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Chapter Nine

The conversation with Jerrod Scott stayed with Harper, but it didn’t change her mind. Wilson Shepherd was almost certainly the killer of Naomi Scott. Everything pointed to him.

Still, his mention of Peyton Anderson was intriguing.

The blue-collar daughter of a taxi driver falling into and out of friendship with the scion of one of the wealthiest and most influential families in Savannah and then ending up dead?

Maybe there was more than friendship between Naomi and Peyton. After all, she was a beautiful, intelligent girl. What if Wilson found out Naomi and Peyton were an item and he was driven mad with jealousy?

That would be one hell of a story.

But when she wrote the article about Jerrod Scott, she included no mention of Anderson. And she didn’t mention anything about it to Baxter. Too early.

She’d nose around a little first – see what she could find out.

With this in mind, she drove to police headquarters that afternoon, intent on speaking with Detective Daltrey, and finding out if Shepherd had begun to talk.

They’d held him for the better part of a day now. Plenty of time to get something out of him.

She reached the station at shift-change. The evening crew was heading out to get in their patrol cars. The day shift was going home.

The lobby was unusually crowded.

Harper made her way through the throng towards the front desk to ask Dwayne if Daltrey was in. She was halfway there when Daltrey stepped in front of her, heading the other way.

The detective wore her usual work outfit of dark pants with a matching jacket and a high-necked white blouse. Her short dark hair was combed back, giving her an androgynous edge.

‘Detective, do you have a minute?’ Harper said.

As the crowd jostled past them, Daltrey assessed her coolly.

‘God, McClain,’ she said. ‘Don’t you ever sleep?’

‘Not very often,’ Harper responded. ‘Look, I wanted to ask you something about the Naomi Scott case.’

Daltrey’s face closed.

‘Public Information Office is on the second floor.’ She strode away, pushing open the glass door and heading out into the August heat.

When Harper hurried after her, Daltrey shot her an irritated glance.

‘I heard Kowalski put you in a headlock last night because you wouldn’t leave the crime scene. You’re not learning much, are you?’

‘Kowalski is an asshat,’ Harper said.

Daltrey snorted a laugh. ‘For once we agree.’

Taking this as an opening, Harper launched into her questions.

‘How are things going with Wilson Shepherd? Is he talking?’

‘No comment,’ Daltrey said.

‘Was the gun he had last night the murder weapon?’

‘No comment.’

‘Have you charged him yet?’

‘No comment.’

Daltrey seemed to be enjoying this. But Harper refused to give up.

‘I had a long talk with Jerrod Scott today,’ she said. ‘He told me Naomi was friends with Peyton Anderson. Did you know about that?’

Daltrey stopped so abruptly Harper nearly ran into her.

‘What are you doing, McClain? Are you getting involved in my case? You should know better by now than to meddle.’

‘I’m only telling you what Jerrod Scott said.’ Harper’s voice was even. ‘That’s not getting involved. That’s me doing my job.’

Daltrey took a step closer, pushing into Harper’s space. She was small in stature but no less intimidating for it.

‘Well, I’m not going to defend my case to you. And I’m not giving you any juicy tidbits for your rag. Those days are over. They ended the day you testified against Smith.’ Daltrey moved so close, Harper could see the faint smear of mascara against her left eyelid, smell the mint on her breath. ‘You can’t come to me expecting help. And something else: If you come harassing your ex-boyfriend for bits of information I will see to it that he’s busted back to the night shift. Am I clear?’

The reference to Luke sent anger flaring in Harper’s chest. Daltrey was out of line dragging him into this and she must have known it.

But arguing with her would only make things worse.

‘Fine.’ She held up her hands, stepping back. ‘I won’t ask you any more questions. I get the picture. No help for the traitor. You have a great day, Detective.’

She didn’t hide her sarcasm.

‘Get out of my face, McClain,’ Daltrey said. ‘I have work to do.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ Harper muttered, turning away.

The tall brick rectangle of the old police building towered over her. Its even rows of arched windows gazed down at her dispassionately as she trudged back along the steamy street to the front entrance.

But when she reached it, she didn’t go inside. Instead, she turned and walked back to the sidewalk again, pacing in the summer heat as she thought things through.

She barely noticed the long green branches of the ancient oaks overhead, or the tour bus crawling by a few feet away. She was too angry.

Normally, she’d brush off Daltrey’s attitude and get on with her job. But after last night, she felt like this had all gone too far.

She hadn’t told Baxter about Kowalski, yet. She’d been too busy last night, and distracted by running into Luke. She’d wanted to give the incident time to settle before making her next move. But she knew she couldn’t let it pass.

The tension with the police was ratcheting up. If something didn’t change, she could find herself in the position of not being able to do her job. Or worse. Idiots like Kowalski were dangerous. If the brass gave every patrol officer carte blanche to punish her, she could get hurt.

If she filed a complaint, though, it would start an almighty war between the police and the newspaper. Manhandling a reporter doing her job at a crime scene on a public street was grounds for one hell of a lawsuit.

There was no question that would give her satisfaction. But it would make headlines. She really didn’t want to be the news story again.

Instead, she had a different idea. And the more she thought about it, the more she liked it.

It was entirely possible Bob Kowalski and Detective Daltrey had given her the ammunition she needed to put a stop to this.

When she walked back into the police lobby a few minutes later, things had quieted down. Dwayne was at the front desk, eyes on the pile of paperwork in front of him. He was so caught up in his work she was all the way to the desk before he noticed her.

‘Hi, Harper,’ he said, distracted. ‘Man, things have been crazy today.’

Without waiting for her to ask, he slid the day’s police reports across to her.

After the heat outside, the air-conditioning felt Siberian. The sweat on her back didn’t so much dry as freeze. Harper shivered as she looked through the paperwork absently – a dozen burglaries, car break-ins, domestics – the usual thing. She didn’t write anything down.

There was only one news story today unless someone else died – and that was Wilson Shepherd.

Glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening, Harper whispered, ‘Dwayne.’

His head jerked up.

‘Is there any word on Shepherd? Is he talking?’

He looked around furtively before leaning toward her.

‘He’s talking,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s just not saying what they want to hear. All he says is it wasn’t him. Keeps saying it over and over.’

No wonder Daltrey was in such a foul mood. She must have been hoping for a full confession after they brought Shepherd in. Without that, they’d need evidence of guilt before they could charge him and, from the looks of things, they didn’t have it.

Closing the folder, she pushed it back across to him.

‘Is the lieutenant in?’ she asked.

It had been a long time since she’d asked to talk to Blazer about anything – she saw the surprise register on Dwayne’s face.

‘He is …’ His voice trailed off, doubtfully.

‘I’d like to speak with him,’ Harper said.

Dwayne didn’t move. ‘He’s in a bad mood today.’

She didn’t take the hint. ‘When is he not?’

‘If that’s what you want …’

Still looking doubtful, Dwayne picked up the phone and pushed a few buttons.

‘Lieutenant? Harper McClain is here. She’d like to talk to you about that River Street case.’

A long pause followed then, and Harper could hear the faint rumble of Blazer complaining. Dwayne’s expression didn’t change as he listened patiently.

When Blazer finally stopped, he said, ‘Great, then. Should I send her back?’

Blazer barked a one-syllable command. Dwayne slid the phone onto the receiver and looked up at her, worry visible in his eyes.

‘He says come on through.’

Harper rested a hand on his desk. ‘Thank you.’

‘You may not say that after you talk to him.’

Harper crossed the room to the security door leading into the police offices. Dwayne pressed a button on his desk, and the door unlocked with a loud buzz.

She pulled it open and walked through.

When she and Bonnie had been here two nights ago, it had been silent and dark. Now it was teeming with police. Harper joined the flow heading down the long corridor.

Blazer worked out of an office that she still thought of as Smith’s, at the end of the hallway. Smith’s name had been removed from the door more than a year ago, but Blazer’s didn’t look right to her, painted on the wood in funereal black.

Without giving herself time to think it over, she raised her fist and knocked with as much confidence as she could muster.

‘Enter,’ a voice ordered gruffly.

Lieutenant Larry Blazer sat at his desk in front of a laptop. He wore a charcoal-gray suit. When he looked up at her, his pale-blue tie perfectly matched his cold eyes.

Even she had to admit he was a handsome man – lean and athletic, with a lush head of hair going silver in an artful way. But he wasn’t her type. At all.

The feeling, she knew, was mutual.

‘This better be important, McClain,’ he grumbled, gesturing at the chairs in front of his desk.

As she crossed the room and sat where he indicated, Harper’s eyes were drawn to all the things he’d changed. Smith’s ostentatious mahogany desk had been replaced with a modern table made of some light, Scandinavian wood. Gone were the photos of Smith with local dignitaries and the golf ball paperweight. The desktop was empty save for the sleek silver laptop and a few files.

The only thing on the wall was a poster-sized street-map of Savannah, dotted with about forty crimson pins.

A quick glance at the streets marked told Harper it was a map of murders.

‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ she said, turning her attention back to Blazer. ‘I think we need to talk.’

‘Talk about what, exactly?’ His tone was chilly.

Harper braced herself. If he was going to throw her out, it would happen in the next sixty seconds.

She cleared her throat. ‘Lieutenant, it’s been over a year since Smith was arrested and I’m still being punished by your department. The constant harassment is making it impossible for me to do my job. It needs to stop.’

Blazer shot her an incredulous look.

‘Did you really come to my office to complain that my hard-working officers are being mean to you?’

‘This isn’t about being mean,’ she said evenly. ‘It’s about unprofessional behavior by public servants toward a member of the press. Last night, one of your officers assaulted me at a crime scene.’

Any remnants of humor left Blazer’s face.

‘That’s a serious allegation. You better be able to back that up.’

‘It happened during the arrest of Wilson Shepherd,’ Harper said. ‘Numerous officers were present and witnessed the incident. Bob Kowalski shoved me against a patrol car and said he was going to arrest me for disorderly conduct because I didn’t move quickly enough when he asked me to leave the scene.’

Blazer made a dismissive gesture. ‘Is that all? Perhaps you should have moved. My officers need to work unimpeded. That situation was dangerous. It’s Kowalski’s job to keep you safe.’

Swallowing her indignation, Harper kept her tone cool.

‘Come on, Lieutenant. Last night the only thing threatening my safety was Bob Kowalski. He went too far. He manhandled me. And I think he did it because you encourage that kind of behavior.’ Seeing his face darken, she raised one hand. ‘Please hear me out. I’m not here to hurl allegations. I’m here to ask you to stop this. You wanted to punish me?’ She held up her hands. ‘Congratulations. I’ve been punished. You succeeded. I got the message. Now I need you to call them off. Before someone gets hurt.’

Blazer leaned forward, a thin smile twisting his lips.

‘Aren’t you up to the job, anymore, McClain? Maybe you should consider another beat if this one is too hard for you.’

This time, Harper couldn’t control her temper. She’d kept this all bottled up for too long.

‘Too hard for me?’ Her voice rose. ‘One of your detectives shot me in the shoulder, Lieutenant. And I kept coming to work. Every single night I go out on the same streets as your officers, only I do it without a vest or a gun. And they humiliate me. They ignore my questions and they ridicule me. They tell sources not to speak to me. I have to get my photographer to ask questions for me because your officers are so unprofessional and childish. Too hard?’

She stood up, gripping her notebook with such force it bent. She hadn’t known until this moment how furious she really was. How painful this had been.

How much it had hurt.

‘I am not asking for special treatment. I’m asking for basic respect and professionalism. For God’s sake, Lieutenant. One of your detectives murdered a woman, but I’m the one being punished for exposing what you should have found.’

The Lieutenant tried to interject, but she refused to let him talk over her.

‘If this is the way you want to play this, be very careful,’ she said. ‘Because I am not going anywhere. And if you want war, you should know my editors would love me to demolish your department. Nobody could do that better than me. Your case resolution rates are shit. Your incident response times are worse. Murder rates are up and you know it.’ She pointed an accusing finger at the map behind his desk. ‘Things have gotten worse since Smith left and I could be asking you about that. If we’re going to talk about who’s up to the job they’re in, we could start with you. Instead, I’m giving you the chance to fix this.’

Finally running out of fury, she drew a breath. ‘You should thank me.’

Blazer held up his hands.

‘All right, McClain. Jesus. I get your point. Now, please. Sit down. Let’s talk this through.’

Harper stayed where she was. She was breathing heavily; her face still hot with anger. She’d held all of that in for so long, now that it had finally been said she felt unfinished.

‘Look,’ Blazer said, ‘you’ve been around here long enough to understand the rules. You go after one of ours, we all go after you. That’s the deal. You knew that going in. Didn’t you?’

All the ridicule was gone from his tone. It was the first time she could remember him speaking to her like an equal.

Some of her fury ebbed away.

‘Yes, but …’

He held up one hand.

‘But nothing, McClain. You can’t play by the rules you know are there and then ask for those rules to be changed when it suits you. The system is what it is. Cops don’t forgive easily. You have always known that. They look after their own.’

Hardly aware she was doing it, Harper lowered herself onto the chair.

‘This wasn’t a small crime, Lieutenant. Smith wasn’t pocketing the petty cash. He wasn’t shaking down the corner kids or messing with the hookers,’ she said. ‘He murdered someone. And then he shot me. What did your officers expect me to do?’

Her voice quivered, and she paused to steady herself. But, to her own surprise, she found herself telling him the truth.

‘I loved him like a father,’ she said. ‘What he did broke my heart.’

She didn’t know why she was telling him this. It just came out.

Blazer went very still. And then he said something she never would have expected.

‘He broke mine, too.’

Harper was stunned. She’d known Blazer and Smith were close friends, but it had never occurred to her that he would feel the same pain she did. The same betrayal.

But now she could see the hurt on his face.

Raking his fingers through his hair, Blazer gave a small sigh.

‘Look, McClain, it’s possible my guys have gone too far. As you say, it’s been a year. And we all have jobs to do. I can’t have this sort of thing interfering with their work.’ He picked up a pen off his desk and wrote something on a notepad open in front of him. ‘I’ll have a word with them. Ask them to ease up.’

Harper couldn’t believe it. Whatever she’d expected, it hadn’t included him agreeing with her.

‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ she said fervently.

‘Don’t get too excited,’ he cautioned. ‘Some of my guys will still believe they can’t trust you. If you want that to change, you’re going to have to find a way to earn their trust again. I can’t help with that. But I can stop the harassment.’ His lips curled up. ‘And I’ll have a word with Kowalski.’

‘That will help,’ she told him. ‘I appreciate it.’

Her gratitude seemed to irritate him.

‘Are we done here?’ he asked, his usual brusque tone returning.

‘There’s one more thing.’ Harper opened her crumpled notebook and pulled out a pen. ‘What can you tell me about Peyton Anderson?’

Blazer rocked back in his chair.

‘Oh perfect. Let me guess. You’ve been talking to Jerrod Scott.’

She nodded. ‘He’s very upset about the arrest of Wilson Shepherd. Says there’s no way he could have done it. Tells me the police won’t listen.’

‘Well, he’s wrong about that,’ he said. ‘There are about a dozen ways Shepherd could have done it.’

He ran a hand across his jaw.

‘Off the record?’ he said.

She nodded, putting the pen down.

‘Shepherd has no alibi. The night Scott was murdered, he says he was home studying. No one can swear to his whereabouts. We suspect Scott and Shepherd had a fight. Maybe she was cheating on him, maybe she was breaking up with him – we don’t know. Way I see it – he sits home fuming all night, then, when he knew she’d be getting off work, he gets her to meet him downtown and does the job.’

There was a ruthless logic to the theory. It was exactly what Harper would have thought if she were a cop.

‘Has his gun been tested to see if it’s the murder weapon?’ she asked.

He hesitated for too long. If the guns had matched he’d have told her immediately.

‘It’s the wrong gun?’ She was unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. ‘But what does that mean?’

‘It means nothing, McClain,’ he said firmly. ‘He’s a smart young man. He had the good sense to shoot her with an illegal gun and get rid of it. That doesn’t make him innocent.’

‘What about Anderson, though?’ she asked. ‘Could he be the other guy in that relationship?’

‘For Christ’s sake, McClain. Do you actually look for trouble?’ Blazer stood abruptly. ‘If you drag Peyton Anderson into this his father will eat you alive. If you want something to do, find out more about Wilson Shepherd. He’s the killer. He’s the one you should be interested in. Look into his background. You might find some things there that interest you. He had quite an arrest record. Ask Detective Daltrey about it.’

He pointed at the door.

‘Now, I’ve got to get back to work. I’d like to go home sometime tonight.’

Seeing that she wasn’t going to get anything else from him, Harper stood.

‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ she said.

Before she made it to the door, though, Blazer stopped her.

‘Take my advice, McClain.’ His expression was serious. ‘For once in your life, stop stirring up trouble. Shepherd is going down for this.’

Chapter Ten

Later that night, as she drove home from work, Harper was still elated about her conversation with Blazer.

Maybe things really could get back to normal now. Or something like it.

On autopilot, she made her way through the dark city streets, her thoughts a tangle of Naomi Scott, Larry Blazer, and Luke. She parked in her usual spot under the long, shading branches of an oak tree, locked the car and walked up the steps.

When she opened her front door, she did it thoughtlessly – punching the code in for the alarm system without thinking. Flipping on the lights.

Her mind was so focused on the story and her own decisions, it took her a moment to notice something was wrong.

She froze in the entrance hall, trying to place it.

There was a faint smell of cigarette smoke in the air – that shouldn’t be there. And why was the hall light off?

Turning on that light and setting the alarm were as much a part of her daily routine as getting dressed. She was as likely to walk out the front door naked as she was to forget to do one of those things.

So, who turned it off?

The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

Slowly, she stepped backward, and re-checked the alarm. It was on standby, just as it should be. If someone had broken in, it would have triggered. Right?

She reached back and felt for the baseball bat she kept next to the front door. Her fingers knocked against the cool, smooth wood of the handle, and she hefted it, feeling the reassuring weight in her hands.

Moving soundlessly, she walked into the dark living room.

Never letting go of the bat, she flipped on the lights with her elbow and jumped into the room, crouching low, ready to swing.

It was empty. Everything was as it should be – two sofas, facing each other across an empty coffee table. Books on the shelves. Her mother’s paintings reassuringly bright on the walls.

No sign of a break-in. No threats scrawled in dripping paint.

And yet, something wasn’t right. She could feel it.

Still clutching the bat, Harper half-ran to the kitchen. In the bright overhead light it was clean and empty. The sturdy back door was closed and triple-locked. Her coffee cup from this morning sat upside down in the dish drainer where she’d left it.

Some of the tension left her body. Nonetheless, she carefully searched the rest of the apartment, before finally propping the bat in a corner and leaning against the kitchen counter, her eyes searching the room for an explanation.

There was no sign of Zuzu. That wasn’t unusual – there was a cat door in the kitchen, and she often went prowling at night.

But Harper would have felt better if she were here.

She went through the motions of getting the cat’s food out of the cupboard; filling her dish and leaving it on the floor in the usual place, her mind going through everything she’d done before leaving that morning. Trying to reason it through.

Perhaps she really had forgotten to leave the light on. There was a first time for everything. Maybe the smoke had come through from next door.

She’d been paranoid ever since the break-in. Jumping at shadows. This wasn’t the first time she’d had the odd sense that someone had been in her apartment when logic dictated that no one could have been.

Telling herself the apartment was fine – that she was safe – she switched on her scanner, and poured herself a drink. Settling on the sofa with the baseball bat at her elbow, she sat in the glow of the lamplight, listening to the crackle and hum of the city’s bad news.

Thefts, robberies, traffic stops …

The reassuring litany of routine police work swirled through her apartment until finally she drifted off to sleep.

An hour later, she woke as a heavy weight settled on her hip.

Groggy, she reached out and touched soft, warm fur.

‘There you are,’ Harper whispered, sinking back into the sofa cushions.

Zuzu’s purr drowned out the scanner.

And Harper allowed herself to rest.

She was awoken early the next morning by a car honking outside her house. In her half-conscious state she thought it was her phone, and scrambled to grab it, knocking into the baseball bat, which fell over and hit the coffee table with a thud.

After that, she couldn’t get back to sleep. She kept thinking about her suspicion the night before. And wondering if she was losing her mind.

It was Friday. Two days had passed since Naomi Scott was murdered and she’d been working non-stop. Maybe she was just worn out.

Still. She wanted to be certain.

She was pouring her first cup of coffee when she heard her upstairs neighbor’s heels clicking on the side stairs.

Harper ran to her front door, flinging it open as the woman was passing.

About thirty years old, Mia Flores was small, with shoulder-length, dark hair and tawny skin. She glanced up in surprise as Harper hurled herself out onto the small front porch, shoeless, a coffee mug with ‘FBI’ on the side clutched forgotten in one hand.

‘Hello?’ Looking her up and down, Mia let the word hang there, as a question and a comment.

Harper both admired and feared her ability to do that.

‘Hey, I’m sorry to bother you,’ Harper said. ‘A weird thing happened last night and I wonder if you’ve seen anyone suspicious hanging around my place in the last day or so?’

‘Suspicious?’ Mia’s brow creased.

Her makeup was perfect – her dark eyes outlined with the right eye pencil. Her navy-blue jacket and short skirt suited her curvy figure.

Harper tugged at the hem of the faded Savannah Music Festival T-shirt she’d thrown on when she got out of the shower.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It could be someone hanging around outside the house, or walking by too often. Anything at all.’

Mia looked concerned.

‘Did someone try to break into your place again?’ she asked. ‘Because you should call the police.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Harper said. ‘Not yet, anyway. I’m just trying to keep an eye on things.’

Mia’s expression made it clear that this hadn’t made her feel any better.

‘I haven’t seen anyone,’ she said, after a brief pause. ‘But I’ve been busy at work, lately. I’m not sure I would have noticed.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. But I’ve got your number. If I see anyone hanging around – you want me to call you?’

‘Yes,’ Harper said gratefully. ‘I’d appreciate it.’

Mia began walking toward the sidewalk again. But at the last second she turned back, almost reluctantly.

‘Look … Is everything all right?’ she asked.

‘It’s fine.’ By then, though, Harper had thought of something else. ‘One more thing – do you smoke?’

Mia looked bewildered.

‘No. I have asthma. Cigarettes are not my friends. Why?’

‘I thought I smelled smoke last night. Must have been my imagination.’ Fully aware that she must seem odd right now, if not actually unhinged, Harper forced a smile and said lightly, ‘Anyway, you need to get to work. And I need to get some actual clothes on.’

‘Sure …’ With one last baffled glance, Mia headed down the sidewalk to her blue Mazda.

It occurred to Harper that normally she and Mia had a good system. Mia was gone all day, while Harper was home. Harper was out most of the night, while Mia was home.

Only lately, while working on the Naomi Scott case, she’d been out during the day more. The building was empty more of the time.

Back inside, Harper grabbed her phone up from the coffee table, walking across the polished oak floor to the kitchen.

Her landlord’s voice, with its thick Louisiana accent, answered. ‘Billy Dupre, here.’

‘Hi, Billy. It’s Harper.’

‘What are you doing up so early?’ he asked cheerfully. ‘You sick? Somethin’ wrong?’

‘I’m not sick.’ Putting the phone on speaker, Harper set it on the counter and poured more coffee into her mug. ‘I’m working on a story.’

‘Is it that River Street woman?’ He grew more serious. ‘Saw your piece in the paper this morning. Looks like the police are thinkin’ that boyfriend did it.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘the jury is still out on that. But that isn’t why I called. I need to ask you a favor.’

‘Sure,’ Billy said. ‘What do you need?’

‘Could you keep an eye on the apartment for me when I’m at work for the next couple of weeks? Maybe swing by now and then. Make sure it all looks all right.’

‘What happened?’ A new alertness entered his voice. ‘You had a problem?’

Billy was shorter than Harper, and bandy-legged, perpetually in faded jeans and an old LSU baseball cap. He’d grown up dirt poor, and his upbringing had left him with a deep and abiding loyalty to those he cared about. Ever since the break-in last year, he’d been concerned about her safety. Harper knew that he took that intrusion personally.

‘Something happened yesterday,’ she told him. ‘I have this strange feeling someone might have gotten in.’

‘How’d they do that?’ he asked. ‘Window broken?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing was damaged.’

‘Anything missing?’

‘Not as far as I can tell,’ she admitted.

There was a pause. She could almost see him scratching his head.

‘That’s a funny break-in, chère. Nothing broken? Nothing taken? What about the alarm?’

‘The alarm wasn’t triggered.’ She searched for a way to explain it that would make sense. ‘Look, I know it sounds crazy. But something isn’t right, Billy. I got the feeling someone had been in here. Things had been moved. It’s probably all in my head but I want to be really careful for a while, just in case.’

‘You give that code to anyone?’ he asked. ‘Some boyfriend?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No one has that code except me and Bonnie.’

‘Then how’d they get in?’ He sounded as confused as she felt. ‘That don’t make no sense.’

‘I know it doesn’t,’ she admitted. ‘Maybe someone guessed it.’

Harper’s code was her mother’s birthday, and the idea that anyone could have guessed that was so unlikely even she didn’t believe it.

In fact, explaining it to her landlord made the whole thing seem ridiculous. Why would someone break in and not take anything? Who breaks into a house and just turns off a light?