Page 52 of Find Me

“I’m sorry, babe,” she said, opening a new document. “I’ve got to make this perfect for tomorrow.”

“No, I totally get it. Do what you need to do. Pretend I’m not here.”

When she crawled between the sheets two hours later, Scott pulled her into a tight spoon position, wrapping his top arm around her waist.

He’d done it. He had come through for her, just as he promised he always would. And she felt nothing but guilt.

31

Wednesday, June 23, 9:32 a.m.

The Fourth Amendment of the United States Constitution requires all searches and seizures to be reasonable. It mentions warrants and probable cause. But it says nothing about the police needing to be tidy about it.

Lindsay had seen more damage in the aftermath of a search warrant’s execution, but it was going to take a few hours to get the cottage back to its previous state. The police had not yet filed a return with the court, which would itemize the evidence they seized, but the bottom two shelves of the bedroom bookcase were empty. She envisioned the motion to suppress she would file, arguing that fifteen years of journals were beyond the scope of the warrant, but then reminded herself that if everything went according to plan, there would be no criminal trial at all.

Police had left behind smudges of gray powder from the dusting technique used to lift latent fingerprints. Hope’s, Lindsay’s, probably the landlady’s. Alex Lopez’s prints would be a worst-case scenario, but she had to be prepared. If he’d followed Hope to the Stansfield house, it was also possible he had broken into the cottage.

Most of the contents of Hope’s bedroom closet had been tossed onto the bed. Lindsay carried a few articles of clothing at a time back to their proper place until she spotted what she was looking for—the royal-blue St. John suit that she had given Hope last year. Lindsay thought she’d won the lottery when she found it 70 percent off on a Saks clearance rack. The skirt was a few pounds away from fitting, but Lindsay bought it anyway, convinced it would be an incentive to make healthy choices. Two years later, she found it at the back of her closet, tags still on. She gave up and passed it on to Hope. To Lindsay’s knowledge, Hope had never worn it either. She was relieved when the skirt zipped into place effortlessly. All that worrying had taken a toll.

Her phone buzzed as she looped the top button of the jacket. A text from Scott:Making sure everything is okay.

He was waiting in the driveway, taking care of emails.All good. Be right out.

As she hit the send button, an incoming call appeared on the screen. Area code 316. Wichita, Kansas. She picked up immediately.

“May I please speak with Lindsay Kelly?” The voice itself was smooth and appealing, like a public radio host’s, but the caller seemed rushed. Nervous.

“This is Lindsay.”

“You left a message for me yesterday—Emilia Lopez? You said it was about my brother? Are you his lawyer? I told him he needed to get one.”

Clearly the police had not yet located Alex’s sister or notified her about his death. Lindsay needed to be careful about how much she disclosed, and in what order. “Your brother’s name came up on another matter I’m handling, and it dates back a number of years. I actually got your name from a summer camp the two of you attended as children—the COP camp at Edgemoor Park—”

“Wait, you’re defending that camp?”

Lindsay wanted to start the conversation over again. This would be an entirely different exchange if they could meet in person. “No,I definitely don’t represent the camp.” Why had Emilia jumped to the conclusion that someone was suing the camp? Lindsay took a guess. “I have been looking into allegations that kids may have been abused there in the past.”

There was a long pause. Then: “What does my brother have to do with this?”

“The Wichita Police Department got a cold hit from a DNA database. Alex’s blood was found at the house of a woman named Janice Beale.”

“She was the nicest lady. She made us sandwiches and Kool-Aid and taught me how to hem a skirt with Elmer’s glue and an iron.”

“Do you know why your brother’s blood would have been on her sofa? Did he hurt himself? Or did someone hurt him?” The thought came to Lindsay for the first time as she was thinking out loud. Had Alex been abused at the camp?

“Wow, this whole time, I guess we had at least some kind of proof about what happened.”

“About the abuse, you mean.” Lindsay tried again to sound as if she already knew the answer.

“I still can’t believe Alex did that for me. Trying to take on a grown man.”

“He was defending you,” she said, making up for the gaps. Emilia was the one who had been victimized.

“Janice was out at the softball field, coaching one of the teams. I went inside to use the bathroom. It was so hot out. I decided to take my time and enjoy some more of her air-conditioning. He came in, saying he was just checking on me, but I could tell the way he was looking at me what he wanted to do.”

Emilia wasn’t talking about her brother. She was talking about her abuser. Lindsay said nothing, waiting for Emilia to fill the silence.

“Alex must have had a bad feeling because he showed up right when . . . well, in time to stop it from actually happening. I had never seen him like that before. He charged right at us and pushed him to theground and was just throwing punches as fast as he could, but there’s only so much a thirteen-year-old can do. I felt bad for not doing more to help him.”

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