Page 59 of Find Me

It was the summer after Ellie’s high school graduation. It was also the summer when her older brother declared that he was moving to New York City to try to live his dream of being a rock star. She couldn’t remember the exact dates—summer was summer back then—but she had her suspicions.

“Is that why you left?”

“Steve found me the next day. He got the callout after the responding officers realized who the victim was. He told me he knew I was partying at the house and that the owner had come home and been shot in the driveway and died.”

“So how did he know?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ve always assumed the house had cameras or something, and that he covered up for me. I can’t even tell you how fucking scared I was. I explained everything. Told him I’d go to the station and take a lie detector test, because no way did I shoot anyone. It had to be that lunatic who was having his rage attack. But Steve said that even if everyone believed me, we were there without permission, and a bunch of stuff was broken, so they’d argue it was a residential burglary, plus someone had died as a result. Everyone at the house was guilty of murder. Lights out, we’d be done.”

The legal analysis wasn’t wrong. The felony murder doctrine was the biggest shortcut in the world for prosecutors, allowing them to convict every single person involved in a felony, regardless of who pulled the trigger or whether the shooting was even intentional.

“I can’t believe you and Steve didn’t tell me any of this. What am I, Mom?”

“Oh my god. Ellie, please, don’t do that. You wanted to be a cop like Dad. I wasn’t going to screw that up for you. That’s why I left. Don’t you get it? I was banishing myself. I realized how messed up it was that I was even in that situation to begin with. And forcing Steve into a corner like that? I needed to get out of Dodge.”

“So do you recognize her picture?” Ellie asked, gesturing to her phone.

“Not really, and I honestly don’t remember the girl’s name, but it’s got to be her, right?”

“Is there a way to reach TC and ask?”

He shook his head. “About ten years ago, I saw on Facebook that she died of an oxy overdose. I mean, maybe she would have ended up down that road anyway, but Jesus, I know what kind of guilt I’ve carried around all these years. When she found out what happened, she said it was all her fault for bringing the mushrooms in the first place.”

“What about this guy?” She pulled up a photograph of Alex Lopez.

He tilted his head, studying the picture. “Yeah, that could be the boyfriend.”

“This all happened in the summer, right? Do you remember when?”

He recited the exact date, fifteen summers ago, without hesitation.

Ellie texted Lindsay Kelly.When was Hope’s car accident?

Three days after Richard Mullaney was shot in his driveway.

Ellie sent another text.We should meet in person. There’s someone Hope needs to talk to.

35

Wednesday, June 23, 4:12 p.m.

The address to which Ellie Hatcher had summoned them belonged to a five-story red-brick apartment complex on a tree-lined street in Murray Hill. As Lindsay reached for the building’s buzzer, Hope grabbed her hand. She looked almost as terrified as she had when the police arrested her.

“What if this is some kind of trick? She’s a cop. She could be helping Decker.”

“She’s NYPD. She doesn’t even have jurisdiction over anything you’re remotely suspected of doing. And you didn’t hear her voice when she called. She was definitely worried—like she needs help as much as we do.”

Hope took a deep breath and then hit the buzzer herself. They were in.

The apartment was clean but modest. The countertop in the small kitchen beside the entry was clear except for two shot glasses next to the sink. The floors were unfinished parquet, and the walls sorely needed a paint job. The apartment’s tenant, however, was considerablyeasier on the eyes. Tall and lanky with dark shaggy hair, he had the look of a retired rock star. Ellie Hatcher had introduced him as her brother, Jess, before they all got settled around the steamer trunk that doubled as the living room coffee table.

“So Hope...,” Ellie said. “Should I call you Hope?” Hope nodded. “Lindsay told me the police think you used to live in Wichita, Kansas, where Jess and I were raised. I don’t suppose either of us looks familiar to you?” She apologized for her “giant hair” as she handed Hope her phone. The photo was of a younger Jess and Ellie, side by side on a lawn in front of a ranch house. Jess had his arm draped around his sister’s shoulder, but his extended middle finger had made it into the shot.

Next to Lindsay on the sofa, Hope shook her head.

“What about the name Jess Hatcher? Or TC Atkinson?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

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