To his credit, Gilcrest doesn’t dismiss the query offhand. He takes his time answering, and when he does, he seems to choose his words carefully. “Burrows was a good detective. She didn’t find your father’s body, but tried, and she didn’t give up. By the time she died later that summer, she’d exhausted every avenue. Still, I can’t say I haven’t asked myself the same thing over the years. So,ifyou asked me if I thought your father was alive, I’d play cop and reflect the question back to you. Do you think your father is alive?”
“I know he wouldn’t have wanted to be found.”
“If you have anything beyond hope or a gut feeling, now’s the time to share it.”
I have the pint glass wrapped in a napkin, ready to be tested for fingerprints and DNA, but the detective hasn’t earned my trust, not yet. “Maybe I’m looking for more than hope,” I say.
Gilcrest nods as though he may have another question to ask. Instead, he puts the SUV in gear. “The search for my father.There’s the logline for your podcast. You can find him for real, or you can find him metaphorically.” He drives the rest of the way to Burkehaven, where yellow tape marks the crime scene. “You’ll need to avoid an unsolved mystery, though. Audiences hate open endings.”
Chapter Eighteen
I expect to find an army of CSIs in white Tyvek suits collecting evidence at the crime scene along the lakeshore. Instead, a lone, bored state deputy keeps guard in a cruiser. Gilcrest consults with him before sending him off for a break, then leads me along a narrow access alley lined with yellow crime tape to where the house’s burned-out shell is covered in plastic tarps and surrounded by an orange barrier. “The fire marshal’s team collected evidence before the rain came,” Gilcrest says. “They’ll be back today. They found evidence of accelerant, so this is officially an arson investigation.”
Offshore, a boat floats on the calm blue water. The driver points a camera toward us. “Did Andrea Haviland start the fire?” Gilcrest asks, as though talking to himself.
“That’s for you to determine,” I say.
“It doesn’t look good for her, though I can see what she’s fighting for. Once these old camps are gone, they’re gone.”
Gilcrest is a cop. He’s trying to disarm me, but I won’t fall for whatever game he’s playing. “You grew up on the lake,” I say. “Did you know my mother?”
“The lake’s big,” Gilcrest says. “And I’m only forty-eight. Your mother had practically graduated high school by the time I was out of diapers.” He musses his hair and opens the front of his coat. “You should get some photos. The light’s good right now. I scanned youronline profiles last night, and you hardly ever post. You’ll need to do more social media if you want this podcast to go anywhere.”
I wonder whether Gilcrest checked me out for professional or personal reasons. When did he find out his girlfriend left the Landing with another man, and who the man was? “I’m not interesting,” I say. “I go to work, hang out with friends, play video games. Not much else.”
“No one’s all that interesting,” Gilcrest says. “It’s the packaging. You’re young and good-looking. That sells. And you have a compelling story.” He stops at a set of granite steps. “I like the gray stone. Foot up or down?” He poses both ways.
“Down. Arms folded.”
He sets an expression of stony resolve as I snap a string of photos. “Try one with a smile,” he says, his eyes creasing into a sly, practiced grin.
Afterward, he scrolls through the images, deleting as he goes until only two remain. “One serious. One smiling. You decide. But don’t post either without approval. Now, show me where you were when the attack happened.”
We retrace our steps to a spot by the shore next to a grove of trees. “I was beside those birch trees, there,” I say.
“Thick underbrush, and plenty of places to hide,” Gilcrest says. “Have you remembered anything new since yesterday? Sometimes things are clearer a day or so later.”
I search my memory for a flash of color or a familiar voice. “Movement and sound,” I say. “It happened fast, and with the fire, there were distractions, and then the branch swung toward me.”
“How long were you out? From the moment you were attacked to when Chief Haviland arrived on scene.”
“It could have been thirty seconds, or much longer. I didn’t mark the time.” I think for a moment. “But the fire hadn’t progressed much when I came to. And Mrs. Haviland had collapsed in the courtyard. If she’d been there very long, she wouldn’t have survived with all that smoke.”
Gilcrest shoves his hands into his pockets. “Stop the recording.”
I hit pause, and he makes me show him the screen before saying, “Seton Haviland asked you to lend her money yesterday.”
“She didn’t ask,” I say. “I made an assumption.”
“But she hinted at it. And she was mad at you when you said you didn’t have any.”
“Maybe.”
“Haviland’s a good cop,” Gilcrest says. “She’ll tell me anything that touches on the case, whether it’s relevant or not. And I have to rule out every possibility.”
He had me stop the recording because he’s testing Seton as a suspect. “The conversation about money wasn’t relevant at all,” I say. “It happened as a result of the fire. We wouldn’t have had the conversation unless her mother needed a lawyer, so there’s no motive.”
“Seton was the first on the scene. Maybe she was here before you and knew what her mother had done. Maybe she panicked when she saw you arrive.”
