been removed, leaving a length of space between studs framing the bathroom and bedroom wall.

And in the center sat an ornate keepsake box.

Gold designs curved along the navy blue surface and swirled around a clear stone in the center of the lid. Something old. Possibly antique. Nothing like he’d ever seen before. Dragging a set of gloves from his jacket, Payton stretched the latex over one hand and pulled the box free of its hiding spot. The lid creaked as he rocked it back on its hinges. A plush black interior framed a collection of photos inside. Faded colors and bent corners suggested the victim hadn’t stuffed them into a hole in the wall to hide. She’d visited this particular box often but hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Why?

He studied the top photo. A couple, hand-in-hand, danced in the middle of a living room. The familiar curve of Virginia Green’s mouth and eyes identified the woman, but sickening recognition flared as he catalogued her companion smiling down at her. Payton rotated through the rest of the photos to confirm his suspicion, each adding to his theory as he reached the end. There was no doubt in his mind. The high-end clothing, the jewelry. These weren’t things Virginia Green had purchased for herself. They’d been gifts. “You had an affair with Roland Kotite.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

She wasn’t crazy.

They had a real connection.

Her father and Virginia Green had known each other, had been lovers. According to the dates on the backs of the photos Payton had recovered from the victim’s home, the affair had lasted nearly two years. Her stomach sank with another pass at the timeline. Right around the time Mallory had come along.

Then again, she’d known exactly what kind of man Roland Kotite had been. Seeing the proof, however, destabilized every last good memory she’d held onto these past twenty years. The time he’d put together her Barbie Dreamhouse with its light pink furniture and purple accents for her sixth birthday. Or when he’d carried her to the car after she’d accidentally dropped a plate and stepped on a sliver of glass. Even urging her to open her acceptance letter from Stanford had carved itself into her brain, his excitement a physical presence that had shaken his broad shoulders. But none of it had been real, had it? Those memories had only preserved the mask her father insisted on wearing for everyone around him, preserved the lies he shoved down their throats.

“Let’s talk about Roland Kotite, Mrs. Green.” Payton set the beautifully intricate keepsake box in front of Angie Green on the other side of the one-way glass and took his seat, his back to Mallory. The past two hours had distorted into a haze from the time he’d confronted the victim’s daughter about the proof of an affair to bringing the woman into the station for questioning. But Angie Green’s claim she’d never seen it before or had knowledge of her mother’s past extramarital affairs hadn’t hit the mark. “You recognized my partner’s last name. You knew about your mother’s affair, didn’t you?”

Imposter syndrome settled deep into her bones as she strained to hear Payton’s interrogation from this side. Less than six hours ago, she’d been in that chair. She’d been answering his questions. The tables had turned, but Mallory found herself in the same position as the woman on the other side of the glass. A daughter in the dark. Betrayed. Hurt. Gaslighted by someone who’d taken on the responsibility to care for and protect her.

“Yes.” Angie Green interlaced her hands together on the table’s surface as a sign of strength, but the waver in that single word gave away the pain in her voice. She pointed to the keepsake box. “I found the box while I was going through my mother’s jewelry cabinet a few weeks ago. I was looking for a set of pink sapphire earrings my daughter could wear for her school dance. The second cabinet layer opened accidentally. I didn’t even know there was another layer, but when I moved to close it, I saw the box tucked inside. She must’ve realized I’d been in there because when I went to put the earrings back after the dance, she’d moved it.”

“Did you ask her about the contents?” Payton tipped the lid back as far as it would reach and spread each photograph out one-by-one in front of Angie Green. “Did you two argue about what you’d found?”

Angie Green swiped tears from her face, but a hardness came over her expression. “She lied to me. All these years, she accused me of destroying my marriage. She treated me as though I was lower than dirt for being unfaithful, no matter how much I was there for her or how many times I told her the affair was over. As if she has any room to look down on me.” Angie shoved the photos across the table, refusing to look at them. “So, yes, we argued.”

Bingo. Mallory breathed into her back to contain the building energy. If Angie Green was telling the truth, she’d taken years of mental beatings and disappointment from her mother for something Virginia Green had no right to weigh in on. Discovering her mother had judged her for the same mistake could’ve triggered an episode explosive enough to kill.

“When was this?” Payton opened that signature notebook he carried and scribbled across a blank page. She couldn’t read what he’d written from here but knew he was internalizing everything he could to work out the puzzle these two deaths presented.

A hint of red infused Angie Green’s face, but the fight lingered in her expression. “About a month ago, right after I’d heard the news Roland Kotite had died. We haven’t really spoken since. My mother started looking for a job so she could pay the mortgage on the house herself. She said she didn’t want to be tied to me anymore. She stopped answering my messages or returning my calls.” Angie swiped one hand across her face and leaned back in her chair. “Heaven forbid she apologize.”

The invisible knife Mallory had tried ignoring twisted deeper.

“And how did you react to that?” Payton asked.

Confusion chased the tension from the woman’s neck and shoulders. “I told you. I confronted her with what I’d found. We argued. She cut herself out of my life, out of her grandchildren’s lives, and now she’s…” Angie set her elbows on the table’s edge, a hint of panic swelling in her eyes. “Wait. You don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you? You don’t think I could actually kill my mother after one argument.”

“But it wasn’t just one argument, was it?” Mallory asked herself. It was years of failed expectations, of disappointing glances, of passive-aggressive comments, and refusals to recognize efforts. She swallowed the repressed anger determined to take control. Too many similarities. She and Angie might’ve had different parents and come from different backgrounds, but they had one thing in common: pride. They weren’t going to let their abusers get the better of them. No matter what. For Mallory, that’d meant turning down the opportunity to rise through Kotite Litigation’s ranks and building a life on her own. For Angie, that could’ve meant cutting the source of all that toxicity from her life completely. Time would tell.

Payton exhumed a manilla folder from the paper box situated on the floor beside his chair. He pried the front cover open. “This isn’t about one argument, Mrs. Green. This is about the fact you discovered your mother had an affair with Roland Kotite, and now he and Virginia Green are dead. This is about the fact someone was drugging your mother up until her death, and that may have played a part in her going off that rooftop.” He extracted a set of photos from the file and positioned them over the top of the ones found within the keepsake box.

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