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Carter’s phone.

Turner opened his mouth to speak again but Josie said, “His password! The password to Carter’s phone was 1102. November second. The date of Alanna’s murder.”

Something deeply unsettling slithered up her spine and coiled around her neck. He’d been so blatant. So fucking bold. Everything was right there in front of them. They just hadn’t known what to look for, how to put the pieces together.

Turner was strangely silent as he processed this. All Josie could hear was the whir of the ancient air-conditioning system and the sounds of traffic outside. Finally, he said, “No. That’s—that’s got to be a coincidence.”

But he tugged on his beard, which Josie now knew was his anxious tic.

“It’s too coincidental,” she said.

Turner spun and walked away from her, putting the desks between them. Josie watched him pace back and forth in front of the corkboard. “Nah,” he muttered. “You have to have more than that.”

In truth, she didn’t have much more than a theory, supported by her own psychological analysis. It wasn’t evidence. She racked her brain, reexamining everything she knew about the case and the Wests through this new lens.

“Nothing?” said Turner. “You’ve got nothing.”

“I’m telling you, it’s Carter.”

There was another long beat of silence. Then Turner scoffed. “Carter’s got a wife and two young kids. Do you know how hard it is to pull off anything at all when you have kids under five? Even when they’re in REM sleep, they can sense the very moment you even think about adulting. Need to make a phone call? Want to take a nap yourself? Watch an episode of your favorite show? Get laid? Eat without being interrupted? Take a shit? They will wake up, Quinn. Every. Damn. Time.”

Josie couldn’t deny that he had a point. She hadn’t raised a toddler but she remembered what Harris was like between three and five. It had been difficult to get him to nap even before he outgrew naps. Even when he was sick, getting him to rest was almost impossible. The only times she remembered him being knocked out was when he’d started to get hives from a laundry detergent Misty had been using and she’d had to give him Benadryl.

“Oh shit,” she blurted out.

My sister got to go inside ’cause she’s asleep ’cause she had the sneezes from allergies and Mommy gave her the pink medicine.

I put my phone on silent earlier when Mols was napping. Her allergies were bothering her pretty bad. We gave her some Benadryl and tried to get her to sleep for a while but she was really cranky.

Josie could think of at least two cases off the top of her head where killers had used Benadryl as a sedative, although neither had involved young children.

Mols was cranky. She needed a nap but lately she won’t sleep unless me or Erin are with her so I took her into her room and laid down with her… Usually I stay in there until she wakes up while Erin occupies Piper. If you accidentally wake Mols before she’s ready, there will be hell to pay.

Molly West was only three years old. How much was Carter giving her to ensure she stayed unconscious in her room so that Erin and Piper weren’t alerted to his absence? If he was willing to heavily sedate his own toddler, what else was he capable of when it came to his own children? Images of every Last Kiss Killer crime scene flashed through Josie’s mind like a macabre slideshow. Carter hadn’t physically harmed Molly. Yet. But every second she and Piper were in his care, in his house, around him at all, they were at risk. He was already unraveling, getting bolder, more brazen, less concerned with consequences.

The blood rushing in her ears was a roar now. Her veins were on fire. Her skin felt too hot. “Turner,” she said, snatching her keys from her desk. “Come on. We’ve got to get to Carter’s house right now.”

He groaned but followed her toward the stairwell. “Quinn, did you even hear anything I said? It’s not Carter. We should be talking to Dean.”

“Fine.” She pushed through the door and started down the steps. “We’ll bring him in, too. First, we need to get to Carter’s house.”

Despite his long strides, Turner had trouble keeping up with her. “He’s not there. If you want to talk to either of them, it’s going to have to wait.”

Josie threw the door to the municipal parking lot open. “Why?”

Turner caught up to her. He looked at his phone screen. “It’s almost nine thirty. They’re at Kirstie West’s funeral.”

Josie strode across the parking lot and climbed into her SUV. “Then we’ll go there.”

Fifty-Two

Kirstie West’s funeral was a much smaller affair than Sylvia’s had been. Roughly fifty people filled the pews near the front of the church, listening to Pastor Deegan’s eulogy. The family sat in the first row. Dean’s head was bent toward his lap. Beside him, Carter held a squirmy Molly in his arms. Piper sat primly next to Erin, both of them watching the pastor. Louis Fisher was a few rows back, sandwiched between two women. The sorrow in the room was palpable. From where they stood at the back of the church, Josie could hear several people weeping quietly.

“This is crazy, Quinn,” Turner whispered from the side of his mouth. “What do you think is going to happen here? Dean’s gonna use one of his nieces as a ritual sacrifice up there on the altar for everyone to see?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Josie.

Maybe she was overreacting but everything in her body was telling her that Carter needed to be separated from his girls as soon as possible. Every single one of her internal alarms blared far too loudly for her to ignore them.