Johanna nodded, already moving toward the door. “He’s carrying so much anger toward her. But I think there’s guilt there too. He needs to know if she’s okay, if what he did made any difference.”
“How do we find her?” Walker followed her inside, closing the door against the cold.
Bishop met them in the entryway, his tail wagging gently in greeting. Walker absently scratched the dog’s ears as he passed, heading for the desk in the corner of the living room.
“Don’t know yet,” she admitted. “But between the two of us, I bet we can figure it out.”
Walker sat down at the computer, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Where do we start?”
“Court records are public,” she said, pulling up a chair beside him. “We can look up the case, find her last name. Thensocial media, maybe? Or the local paper in Solace might have something.”
Bishop settled at their feet as Walker pulled up the county court database. The search was tedious—neither of them knew Crystal’s full name, and “assault resulting in death” returned too many results. They narrowed it down by date range, by Boone’s name, combing through digital paperwork with growing frustration.
“Here,” Walker said finally, pointing at the screen. “State vs. Callahan. Victim: Vincent Resnik. Witness for the prosecution: Crystal Lynn Westover.”
“Crystal Westover,” Johanna repeated, committing the name to memory. “Now we have something to work with.”
They split the tasks. He searched social media while she called a colleague at the VA who might have contacts in victim services. Bishop dozed beside them, his breathing deep and even in the quiet house.
Hours passed. Outside, the sky darkened to slate, then to black, and still Boone hadn’t come in from the truck. Walker kept glancing toward the window, his worry evident, but she shook her head.
“Give him time,” she said. “He’s thinking.”
Walker nodded, turning back to the computer. Their shoulders brushed occasionally as they worked, the familiar rhythm of collaboration settling between them like an old, well-worn blanket. It reminded her of before—before Nick's death, before everything fell apart, when they had been a team in the truest sense of the word.
“I think I’ve got something,” Walker said, breaking the silence. He clicked on a news article from the Solace Gazette dated two years ago. “Women’s shelter opens in county... Haven House, funded by anonymous donor... director Crystal Westover says facility will provide resources for domestic violence survivors...”
Johanna leaned in, reading over his shoulder. “That’s her. She’s running a shelter now?”
“Looks like it.” Walker scrolled down. “Says here she was inspired by her own experience with domestic violence. She tried to recant her testimony in Boone’s case, but it was too late. He was already convicted.”
“She tried to tell the truth,” Johanna murmured. “Even after the trial.”
“There’s more,” Walker said, clicking on another link. “She speaks at schools now, about recognizing the signs of abuse. And she’s advocating for better training for law enforcement in domestic violence cases.”
Crystal hadn’t just survived. She had transformed her trauma into purpose. She was safe now, helping other women find safety, too.
And she had tried to make it right.
“It wasn’t for nothing,” Johanna said softly. “All that pain, all that time Boone lost… it wasn’t for nothing.”
Walker leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hand over his face. “We need to tell him.”
She nodded. “But carefully. This is going to hit him hard.”
He sent the articles to the printer, then, as the old printer whined, he stood and stretched his back with a soft groan. “I’ll go.”
“Walker…” She exhaled long and slow, giving herself a moment to search for the right words that wouldn’t hurt his feelings. “You have a tendency to lead with anger and?—”
“Jo.” He covered her hand on the desk with his, stopping her protest. “He needs to hear it from me.”
She studied him for a moment, taking in the lines around his serious blue eyes. And she realized he needed this as much as Boone did.
“Okay. But if he shuts down, don’t push. Just give him the information and let him process.”
“I know.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ve got this, Jo.”
eight
