Once again, her heart pounds madly; this back-and-forth can’t be great for Kaitlyn’s cardiovascular health. “How?”
“I recently installed a security camera in the lobby. The police have been sniffing around, and it’s making residents uneasy. They think something shady went down that I’m not telling them.”
“Why have the police been around? How recently?”
Roger’s voice becomes defiant. “Listen, this shit has got nothing to do with me. I run a clean, respectable property. I’m not in the business of getting into people’s business, you know what I’m saying? But it’s got nothing to do with me.”
Kaitlyn needs to de-escalate the situation or risk losing his help. “I didn’t mean any offense. I imagine this has been a stressful time for you.”
Roger grunts.
“If you’re willing, I’d love to come by and watch any security footage you might have caught of the woman who drops off the rent. Whenever you’re free, of course.”
A beat passes. Finally, Roger says, “I have some shit to do today, but I’ll be around tomorrow. Come by then.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Another grunt is offered in lieu of a goodbye, and then the call ends.
Kaitlyn sets her phone down and is looking around her small, stale, suffocating apartment—wondering how she’s going to possibly keep herself sane until tomorrow—when the phone rings. Once again, it’s an unknown number, and once again, she answers it.
“Is this Ms. Reade?” The voice on the other end this time is stern, authoritative.
“Speaking.”
“Ms. Reade, this is the Austin Police Department.”
“Oh.” A dozen thoughts race through her head: Townsend reported her. Talia reported her. The police think she’s a stalker. The police want to know why she requested her parents’ accident report. They found Amanda, and she’s alive. They found Amanda, and she’s dead.
“We’re going to need you to come down to the station.”
“Now?”
“If you’re able.”
It’s a Friday, and though Kaitlyn is technically working remotely today, her calendar is clear; the day stretches ahead of her without motive or agenda. Whether it’s good news or bad that awaits her, it’s almost a relief either way, just having something to do with herself.
“I’ll be there as soon as possible,” she says.
“We don’t know how to tell you this,” Detective Burrows says. He sits across a table from Kaitlyn in a drab office, with Detective Harris—the other officer Kaitlyn spoke to in June, back when she first reported her sister’s disappearance—at his side.
“Okay.” Kaitlyn remembers hearing these same words when she received a phone call two and a half years earlier, informing her that her parents were dead.
“It’s seeming more and more likely that your sister, Amanda, is not missing, as we’d initially believed. Now that it’s been nearly five months without contact, we’ve begun exploring the possibility that she is deceased.” Burrows pauses and then, almost seeming to mean it, he adds, “I’m sorry.”
Kaitlyn shakes her head. “That can’t be right. I spoke to her ex-boyfriend, Townsend Fuller. He said he’s been in contact with Amanda.” She reminds herself not to revealtoomuch; she doesn’t want to incriminate her sister if she’s been sending Townsend threatening messages, as he claimed.
“He shared those messages with us,” Harris says, “and we have reason to believe Amanda wasn’t the one who wrote them.”
“You think someone was”—Kaitlyn grapples for the right word—“I don’t know, posing as her?”
Burrows nods solemnly. “We do. And we think the same person may have hurt her.”
“Who would do that?”
The detectives exchange a look. “The investigation is ongoing, so we aren’t able to discuss names just yet,” Harris says. “But we wanted to do you the courtesy of letting you know that this missing person case is now being investigated as a potential homicide.”
Kaitlyn’s thoughts feel slow, sludgy. “You’re not looking for my sister anymore. You’re looking for her body.”
