TO: Matthew DuPont
FROM: Marta Koval
Mr. DuPont, this man has been calling and emailing me every day. He even reached out to my daughter on Instagram. I do not know what to do. He sent me this…
Attached to the email are two photos. The first is one of DuPont and Lila, what looks like a selfie, and when I see the second, myvision swims with a watery jolt of déjà vu. It’s the same photo Liam showed me, the one of my sister and her friends in ski gear. This time though, in higher resolution, I notice the person taking the photo reflected in the mirror behind them—Marta.
September 2, 2022 8:06 AM
TO: Marta Koval
FROM: Matthew DuPont
Understood. I will come speak to you in person, no need to send any more emails.
“He killed her,” Zee says. “He obviously had plenty of reason to. All the documents she pulled and gave to Professor Williams? That’s enough to shut Greystone down, to shut Sterling down, and to ruin Matthew personally.”
I pull my head back from the screen. “It feels like Marta might know something…like she was there that weekend too.”
Amy nods. “I tried, but she won’t talk to me. Maybe one of you can try? And Naomi, maybe you can try again with your sister.”
I nod but, as much as I want to, I don’t tell them that if Mayadidhave something to do with it, even if it was an accident, she would try to shut this down. Getting her involved could putherat risk.
I’m standing, pacing the room, when I realize…I have to talk to her friends.
Chapter Forty-Three
Maya
June 2023
It’s Tuesday morning and Simmonssits across from me at the police station, Naomi’s notebook on the table between us.
“Where did you find this?” she asks.
“It was caught behind the desk in my sister’s room in Greenwich. We were there for the funeral.”
“And when was the funeral?”
“It was on Sunday.”
“Why didn’t you call us the day you found it?”
I hesitate. “I—I wanted to look through it myself. I didn’t know it would have anything useful to your investigation in it until I read it.”
Simmons writes this down. She takes a deep breath and folds her hands on the table before meeting my eyes.
“The final autopsy results showed evidence your sister was drugged.”
I clench my jaw. That’s what I’d been trying to tell them.
“What did you find?” I demand, trying to keep my voice even.
Simmons opens the folder in front of her. Inside is a photo of my sister’s neck. There’s a tiny red mark on the skin, a puncture wound, nearly impossible to see without the magnified image.
“We found this mark on her body,” Simmons says, sliding over the photo. “We suspect someone may have injected her with the ketamine.”
I look up from the photo to her, the sick feeling in my stomach rising up my throat. I swallow. “You have to look into Matthew DuPont again.”
