Page 142 of We Are All Guilty Here

The hammer.

Jude said, “Predators don’t sacrifice their toys unless they’redesperate. That’s the time they’re most dangerous. They make mistakes. Not just the good kind that help us, but the bad kind that get people killed.”

Emmy tried to ignore the certainty in Jude’s tone, to pretend like her sister hadn’t written the actual book. “Do you think you can talk to Adam again? He thought you were the one framing him. You clearly have a way of pushing his buttons.”

“What did he say about me?”

“Nothing specific.” Emmy could tell there was more to the story, but she could only navigate one crisis at a time. “Adam is being held at the Verona jail. If he finds out his father was trying to send him back to prison, he might get angry enough to talk. As far as we know, Walton’s been inside his house for the last day and a half. He could’ve left Paisley chained up somewhere. She could go up to three days without water.”

“Sweetheart, you know Paisley’s already gone. All we can do now is work to give Elijah and Carol some peace.”

“You can’t make me give up on her.” Emmy’s voice caught on the last word, but she didn’t care. “I’m going to find her, Jude. I’m not going to fail this time.”

“Okay.” Jude’s sigh was from resignation. “Tell me what to do.”

“Don’t wait for the flight manifests to come back. Go at Adam with what wethinkwe know. You’re the best interrogator we’ve got, and Adam’s the only suspect who might be stupid enough to talk. I need you to help get him there. He has to know more information about his father. A place they used to go when he was a kid, an old family property with a hunting cabin. If you can turn Adam on Walton, I bet you can turn Alma, too.”

Jude didn’t fight her. “I’ll leave now.”

Emmy ended the call. Held tight to the steering wheel. Rain started slapping against the windshield. The wipers could barely keep up. She took a sharp turn into Virgil’s driveway, then reversed into the spot beside the horse trailer. Emmy ran across the yard toward the basement. Her boots slid on the concrete steps. She was reaching over the doorjamb for the key when her phone started to buzz.

She had to shout over the shush of rain. “What is it, Brett?”

“Chief,” he said, “something weird’s going on with Alma Huntsinger. I went upstairs to check on her. She’s not making sense. Can’t keep her eyes open. Swear to God it’s like she’s drugged.”

Jude’s warning was still in Emmy’s head. This was a predator’s most dangerous time. She asked, “Where’s Walton?”

“Downstairs in the den. He’s got the TV up so loud it’s shaking the windows.”

“Call an ambulance. Backup should be there any minute.” Emmy slid the key into the lock. She kicked the bottom of the door to unwedge it from the frame. “Brett, don’t let your guard down with Walton. He plays up being old, but he’s still dangerous.”

“Yes, chief.”

Emmy had to kick the door closed to keep out the rain. She tucked her phone back into her vest. Flipped on the fluorescent lights. She went to the closet in the back, ran her fingers down the labels on the file boxes wedged into the cramped space. Emmy recognized some of the names from Virgil’s cheating spouse investigations. She didn’t see her handwriting on any of them, but there was one at the very bottom with Virgil’s old-fashioned script.

CALL LOGS

She didn’t have time to be careful. She got on her knees and yanked at the box, trying to dislodge it like a Jenga piece. Instead of sliding out, the cardboard split at the corners. The other boxes collapsed on top of her, pounding into her shoulders and the top of her head. Emmy fell back, her arms flying up to protect her face. Dust swirled into her nose and down her throat. She was seized by a sneezing fit. There was a gash in her forehead. Emmy touched her fingers to the wound and pulled back blood.

“Shit,” she mumbled, rolling onto her side, sitting back up on her knees.

Papers were everywhere, typed, handwritten, photographs, receipts. Thankfully, the contents of the call log box were still intact. She slid it over. The top page had Walton Huntsinger’sname and address. The AT&T logo with its familiar blue globe was in the corner. Emmy thumbed through the stack, noting the dates and numbers. Alma’s cell phone account. Walton’s cell. The landline. Everything from twelve years ago was all there.

Emmy started to lift out the stack of papers, but her arms didn’t quite get the message. Her hands hovered in the air. She felt her brain struggling to make a connection. It was like a swarm of bees was suddenly inside her skull.

She opened her mouth. Took a deep breath.

Police agencies ran on paperwork. Every document that was handled by the Clifton County Sheriff’s Department was Bates stamped with a searchable code and date. The information was recorded in a log, and the log told you who was responsible for verifying the information. This policy had been in place going back to the last century. Even if a document wasn’t part of trial discovery, even if it wasn’t scanned into the server, you stamped the page at the bottom and you filed it in the appropriate place so that it could be easily retrieved if needed.

None of the papers in the box had a Bates number.

They didn’t have Virgil’s notations, either. That was the other rule. If you tracked down a phone number, you wrote down the information you’d found out. That way, if you went on a vacation or if you keeled over at your desk, the next deputy could pick up your work.

Emmy pulled out a random page. Held it up to the light. She noticed dots of Wite-Out over some of the digits in the phone numbers. New numbers had been written on top with a fine-tipped pen. Emmy hadn’t seen the opaque correction fluid since she was in middle school. Myrna had used it to fix typos when she was creating tests on her old Smith Corona typewriter. If you had neat enough handwriting, you could substitute the correct letter or number, then you could make a photocopy, and no one could tell the difference.

The Wite-Out was cracked and yellowed. Emmy used her thumbnail to scratch it away. She held it up to the light again. The original phone number was as familiar to her as the landline to her family home. She had called it countless times as a young mother whose son loved riding horses, as a deputy in need ofadvice from a trusted mentor, as a friend who wanted to share a glass of wine or dinner.

It belonged to Virgil Ingram.

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