Page 97 of Call Back

“He was involved with a lot of people . . . most of whom are now dead or have disappeared. The ones we knew about—Walter Frey, Geraldo Lopez, Christopher Merritt, and Steve Morrissey—but also some we didn’t, like Max Goodwin and Neil Fulton. And I finally tracked down the final name on that list Walter Frey had intended to give me. Rowena Rogers.”

Colt’s face didn’t change. “Never heard of her. Who is she?”

“She was married to a financial planner with another firm.”

“He wasn’t named?”

“Her husband was killed in an accident fourteen years ago.”

His eyes widened. “Interesting timing.”

“I know, right? She was part of a scandal around the time Christopher Merritt disappeared. People thought they were having an affair. She disappeared after that, although not like the others. She changed her name to Nicole Baker and keeps to herself.”

“And you’re certain she’s still alive?” he asked.

“That’s what Janine said. But I know for a fact that she was alive and well, and here in Franklin last week.”

He narrowed his eyes. “How?”

“I saw her. Twice.” I told him about her connection with Walter Frey, then paused and said, “She told me it was my fault he was killed. That I’d stirred everything up again by asking about my father.”

“That’s a crock of bullshit,” Colt scoffed. “Did you force Walter Frey to be part of that land deal? Did you force him to be in cahoots with your dad and that dentist?”

“No, but I forced him to meet me at the bar.”

“So? He was up to shady shit long before you left town.”

“I could have gone to the police.”

“And you did. You called Bennett.”

And look where that got me. “But that wasn’t really like going to the police.”

“Because Bennett hid your involvement?”

I nodded. “Because of Owen.”

“Probably.”

“No,” I said. “For certain. Brady told me last night.”

He looked suspicious. “Why would he tell you that?” He leaned forward. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing about last night. It was just . . .” How would Colt take this? “When I got to Brady’s apartment, Owen was at the front door, handing off an envelope to Brady.” I hadn’t intended to tell him this much, but as soon as the words started tumbling out of my mouth, I knew I wanted him to know.

“What was in the envelope?”

I wrapped my arms around myself and shook my head in a jerky motion. “Nothing to do with Daddy.”

“How can you be sure?” he demanded.

“Because I saw it,” I said, trying not to cry. “I saw the photos and the reports. Emily was murdered by a serial killer.”

“What?” He sat back in his seat, his eyes wide in shock. “That’s not what the news reports are saying.”

“Yet it’s true.”

“Why haven’t they made this public?”

“I don’t know,” I said, but that wasn’t entirely true. Brady seemed to be the only one who had connected the dots, and he hadn’t told anyone else on the police force. Despite his insistence that he was protecting me from the shady characters on the force, I couldn’t help asking myself that same question: Why?

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