Page 22 of Someone Knows

“Just a precaution,” he says. “You’ve got out-of-state plates, and you’re sitting in the back of a parkinglot—like you want to see something but not be seen. Just doing my job, ma’am.”

I reach for my purse on the passenger seat. “Of course.”

Digging out my wallet, I extend my driver’s license through the window. Chief Unger takes it and holds it with extended arms, like he should be wearing reading glasses.

“New York, huh? A long way from home, aren’t you? What brings you to Minton Parish?”

“I’m visiting my mother.”

He looks at the license again. “Elizabeth Davis? Theresa’s daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

His eyes roam my face. “You sure are. It’s been a long time. But I remember you.”

“You do?”

He leans down so we’re eye to eye, only the car door separating us, and offers me back my license. “I’m sorry to hear about your momma.”

I swallow and take my ID. “Thank you.”

“You might want to head home soon. This area of town isn’t the safest.”

My eyes slant to look at the last room on the right up on the second floor, then back to Chief Unger. He’s watching me, quietly observing—a lot like Sam always has. Only I never gave it any thought until recently. It makes me feel restless.

“I was just about to leave anyway.”

He offers a curt nod. “You have a good night, Elizabeth.”

I roll up the window and wrestle the car into drive as fast as I can. It’s only when I reach the exit to the motel parking lot that I allow myself to check the rearview mirror. And I wish I hadn’t, because a chill crawls up my spine from the way the chief of police is watching me leave what was once the scene of the crime.

CHAPTER

11

It’s still dark the next morning when I park the rental car and kill the engine. My back is aching from all the sitting—in New York, I walk most places or take the train. I’d forgotten what a drag it is to drive everywhere. I take a long pull of coffee and let the dome lights shut off as I watch the house on the corner. It’s 5 a.m. here, which makes it 6 a.m. in New York. Still early, but not as painful as it would be for a local. And it’s a local I’m here for.

Ivy’s house sits just a few yards away. Her address wasn’t hard to find. I did a quick Google search of her name again last night, and any crazy person could find her—perhaps she did.Me.A woman who works for CPS should be more careful. I’m sure people aren’t too happy when she removes their kids. The lights are all off, which means she’s probably not awake yet, which is good. I want to see what she’s up to these days, from the start.

Sure, I could go knock on the door. But I’ve already spoken to her once, and she denied being behind the story. I need to watch her, see who she spends time with, where she goes when she thinks no one is paying attention. And her guard will be lower if she doesn’t know I’m here in Louisiana. Though the way Mom gossips, and given her obsession with going to church, maybe the point is moot.Maybe the whole town already knows of my arrival. I frown, considering that possibility.

Twenty minutes later, a light turns on. I jot down the time in the notes on my phone. I don’t even know why I do it. But there’s so much going on in my head, I don’t want to forget any details. An hour passes, and Ivy makes her way to her car, parked haphazardly in the grass. Why is that a thing here? Parking on the lawn. There’s another car in the driveway, I assume her husband’s. Why not park behind him or in the street?

I attempt to take a gulp of my now-empty coffee. Being here has me on edge. If I’m honest, it reminds me of who I used to be, and I don’t like it. I earned who I am today and everything I have. I worked hard to put this life behind me—graduating at the top of my class, getting a job doing something I love, dating on my own terms. I like my new life. I don’t want whatever’s going on—whoeverknows—to threaten that.

When Ivy pulls out of the grass in her minivan, I count to ten, then follow. It’s not a simple drive to work. No, she stops at a little coffee hut first, and I consider pulling in behind her and ordering a quick cup for myself. But I don’t want to lose her. Instead, I circle the block once, then trail her as she goes toward the outskirts of town, where a Walmart has opened alongside a strip mall. She goes into the shopping center first, and I slip from my car, keeping a safe distance as I skulk in behind her.

But she only buys diapers—a small package of them. Which makes me wonder if money’s tight. I don’t know much about babies, but I would think that—like most things—the larger the quantity, the cheaper the per-unit cost. When she goes to the checkout, fluorescent lighting illuminates her dark roots. She’s in need of some time at the salon, another hint that maybe money’s an issue. Maybe there’s a financial goal here? Is she Hannah and looking for a payoutto keep quiet? Another angle to consider. Though what is she waiting for, if that’s her game?

I slip back outside while she’s still checking out and walk to my car, parked a few rows over from hers. The morning is damp, humid. The moisture is inescapable, and I huff out a breath. Louisiana is, for many reasons, claustrophobic.

Her last stop is the CPS office. She parks at the back of the lot, despite the fact that the sun is only now fully up, and walks in with her nose in her phone, not even glancing around. That wouldn’t fly in New York. Was I once so trusting? Maybe it’s okay in small-town life.

This might take a long time—hours, even—so I pop some Advil for my back, pull out my laptop, tap it to life, and get to work on the chapters my students have submitted. I’ve been avoiding them for obvious reasons, but their next rounds are due soon, and I owe them feedback. I work on one that seems to be an attempt to bring vampire romance back, adding a few suggestions here and there, recommending they make it fresh, not a repeat of what’s already been done, and then I blow out a breath and force myself to open the file I’ve been avoiding.

Hannah’s story.

Whoever “Hannah” really is.

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