Page 90 of We Are All Guilty Here

“You need to stick your advice up your ass.” Emmy could tell the punch hadn’t landed. “Does the FBI know you’re an alcoholic?”

“Yes.”

“And a coke head?”

“Coke is fantastic, but alcohol was my problem.” Jude leaned her shoulder against the doorjamb the same way Cole had. “I disclosed everything as part of my background check. I’ve been sober for thirty-nine years and two months.”

“Hurray for you.” Emmy pointed toward the doorway. “Why don’t you stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

“Elijah Walker’s been cheating on his wife.”

Emmy struggled to keep her expression neutral. “He told you that?”

“I told him that.” Jude slid a large envelope from her suede purse. She pulled out two printed photos, held them up for Emmy to see. “These were on his phone.”

To say Emmy was caught off guard would’ve been to say the last twenty-four hours had been taxing. It wasn’t primarily the photos, but the fact that Emmy was standing inside the jail where her ex-best friend was being held for murder and her dead sister was showing her a dick pic and a split beaver like she was bragging about her European vacation.

Jude asked, “What do you see?”

“Well—” Emmy was still thrown. “I don’t—I mean—that’s not Elijah’s, unless it was back when he was going to the gym every day and spraying himself with bronzer.”

“Good. What else?”

Emmy didn’t want to, but she looked closer. “It’d be easy enough to see if he’s got that mole right below his belly button. It’s possible he’s bisexual, but my guess is he took a screen shot of somebody else’s penis and passed it off as his own.”

“That’s my guess, too. What about this one?” Jude handed her the woman’s photo. “Elijah says he met this woman on a website. He says she gave the name Trixie, and that she charges four-fifty for two hours.”

“Uh—” Emmy blinked her eyes. She felt as if she was being tested. “Trixie has to be a working name, but it doesn’t jibe with the cost. That’s twelve times what the girls charge at the truck stop. The butterfly birthmark could help identify her, but the Brazilian is your best lead. There’s two places in town that do that kind of waxing: Sugar Babies at the outlet mall and Peggy Ingram’s place.”

“Peggy Ingram,” Jude repeated. “She took over her mother’s business?”

“Yes and no.” Emmy handed back the photo. “She moved the salon out of the basement when Virgil retired. He’s a private investigator. Needs a discreet place to meet with clients. Peggy took over the storefront across from the hardware store.”

“Where the cobbler used to be?”

“Sure, right beside the baker and the candlestick maker.”

Jude’s smile acknowledged the joke. “Text Peggy. See if she remembers a customer with that birthmark.”

Emmy looked at her watch. Then she looked again, because this had been one of the longest days of her life. “It’s almost four-thirty in the morning. The sun’s not even up.”

“Peggy will read it when she wakes up.” Jude turned to look behind her. Cole had stopped in the hallway. “You must be my nephew.”

Cole looked at Emmy, then at Jude. “You must be my dead aunt.”

“Jude Archer.” She slid the photos back into the envelope before he could see them. “Cole, why don’t you ride with us to Carol Walker’s house?”

Cole looked at Emmy again. He was waiting for her answer. So was Jude. There were a lot of things Emmy could’ve said in this moment, but none of them would help bring Paisley Walker home. Jude had been in town for an hour and she’d already gotten more out of Elijah Walker than Emmy had. This wasn’t the time to open up new wounds. If Paisley had been abducted by one of her parents, she could still be alive.

Emmy said, “Let’s go.”

They walked single file out to the parking lot. The moon was waning in the sky. The parking lot lights felt angry as they held back the dark dome of black. Emmy started the text to Peggy Ingram. She nearly broke her brain trying to figure out how to phrase the question. Peggy was a soft, grandmotherly type. Then again, she waxed genitals in the back room of her salon. There probably wasn’t much that would shock her.

Sorry to bother you, but I have a weird question about a possible waxing client of yours who has a butterfly-shaped birthmark on the inside of her left thigh. Brazilian. Bleached strip of hair. Probably Caucasian. Can you help? I have a photo but not sure you want to see it?

Jude asked, “Which ride is yours?”

Emmy gave her a giant clue by getting into the cruiser parked in the spot marked Chief Deputy Clifton. She cranked the engine. Jude climbed into the passenger’s seat. Cole slipped into the back. The bright light of his phone illuminated his face as he typed on the screen.

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