Page 18 of Go Alone

Marcus committed the name to memory and handed Carla a card. “If you or your cousin can find the receipt, that’s the email address to send it to. I’ll follow up with her and the theater as well.”

“Of course you will,” Carla said, voice dripping with contempt. “You wouldn’t want a criminal to get away without consequences, would you?”

The sun was high when Marcus left Carla’s house, but the world seemed dimmer as he made his way back to the bus stop. Howard Greer was a victim, there was no question about that, but like many of their victims, he was not innocent.

Whoever had killed him had likely suffered at his hand. Their cipher might have been one of grief, but it wasn’t sadness that plunged the needle into Howard’s throat or poured potting soil into his open mouth. Those actions were motivated by the oldest of motives.

Revenge.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Deborah Holt was not given to emotion. She wasn’t a psychopath, and despite what some would say, she did not consider herself cold. She was merely practical. She had a home, a modest but well-built ranch house in Bexley, a safe suburban enclave with good schools and distance from the crime of the inner city. She had three children, all of whom were now grown, two in college and one pursuing his law degree from the University of California, Berkely. She had an ex-husband with whom she shared a satisfactory relationship that met both their needs without requiring them to entangle their finances or accommodate their living preferences.

She had a good life, and it was good because she had made it good. She had done what she had to do.

She sipped her Pinot Grigio and looked through her kitchen window at the house next to hers. Her lower lip trembled once, and she bit it firmly. None of that. The Garfields were a necessary casualty. If they suffered because they chose to fixate on what was lost rather than finding something new, that was their problem.

The family that lived there now, the Mirzoyans, were a charming bunch. Far better suited for this neighborhood than the surly, aloof Garfields anyway. There was a reason the Garfields hadn’t been able to raise the signatures they needed for their petition.

And Deborah had to do it. She had her own family to think of, and while her split from Oliver was mutual, he had proven far more devious than she expected. His finances were untouchable, and the child support he agreed to pay was not generous, no matter what that pompous bitch of a judge believed.

She wanted a better life for them. For that, she agreed to do things that she otherwise would have abhorred.

She lifted her glass to her lips and was dismayed to find she’d drunk it already. How had that happened?

She set the glass on the counter and deliberately left the bottle on the counter. Left out overnight, it would turn, and she’d be forced to throw it away.

She reached for her phone instead. Oliver was always up for a night of fun, so long as he wasn’t expected to stay until morning. He was really nothing more than another drug, but he didn’t linger the way alcohol did, and he was easy to refuse if he became pushy.

Sure enough, Oliver was absolutely willing to come over and give Deborah something to focus on besides useless guilt. She dropped onto her sofa and sighed, eager to get this over with and go back to not torturing herself for necessary decisions.

The doorbell rang. Deborah blinked. Then she laughed. Had Oliver been waiting for her call?

She laughed again as she got to her feet. She reached up to undo the top button of her blouse, then lowered her hand. Let him work for it a little.

She opened the door and was immediately grateful she hadn’t begun undressing. The man on her porch wasn’t Oliver. He wasn’t anyone she knew or anyone she would wish to know. He had a disheveled look about him, a roughness that made her think of her brother Jackson after his wife left him. Same defeated mope in his eyes too.

“Can I help you?” she asked, making it clear in her tone that she had no desire to do so.

“You can say hello to Earl Garfield,” the man replied. “If God allows you to see him before He dispenses judgment.”

Deborah’s jaw went slack. She started to close the door, but his hand whipped forward before she could. Something stung her neck. She opened her mouth, but the scream she intended to make came out as a soft wheeze.

She collapsed to the floor and watched as the stranger stepped over her and locked her door.

She waited to lose consciousness.

But she didn’t. Not for a long while. Too long.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Marcus rubbed his face and got to his feet. Then he remembered he had nowhere to go. They’d exhausted their day chasing their tails and caught nothing but bits of fur.

He sat back down and tapped his heels instead.

“Take a walk,” Kate suggested, staring at her laptop screen, which currently displayed every record the Ohio Chamber of Commerce had on A-Plus Home Inspection, the company partly owned by Howard Greer that had decided Boyd Sutter and Barbara Finch’s homes didn’t pass muster shortly after Howard’s city employees decided the same thing.

That company went out of business eight years ago. A-Plus’s board had all retired and moved out of state except for Howard. The members of Homes for Columbus, the advocacy group that had spoken up for Barbara Finch, had likewise scattered to the wind. None still lived in Ohio and hadn’t for years.