Rosie chewed her lower lip, a distant expression in her eyes. “I only saw her once,” she explained. “She was petite. I remember because she was so much smaller than Peter. Auburn hair, dark eyes… I don't remember much else about her, but she drove this fancy car. A Cadillac, I think.”
Alarm bells went off in my head. “Did you say Cadillac?”
Rosie nodded. “A light blue one with a chrome grille.”
“Did you tell the police about this?” Judy asked.
Rosie shook her head. “No. They never asked me. Why?”
I glanced at Judy, then shifted my gaze back to Rosie. “Because that car matches the description of a vehicle seen frequenting Peter’s house,” I said, a growing sense of unease settling over me.
Rosie paled, looking as though she might be sick. “What do you mean? You think Linda had something to do with Peter’s death?”
“I don’t know,” I said as the pieces started to come together in my head. “But one thing’s for sure—I need to find her, and quick.”
After telling Andrew what Rosie had shared about Linda, we decided to further our investigation. From my pocket, I pulled out the photograph of Peter's office staff that I had managed to secure earlier from his company’s Human Resources department. Among the cheerful faces was a petite woman with auburn hair and dark eyes.
I tapped the photo with my finger, staring at the woman’s image. “This must be her, don’t you think?” I asked, showing it to Andrew.
He leaned over to take a closer look, his brow furrowing in thought. “She certainly matches Rosie's description.”
“And that of Peter’s neighbor. Is there any way we can get her address?”
Andrew made a couple of phone calls and within an hour we had our answer.
“She lives on Highland Drive in Manns Harbor,” he said, looking from the address he’d written down to me. “You up for a drive?”
The journey to Manns Harbor was silent and tense, every passing mile marker bringing us closer to a potentially pivotal confrontation. As we pulled onto Highland Drive, a sense of dread washed over me. As we turned the bend, Andrew slowed the car, and there it was.
The house was modest, standing alone with a shroud of vines creeping up its brick facade. It was the kind of place that could hide secrets, and the light blue Cadillac parked in the driveway seemed to beckon us toward it.
Andrew shot me a glance, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “Ready?”
I nodded, pulling at the door handle before I could change my mind.
We approached the house, climbing the steps to the front door with careful, calculated movements. I glanced at Andrew, my heart pounding against my ribcage. He gave a curt nod before knocking on the worn wooden door. For a moment, the only sound was the distant chirping of birds. And then footsteps—soft, hesitant. The door creaked open to reveal a petite woman with auburn hair and dark eyes. Her expression was wary, thecreases around her eyes perhaps evidence of worry and sleepless nights.
“Can I help you?”
Andrew introduced us and asked if we could speak with her for a few minutes. Linda hesitated, then stepped aside to let us in. As we crossed the threshold, I took in the simple adornments of the home—faded family photos and an abundance of books. The reality of Linda's life felt far removed from the image I had painted in my mind.
“Please, have a seat.” She gestured toward the worn-out couch as she shuffled into the living room.
I exchanged a glance with Andrew. We both sat down, our eyes unconsciously scanning the room. It was a domestic scene that was almost too normal to be noteworthy. The coffee table held a scattering of magazines and a teacup, its contents long cold. A half-finished crossword lay atop a stack of newspapers on the end table.
“Linda, we’re here on behalf of Rosalie Flores,” said Andrew, his voice cutting through the stillness of the room. “She’s the woman accused of killing Peter Sullivan. I believe you knew him, didn’t you?”
Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she looked like a frightened deer caught in headlights. “Peter, yes,” she stammered. “He and I were…well, we were lovers.” She looked away, her hands twisting the hem of her faded blouse.
“We know,” Andrew said, his tone soft but firm. “And we believe you might have something to tell us that could help clear Rosalie's name.”
Linda’s gaze flicked toward us and then away again. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
Andrew leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he studied Linda. “We are not here to accuse or judge you, Linda,”he reassured her. “Our only goal is to help Rosalie get a fair trial.”
A silent battle waged in her eyes, a tug of war between fear and the flames of some buried truth she'd been holding on to for too long. She clenched her hands into fists, nails digging into her palms as if the pain could somehow distract her from the reality of our presence.
“All right,” Linda finally said. “I’ll tell you what I know. But I’m not sure how much help I can be.”
