More files.
More names.
Somewhere in this hidden room, I hoped to find Holly’s records, but the longer I searched the boxes, the more the stifling air was sending my allergies into overdrive. I grabbed a couple of boxes and headed for the front door, piling them into the trunk of my car. Then I went back for the others until I had them all. Trunk closed, I walked toward the driver’s door.
And that was when I saw it: a folded note beneath my windshield wiper. I steadied my nerves, pulled it free, and unfolded it.
If you value your life, you’ll stop the investigation into Holly’s murder.
I looked across the empty lot, seeing nothing and no one. But someone had been close enough to my car to leave the note, which meant that same someone had watched me carry the boxes, and they knew what I had found.
I folded the note and slipped it into my pocket.
Then I got behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled onto the road.
Someone was desperate to keep the past buried.
But I wouldn’t stop until I brought it into the light.
11
The phone rang just as I finished stacking the last of the adoption files on my dining table. I wiped the dust from my hands and checked the screen.
It was Simone.
“Have you been able to speak with Celia’s neighbors?” I asked.
“I talked to everyone—neighbors, dog walkers, the guy who waters the succulents across the way. They all knew Celia and seemed to have a good relationship with her.”
“Did you learn anything new?”
“One thing. Most of the neighbors mentioned Celia didn’t get along with her next-door neighbor, Bernadette Armstrong. They said the two of them never spoke unless they had to for some reason.”
“Did any of the neighbors know what caused the rift?” I asked.
“No one seemed to know how it all started, but one of Celia’s neighbors recalled seeing them arguing in the driveway once, a few years back.”
“Did you speak to Bernadette?”
“I tried. I couldn’t get much out of her. Might be a good idea for you to stop by when you get the chance. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
“I will. Anything else I should know?”
There was a pause, and then, “I got the impression that the neighbors on Celia’s street keep an eye out for things. None of them saw anyone hanging around the day Holly was murdered.”
“So, either our person blended in and didn’t look like a person who posed a threat, or they snuck in without being seen.”
“Right.”
I thanked her for the information, ended the call, and stood a moment beside the table, deciding my next move. Did I dive into the box of secrets? Or did I save them for later, after I spoke with Bernadette?
I grabbed my keys and gave Luka a pat, promising to return soon, and then I headed for the door.
From the outside, Bernadette’s house mirrored Celia’s in size, but the yard told a different story. Celia’s place had planters, wind chimes, and a holiday wreath on the front door. Bernadette’s yard had bare soil, a cracked birdbath, and a single metal chair on the porch. No plants. No welcome mat.
I walked up the path and knocked, and moments later, the door opened a few inches. A woman in her mid-fifties peered through the gap. She wore no makeup, had short, curly, blond hair, and was dressed in a sweatshirt with the name of a boxing gym across the front.
“I’ve seen you around,” she said. “You’re the private detective.”
