Page 42 of What We May Be

“Ophelia in Hamlet,” Trevor replied. “Falsely accused of conspiring with Hamlet.”

“And Lady Macbeth,” Sean said. “That one’s the rub.” He tossed the CliffsNotes on her desk and braced his forearms on his knees. “Lady Macbeth is guilty. She goads Macbeth into killing the king. She’s ruthless, ambitious, power hungry. I can’t figure out how that one fits, but Ophelia is obvious.”

“Let’s start there.” She kicked off her heels, stood, and paced the area behind her desk. “We’re looking for someone actually guilty of conspiracy.”

“The victim would be a man,” Sean said, “if the pattern holds.”

“Makes sense,” Trevor said. “Killing men who are guilty of crimes the women unjustly died for. Pretty fucking poetic actually.”

“And the killer?” Jaylen asked.

“Still up in the air,” Sean answered.

“Jeff was a skinny fella,” Diego said. “But he was strung up good. And Julian wasn’t a small guy. Either would be hard for a woman to handle.”

“There was a pulley for bales of hay in the barn,” Charlie reminded them. She paused in her circuit and slid the case file across her desk to Sean. “And Jeff’s tox screen was positive for Diprivan, a fast-acting anesthetic. Maggie suspects the same will show up in Julian’s panel.”

“So focusing on the potential vic,” Jaylen chimed back in, “likely a male, guilty of conspiracy of some sort. Where do we go from there?”

“The common threads between Jeff and Julian,” Sean replied.

“HU,” Trevor said.

“The iffy political connection,” Charlie supplied.

“Duncan could be Ophelia,” Sean said. “According to Saul, he’s crooked as sin.”

“Can we talk to Saul?” Trevor asked. “Might be he gives us something to go on.”

The investigative high Sean had been riding popped like a bubble, his face falling along with his chin, a hand skirting up to his nape.

Charlie stepped in with the rescue. “Saul’s not really an option.”

Trevor opened his mouth to no doubt question further, but after a sharp shake of her head, he caught on, moving to the next possibility. “Craig too,” he said. “After the incident with the cheerleaders last year—”

Diego huffed. “You mean how he covered up the date rape of those three young women by his buddy Teller’s football players?”

Charlie nodded. “Conspiracy.”

“Same way,” Trevor said, “he and Teller covered up slipping you a Mickey and trying to do the same to you our senior year of high school.”

Sean lurched to the end of his chair. “He did what?”

“He didn’t succeed,” Charlie said, though the fallout from the attempt—the tragedies that had ensued—made bile churn in her stomach. That night had included Trevor’s fist in Craig’s face, Craig busting his nose, and Teller, who’s dad was the HU baseball coach, threatening to torpedo Trevor’s baseball scholarship.

And her mother’s death.

As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, Trevor helpfully brought the conversation back to the present. “It fits for Ophelia.” He yanked his hair back into a bun with the rubber band from around his wrist. “Plus, Craig’s younger brother is at HU, barely hanging on by his D average, and Craig guest lectures from time to time.”

Charlie choked out a bitter laugh. “On what? How to be a dick?”

“Local government.” Trevor framed his head with his hands, then made an exploding motion complete with sound effects. “Feeds his enormous ego. Only makes him a bigger dick.”

“There’s another possibility,” Sean said. He wore an expression similar to the one he’d worn in the alley last week. He didn’t want to say the thing he had to say.

She braced. “Out with it.”

“Trevor.”

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