“I will,” I said.
Hunter remained in her seat, lost in public records and databases, her sweater sleeve sliding down her wrist as she typed.
Then she shot out of her seat.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I’ve got something, an address for Lenny. According to this, he’s still living in Sedona. I’ll text it to you.”
“Excellent work.”
“You plan on trying to get out to see him today?”
“If I can.”
“Leave Luka with me. I could use the company.”
I nodded, grabbed my bag, and headed for the door. Outside, the fog refused to lift, clinging to the street as if it had nowhere else to go.
My thoughts turned to Lenny.
He’d walked back into Celia’s life.
Had he walked back into Holly’s too?
Those questions were among many others taking up space in my head.
But right now, I needed to clear it.
I had a plane to catch.
9
The flight to Arizona left on time, which I hoped was a sign of a good start to the remainder of the day. I closed my eyes for most of the trip, letting the hum of the plane engines relax my mind. By the time we landed in Flagstaff, the skies were clear, giving the illusion of warmth even though it was a brisk fifty degrees outside.
I rented a sedan for the day, tossed my handbag inside, and pulled onto the road. The drive to Sedona cut through stretches of pine, then opened into wide views of red rock that looked like it had been carved by something greater than water and wind.
Forty minutes later, the turnoff for the RV park for Lenny’s last known address came into view. A wooden sign marked the entrance, hanging from a rope tied between two posts. A few dozen campers dotted the area, some with rusted, old campers, and others that looked like they’d just been driven off an RV lot.
As I pulled in, I started looking around, seeing laundry flapping on lines, a few dogs in the area, and a group of people standing around playing horseshoes. I parked beside a faded camper van painted in swirls of blue, green, and gold. On the mat in front of the door, a stack of stones sat beside a pair of sandals.
The front door opened, and a man stepped out. His hair hung past his shoulders in light brown waves streaked with shades of gray. He was barefoot and wore loose linen pants and a sun-worn shirt with a hole in the collar.
He looked me up and down and whistled. “I don’t know how I lucked into someone like you showing up at my door, but welcome.”
“Are you Lenny Cutler?” I asked.
He studied me a moment before responding as if questioning my reasons for being there. “Depends who’s asking.”
“My name is Georgiana, and I’m a private detective. I’m investigating the murder of Holly Honeywell.”
He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms, shaking his head. “Figured someone would track me down and talk to me about it. You found me faster than I expected. Come on in.”
I climbed up the steps and entered the camper van, and the scent of incense mixed with weed hit me like a wave without warning. Lenny’s place was far more well-kept than I expected, given his appearance. A woven rug covered the floor, small plants lined the counter, and a stack of books rested beside the sink.
Lenny motioned to the only chair and invited me to sit, which I did. He took the bench opposite, resting his elbows on his knees.
“You drive here?” he asked.
