Page 71 of Girl, Accused

The woman had got the idiom wrong, but Ripley let it slide. 'When did he leave?'

‘Monday morning.’

‘Definitely?’

‘I drove him there myself. Pickinghim up tomorrow too. Assuming his flight's on time, which it probably won't be. You know how airlines are these days.’

Ripley slotted this new information into the frameworks of possibility. If Walsh had left Monday, he couldn't have killed Chester Grant that night. Couldn't have killed any of them unless he'd returned secretly.

The woman adjusted her quilted jacket, patted the pockets like she was looking for cigarettes. ‘I keep an eye on the place while he's gone. Check the pipes, water his plants. He's got this weird cactus collection. Ugliest things you ever saw, but he treats them like children.’

'You have a key, then?' Ripley kept her voice casual, though her pulse had picked up. If Walsh had left Monday, then Ella's theory was just that – a theory. No substance. But sometimes, the easiest way to confirm a story was to see if the details held up.

‘Of course. Tom doesn't trust just anyone with his house. We've been neighbors for three years. I'm Judith, by the way. That's my place right there.’ She pointed to the neighboring house, a slightly more kempt version of Walsh's with wind chimes hanging from the porch.

‘I'm Agent Ripley, FBI.’ The words slipped out with muscle memory. She forgot she'd surrendered that title months ago. ‘Judith, would it be possible for me to take a quick look inside? Just to verify a few details for our investigation.’

Judith's expression shifted from neighborly to suspicious in the space between heartbeats. ‘FBI, huh? You got a warrant?’

‘No warrant needed if you invite me in.’ Ripley smiled, though the expression felt rusty on her face. ‘I'm not here to search the place, just to confirm some basic information. It would save us both a lot of trouble.’

‘I don't know...’ Judith's hand moved to her pocket, where Ripley could see the outline of keys. ‘Tom's very private. Very particular.’

‘I understand.’ Ripley modulated her voice to the precise frequency that had worked on reluctant witnesses for three decades. Not threatening, not pleading. Authoritative with just enough vulnerability to suggest cooperation was the easier path. ‘But we're dealing with a serious situation here. Four people are dead, and we need to rule out certain individuals as quickly as possible.’

The mention of the body count did what Ripley knew it would. Morbid curiosity trumped neighborly loyalty.

‘Four?’ Judith's eyes widened. ‘I heard about theprofessor and that council woman, but…’

‘Well, there’s been more, and we’re trying to find the unsub.’

‘Un… sub?’

‘Means unknown subject.’ Ripley hadn’t missed saying that.

Judith's hand closed around the keys. Her face underwent a remarkable transformation. ‘Tom’s a suspect? That’s absurd. I’ve known him for years.’

Ripley resisted the urge to tell this elderly woman that even the most prolific killers had defenders just as passionate as she was. ‘Then let’s prove your hunch right by taking a look inside.’

‘Right. Well... I suppose it can't hurt. Just a quick look, though. And don't touch anything.’

‘Absolutely not.’

They crossed to Walsh's front door together. Judith fumbled with the lock, then the door swung open on silent hinges. A waft of stale air greeted her. The scent of an uninhabited house.

‘See? Nobody home.’ Judith stepped aside to let Ripley enter. ‘Kitchen's through there. Living room to the right. Bathroom down the hall.’

Ripley took the liberty of heading through to the kitchen. The place looked like any other suburban home. There was more religious paraphernalia than Ripley was used to seeing, but the place was as average as average came. The kitchen was a long rectangle in muted greys. An island in the middle of the room with a work surface along the one wall.

A pile of papers sat on the edge closest to the entrance. Ripley casually glanced over and caught the usual suspects; bills, leaflet, takeout menus. She picked them up and rifled through.

‘Hey, I said no touching.’

‘Sorry,’ Ripley said. She squared up the mail on the surface, but one of the pieces fell out and landed on the floor.

Ripley picked it up. But this one wasn’t a bill or a leaflet or a menu.

A church letterhead topped the page, embossed with a simple cross. First Light Assembly, Granville, Ohio. Below that, in formal typeface, was what appeared to be a contract of some kind.

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