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“No, never,” said Dean.

“I used to tell her she should find someone,” Kirstie said. “She said no one would want to be with a hoarder. When I tried to convince her there’s a lid for every pot she just laughed it off.”

“Little did we know,” Dean muttered. “She used to joke that men hadn’t improved that much since our dad left. Fisher’s a lot younger than her, isn’t he? Like close to Carter’s age? It’s weird. I’m still not sure I believe him. First, I thought he was making it up, ’cause why would Mom hide it from us?”

“I told you,” Kirstie said. “It was because you and your brother would be so judgmental. It wouldn’t have mattered who she dated. No one would ever be good enough.”

Dean sniffled. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“I know I am.”

By all accounts, Sylvia had devoted her entire life to her sons. If she had had any relationships or trysts since their father left, they’d been wholly unaware of it. They were doggedly protective of her. Josie could imagine the pushback Sylvia would have received introducing any boyfriend to them.

“Had you ever seen or met Louis Fisher before?” Noah asked.

“Not that I remember,” Dean replied.

Kirstie said, “I saw him around the church but never talked to him before. Believe me, it was a shock to all of us when he showed up at that meeting.”

“Mr. Fisher told us that about a month before your mother died, she went out with another man.” Josie repeated the description he had given them. “She told Louis that he was an old friend but wouldn’t give him any other information. Do you have any idea who her old friend might have been?”

“No,” said Dean.

“Can you think of someone she was friends with before you moved to Denton she might have reunited with?”

“No, nobody, but I didn’t pay much attention to that kind of stuff. I was a kid. I was wrapped up in school and friends and my own shit.”

“Do you remember the names of any of your old neighbors?”

He shook his head.

“The interview ended around noon,” said Josie. “Did she mention having any plans for the rest of the day?”

According to the GPS log from Sylvia’s phone records, she had gone home after the interview.

“She said she was going to relax for the rest of the day,” said Dean. “She wanted to go home, drink some tea, and watch television. We invited her over for dinner but she said no.”

“When is the last time you had contact with your mom?” asked Noah.

“I texted her Saturday night to check on her and she said she was fine. That’s when she mentioned that the reporter was coming to the house the next morning. I called her and asked her if that was a good idea and she told me to mind my own business.”

This lined up with what they’d found in Sylvia’s phone records.

“Did you offer to come over to her house while Ms. Payne was there?” Noah asked.

“Of course.” Dean pushed a hand through his hair. “She told me she didn’t need a babysitter. Then I called Carter. He said he’d had pretty much the same conversation with her. She didn’t want us there. She didn’t want us there, and now she’s dead.”

Josie could understand why Sylvia wouldn’t want her sons there for the private meeting. They were overprotective and didn’t think very highly of Trinity. Had Sylvia simply been annoyed with them when she told them not to come over, or had there been more to it? Had she wanted to tell Trinity something off-camera or even off-record that she didn’t want her sons to hear?

Twenty-Six

Josie startled, banging her knees on the underside of her desk as the Chief threw open his office door with such force that the doorknob punched into the drywall. There was already an indentation there from all the other times he’d stormed out of his office during his tenure and yet, it still sounded like a car backfiring. Wincing, she rubbed at her knees and chanced a look at him.

“Quinn!” he hollered even though she was only a few feet away. “I swear to holy hell. You better be typing up an arrest warrant for this Last Kiss prick or I’m gonna lose my shit.”

The Chief regularly lost his shit. In fact, he was losing his shit right now. It really wouldn’t be a departure from the norm. Josie chose to keep that little nugget to herself. Instead, she stayed silent, willing the throb in her knees to go away. He was just getting started and he didn’t like to be interrupted when he was this incensed. An angry flush stained his acne-pitted cheeks. Several flyaway white hairs floated above his balding pate, waving like little highway safety flaggers warning her there was a tirade ahead.

“The press is breathing down my neck,” he went on, folding his arms over his thin chest. Coffee stains were strewn across his white shirt like blood spatter. She could even see the splotches on his dark blue tie. That wasn’t a normal coffee spill. Josie was well-acquainted with those. Some days it was like she’d just learned to drink out of a cup that morning. This looked like someone had thrown a coffee at him.