Page 30 of Go Alone

“I’m sure they do,” Kate said. “So did the Garfields hire a Probo?”

“I don’t know if you hire a Probo or if you appeal to them,” Oliver replied. “But yes, they worked with a group after their lawsuit failed. It was a last-resort attempt, and it failed. Though I suppose you know that.”

“Can you tell me the name of that organization?”

“Um… Jesus, I don’t know. Something about Ohio Association of Property Owners, something like that. I probably missed a word or two, but it was something like that.”

Kate’s face fell. “Not Homes for Columbus?”

“No, it was Ohio specifically. Why is this relevant? You don’t think a Probo put a hit out on Deborah six years later, do you?”

“No, I’m just following up on a lead. Thank you, Mr. Holt.”

She hung up before Oliver could press for more information. She crossed her arms and bit her lip as she paced the room.

So the Finches and the Garfields had used different advocacy groups. That didn’t mean the lead wasn’t valid. Their killer had to have been close to both situations to have the information he included in the cipher.

She stopped pacing and returned to her laptop, where she looked up the Ohio Association of Property Owners. She found nothing. She erased Owners and got a joke Facebook page featuring cartoons and animated shorts of household objects complaining about the treatment they suffered at the hands of their owners.

She tried different variations of Association and Property: Community, Group, Organization, Collective, Home, House, Dwelling, Abode.

Nothing.

She sighed. Well, there was no guarantee this was going to be easy. She would have to widen the net.

Her eyelids drooped. Her thoughts turned to Cox and the last time she’d seen him. His hands wrapped around her neck, squeezing.

No, not squeezing. Throttling. That was the appropriate word. Cox wasn’t hugging her. He was trying to crush her throat. He was trying to cut off all oxygen to her lungs, all blood to her brain.

Go Kate. Yes. Please let go.

She tried to breathe, and for a moment, it felt like she couldn’t get air. His hands were too tight around her, and her blood thudded against his bony fingers and stayed there, denied passage to her brain.

She gasped and jumped to her feet. Her thighs hit the edge of the table hard enough to bruise, but she didn’t react to that. She just gulped in air, shaking, sweat dripping from her forehead. When her mind finally accepted that Cox wasn’t killing her, she sighed. “Jesus Christ.”

Time to make more coffee. She’d had a long and at times frustrating day, but she was finally on to something. She could sleep later. Right now, she needed to see this through. Their killer could rest if he wanted to, but she wouldn’t rest until she brought him to justice.

She made more coffee, but she couldn’t drink it. She couldn’t shake the feeling of Cox’s hands around her throat, cutting herself off from lifegiving oxygen, pleading with her to close her eyes and disappear.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Catherine Valentine settled into her easy chair and placed the tea service on the ornately carved coffee table in front of her. Her Irish setters, Sapir and Whorf, took position on either side of her and laid their heads on their paws. Whorf looked plaintively at her, and it took all of her willpower not to give in and hand him the treat he wanted.

She had given in a lot more often lately. Kate’s absence cut like a knife, searing not just new skin but old wounds that she was certain had healed.

Until Cox. Until that bastard somehow learned about William and used his knowledge to badger Kate. Until Kate, acting on words he’d said to her, asked Catherine if William had ever lied about someone else or stolen an idea.

Catherine sipped her tea and blinked rapidly, willing the tears not to fall.

They fell anyway. Lately, she couldn’t prevent them. The faded bruise of William’s loss had once more become the sharp ache she remembered from the days immediately after it had happened.

She lifted a picture of William off of the coffee table and smiled through her tears. He was so young and handsome in this photo. In it, he was holding Kate, who would have been no more than eleven months. Kate was beaming her open-mouthed baby grin and reaching for William’s glasses. William was laughing and holding Kate away so her hand fell to his lips instead.

They were both so young and beautiful. Kate was a joyous child, bright-eyed, filled with wonder as a child should be. She had no concept of the horror she would face later. She never had nightmares. Her eyes held only excitement for the wonderful future that should surely be hers.

It’s not fair.

That thought, one suppressed after long years of therapy but never truly conquered, echoed through her mind, a soft but resonant whisper.