“He was very relieved but also very upset. After he left, I called Lizzie to warn her that Ali knew the truth.”
Lizzie.A murderess.How many times had I been alone with her while she repeatedly lied straight to my face? “What did Lizzie say when you told her Ali knew she killed her father?”
“She told me not to worry. That she would take care of everything.”
“How—” I began but was interrupted by a knock on the door.
A nurse came in. “Time for your meds, Mrs. Martins.” She looked from me to the older woman. “Is everything all right?”
“No, it’s not,” I said bitterly. “But I’m done here.”
I strode out of the room without another glance. I couldn’t bear to look at the old woman. I was overwhelmed, still in disbelief.
“How did your visit go?” someone inquired when I reached the lobby.
I blinked through my haze to see that it was Bernice. “Fine,” I croaked, the stale nursing home scent filling my nostrils.
She met my gaze. “She’s been asking to see you, but her family wouldn’t allow it.”
I gaped at her. “You know who I am? Why did you let me in to see her?”
“Because I couldn’t let that nice old lady die without her final wish being fulfilled.”
Bile rose in my throat. I turned away, careening toward the automatic sliding doors that led to the parking lot. When I stepped out, a blast of brisk fresh air hit my bare face.
I couldn’t breathe. Leaning over, hands on my knees, I forced air into my lungs. Once I’d settled a little, I managed to make it back to my van. Still feeling sickened, I leaned my head against the headrest, forcing more deep breaths. How was any of this possible?
My phone buzzed. A photo from Claudia. I read her text.
Here’s a screen grab of the guy who was in your backyard.
I tapped the picture, impatiently waiting for it to enlarge. A familiar face popped up. My stomach turned over. ItwasBill Warren. The man was always showing up where he didn’t belong. Had he broken in because he wanted Ali’s papers? It made sense. But how was all of this related?
My conversation with Mrs. Martins played over in my mind. Flashes from the last few days ricocheted in my head. Lizzie’s face contorted in an expression of false sympathy. Ali on the surveillance tape confronting her. Mrs. Martins crying. Ayla challenging her father at the hotel. Picking up her prescription.
Xanax.
Alprazolam.
Ali.
The accident.
Realization slammed into me. Nausea tunneled its way up into my throat. I gagged, but there was nothing there. My stomach was empty.
Shock twisted through my insides. How had I missed the truth? Now that I saw the connection, I couldn’t unsee it. I had to confront Lizzie. But first, I needed to make a call. I dialed the number, but it went to voicemail. I left an urgent message for Detective Fox.
Then I started my van and headed to the extended-stay hotel down the street.
Chapter Forty-Two
I paused in front of the door to Lizzie’s hotel room to take a breath and steady myself.
Reaching into my purse, I pulled out my phone and set up the voice recorder. I often taped my interviews and meetings with clients. I patted my coat pocket. All was as it should be. I used the recordings as notes that I could refer back to. I even had backups in case something went wrong with the first taping.
I knocked. A moment later the door opened to reveal a perspiring, red-faced Lizzie wearing leggings and carrying a hot-pink weight in one hand. The sounds of an exercise tutorial with up-tempo music played on the TV behind her. A woman’s voice chirped instructions.
“Exhale as you press up. Keep your wrists straight.”
