“I’ve got access to facial recognition software,” he explains. “Same system the police use. If she’s on file anywhere, we might get a hit.”
“Do it,” I say.
Ten minutes later, we’re all huddled around the computer.
“We’ve got her,” Andy says, pulling up the screen.
A name flashes into view. Martha Stieger.
Dale leans in. “Where is she?”
“Manchester,” Andy replies. “She checked into a hotel the same day Anika died.”
The room goes still, just the sound of our breaths filling the space.
Dale looks at me. “We take this to the police. Now. We can’t risk Wynter taking the fall for this.”
I nod slowly. “I will,” I say. Then I grab my jacket. “But first, we talk to her.”
Martha Stieger isn’t very clever. And if Luke thought this was a good place to hide her, then he’s just as stupid. Everyone knows you don’t stay in one place when you’re running.
I knock on the hotel room door.
“Room service,” I call.
“I didn’t order room service,” she replies.
“Martha Stieger?” I ask. “Mr. Luke Malone arranged Champagne.”
There’s a pause, followed by a soft giggle.
“Oh.”
The lock clicks and the door opens, but the second she sees me, she tries to slam it shut again.
My foot wedges into the gap, and I force my way inside, quickly followed by Dale, who slams it shut behind us and locks it.
Her eyes dart around in panic. “How did you find me?” she breathes, backing up.
“Why are you hiding?” I ask, stepping further into the room.
“I’m not. I’m visiting family—”
“No,” I cut in coldly. “You’re hiding because you killed my friend.”
“I didn’t,” she cries, shaking her head wildly. “She wanted to—”
“Sit down,” Dale orders, grabbing her arm and pushing her onto the couch. “Start talking.”
“There’s . . . there’s something you need to hear,” she stammers, reaching for her handbag.
Dale moves fast, snatching it before she can surprise us with anything. He tips it upside down and the contents spills out across the table. She points to a phone.
“What’s this?” he asks, picking it up.
Martha swallows hard. “It’s . . . it’s a recording. From Anika . . . to you,” she says, her eyes locking on mine. My chest tightens. “She made me do it,” Martha continues, her voice trembling. “She asked me to hit record. She said it was important.”
I step closer. “When?”
