Page 46 of Find Me

“Or a dead body?”

“God, no, Lindsay. You have to believe me. Alex Lopez was definitely alive when I left. When I got back the next morning, I drove around the neighborhood looking for his pickup before I parked. The lights at the house were still on, and the front door was unlocked. I saw the bloodstain on the rug, so I rolled it up, tossed it in my trunk, and got the hell out of there. I dropped it at the dump as soon as it opened and went straight back to the rental house.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

“Because you started talking about me turning myself in, and then ran off the second you got that phone call. What’s up with all this grilling? Did you find that woman who called? What did she say?”

“It was the woman who cut your hair at the Lock Box.”

Hope tilted her head. “Why would she call you?”

“She saw the flyers I posted.”

“She did my hair a couple of weeks ago. It makes sense she’d recognize me.”

“No, it’s more than that. You gave her my name?”

Hope scoffed. “No, I didn’t. I told her my name was Linda.”

“Why? Why would you do that?”

“My whole reason for coming here was to blend in for once. Not to be the town weirdo. When I was talking to the stylist, she seemed pretty fun, and I thought maybe I could make a new friend. Then when she asked me my name, I just sort of froze. I already told her I moved here from Hopewell. If you google Hope Miller and Hopewell, it turns up those early stories from when we were still trying to find someone who might know me. So I reached for a name, and out popped Linda.”

“She said you were asking her a million questions, especially about her boyfriend.”

Hope pressed her palms against her cheeks. “This is just cringeworthy, hearing about myself through someone else’s eyes. Look, I was obviously trying too hard. A little thirsty to make a new friend, okay? I really missed you.”

Lindsay felt heat in her chest, knowing that she should have listened to her instincts and driven to Long Island when she first thought something was wrong. “Then why did you keep icing me out?”

“Because I was telling myself I needed to do this on my own. To be less dependent on you—and everyone I know. In Hopewell, it’s like everyone still treats me like I’m the town’s little sister. What are you not telling me? Obviously, something that hairdresser said has you rattled.”

“Did you talk to her about her boyfriend?”

She shrugged. “I guess so. We were shooting the shit. I think I asked how they met because it seems like everyone meets online now, and the whole idea of it freaks me out.”

Lindsay decided to rip off the Band-Aid. “The hairdresser’s boyfriend was Alex Lopez. And she told the police that you sought her out, gave her a fake name, and then spent the whole appointment asking about him. She also told them that Alex recently mentioned that someone from his past had shown up on a boat trip. That he seemed upset, but then he wouldn’t give her any details.”

Hope’s shoulders slumped as she processed the implications. “And they know I was the one who made the fishing plans.”

Thanks to me,Lindsay thought. She was afraid of driving Hope back into hiding, but it was essential that she understand the gravity of her situation. It was becoming clear why they would suspect her of killing Lopez.

But Lindsay’s job was to differentiate a suspicion from actual proof. The police would need physical evidence. They’d need a concrete theory. Where did Hope get a gun? Where was the gun now? Where did the murder take place? How did she move the body? Lindsay saw reasonable doubt everywhere she looked.

“The keychain you used to defend yourself,” Lindsay said. “Do you still have it?”

Hope nodded, reached into her purse, and produced a key ring, the purple cat-shaped self-defense device. “I should probably dump it, huh?”

Hope had clearly washed it, but trace DNA evidence was still a possibility. And even without blood evidence, any physical cuts or bruises left behind on Lopez’s body could be matched to the shape of the two “ears” that Hope had wielded as a weapon against him.

As of now, Hope was only a potential witness, not yet subject to a subpoena or search warrant. And to Lindsay’s knowledge, no grand jury had been convened. As a result, Hope’s keychain did not officially qualify as formal “evidence,” which meant Hope could still dispose of it without facing criminal charges.

On the other hand, as a member of the bar, Lindsay was in dangerous ethical territory if she explicitly advised Hope to destroy tangible personal property that was obviously relevant to a homicide investigation.

She was in the process of explaining the law—knowing that Hope would read between the lines and get rid of the little piece of metal that could directly connect her to Lopez’s physical injuries—when they both froze at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, followed by the slamming of car doors.

Lindsay recognized Detective Carter Decker as one of four men approaching the front door. “It’s police,” she whispered, even as she whisked Hope’s keychain from the coffee table. She did not mention the sheet of paper that Decker had clutched in his right hand. Ninety percent odds it was a warrant.

Her Audi was in the driveway, and any number of people could have seen her walk into the house only minutes earlier. If she didn’t answer the door, it would look incriminating. Lindsay quickly scanned the room and gestured for Hope to move to an armchair in the far corner ofthe living room, out of sight of the front porch. If she was wrong about the warrant, she could buy them time.

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