When I open the door to the lab, I find Jolene at her microscope, peering at a slide through the eyepieces. She’s wearing a white lab coat and her dark hair pulled back from her face with braids. She makes a note on a piece of paper, then goes back to looking. I wonder if she’s going to be able to help me—I really hope so.
“Hey, Jolene,” I say.
“Hey, Brooke.” She lifts her head from the microscope and smiles up at me. “What’s going on?”
“Not much,” I lie. “How are the girls?”
“My youngest just started kindergarten,” she sighs. “It’s so sad. They’re growing up.”
I wonder if we have to make more small talk about Jolene’s kids before I ask her for the favor. Eh, I’m just going to ask.
“Listen,” I say, “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Maybe. What do you have in mind?”
I pull the two baggies out of my pocket. “How are you with identifying hair?”
“Hair?” She hesitates, eying the baggies. “I don’t know. I’ve looked at it before, but I’m not exactly an expert. Why do you need me to look at hair?”
I’ve already got a lie ready. “I found a piece of hair in a bobby pin at the apartment of this guy I’ve been seeing. I’m worried he’s cheating on me with a friend of mine and I want to see if the hairs match up.”
Jolene’s grins at me with a row of big white teeth as she reaches out to grab the baggies from me. “Okay, you’ve intrigued me. I’ll take a look—but no promises.”
“Of course,” I say, but my heart is thudding in my chest. What if Hunter really was dating Sydney before me? What then? Would I have to call the police? Would that mean Hunter is the guy who killed Sydney?
God, I hope these hairs don’t match up.
Jolene puts together a little slide for each of the two hairs. She’s very careful to place one end on top of the slide in a place where she can see it. “I’m trying to get a look at the root,” she explains.
She places the first slide, the one from Hunter’s apartment, under the microscope and looks at it for a minute, adjusting and readjusting the magnification of the image. Then she replaces the slide with the one that I know belongs to Sydney. She spends another minute looking at that slide, then looks back up at me. By this point, my heart is thudding wildly in my chest.
“Both of these hairs were in the telogen phase, so they both have a club-shaped root that looks similar in the two samples.” She pauses while she takes another peek in the microscope. “They both have very similar color—blond. It could be color-treated, but both hairs have characteristics of Caucasian hair, such as having minimal coarseness and medium-sized, evenly distributed pigment granules. I’d also say the age of the owner of both hairs is similar based on the coarseness of the strands—hair becomes finer as people age.”
“So…” I bite my lip. “What does that mean? Are the hairs from the same person?”
Jolene smiles and shrugs. “I’m not a forensic pathologist, Brooke. I don’t know if they belong to the same person. All I can say is that there’s nothing to indicate that they don’t come from the same person.”
“What would you say the chances are?” A cold sweat is breaking out under my armpits. “Like, fifty percent?”
She shrugs. “Maybe? They’re both from blond women who are approximately the same age. There are plenty of matches like that out in the city, but I’m guessing you have some suspicion that might make it more likely?”
Do I? Is it really possible Hunter could have dated Sydney before me? It just seems so unlikely based on the fact that I met him randomly in a bar. Or at least, I thought it was random at the time. Maybe it wasn’t random though. Maybe he’d somehow engineered the whole thing…
Except Hunter couldn’t be a murderer. He isn’t perfect, but he mostly has the usual male imperfections—he’s a little self-absorbed, he’s scared of commitment, he flirts too much with waitresses.
A murderer? It couldn’t be.
But those bobby pins…
Is it possible he could be the man who dated Sydney, even if he didn’t kill her? Maybe they were dating and when he found out she was murdered, he decided not to reveal himself to the police. Maybe he knew they’d be quick to pin everything on him, so he wanted to protect himself?
Who am I kidding? If that bobby pin really belonged to Sydney, it was almost certainly Hunter who killed her.
“You look pale, Brooke,” Jolene notes. “Do you… need to sit down? I can get you some apple juice.”
We have tons of apple juice for the people who pass out when they’re getting their blood drawn. But I don’t think I need to resort to that yet.
“I’ll be okay,” I assure her.
“Maybe you should confront your boyfriend,” she says. “Ask him who the hair really belongs to?”
Yes, I’m sure that would go great. Hey, Hunter, did you date and then murder my friend?
No, I can’t do anything until I’m certain that hair was Sydney’s.
And for that information, I’m going to need Detective Bateman.
Chapter 22: Brooke
I sit across from Detective Bateman’s desk in his office, butterflies filling my stomach. It’s been three full days after Jolene looked at the hair under the microscope and I only just worked up the courage to call him this morning. He’s watching me with his dark eyes—almost as dark as Hunter’s but maybe not quite. When I called him and told him I had new information on the case, he was eager to see me immediately. But now he appears skeptical of what I have to say.
“You want me to match a hair with Ms. Lancaster’s?” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“And where did you find this hair?” he asks me.
“I…” I bite my lip. “I can’t say.”
“You can’t say?” The detective looks at me in disbelief. “Brooke, if you expect me to do an analysis for you, I need to know why. This isn’t the Police Academy movies.”
“I can tell you,” I correct myself. “But only if they’re a match.”
“How about this?” Bateman says coolly. “How about you tell me or else I arrest you for obstruction of justice?”
I stare at him. Bateman was always so nice to me in the past, and we were practically flirting at the dry-cleaning place. It’s a shock to see this side of him. But of course, I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s not here to play games. He wants to figure out who killed Sydney and bring that person to justice.
And so do I. I have to know the truth.
He sees the look on my face and the hard lines around his mouth soften. “Just because you saw me in my gym shorts, that doesn’t mean I’m not going to take my job seriously,” he adds.
“Actually,” I say, forcing a smile, “you were wearing jeans.”
“Right.” He nods. “And so were you.”
We look at each other across his desk. His desk is so cluttered with papers, it seems like any wrong move will cause an avalanche of documents to fall to the ground. When I came into the office, he had to clear papers off one of the chairs so I could sit. The only other thing I can discern on his desk is his computer and a plaque with his name on it. There are no photographs in the room—nothing to indicate any sort of personal life outside of the police force.
“Okay,” I finally say. “I found it at the apartment of a male… friend of mine who claims he didn’t know Sydney. I got suspicious, but… if I’m wrong, I don’t want the police showing up at his door. He’ll know it’s me and he’ll…”
Detective Bateman raises his dark eyebrows at me. “Is it your boyfriend?”
“He’s not exactly my boyfriend,” I mumble.
Now the detective looks amused. “All right. Give me his name and we’ll compare it to hair samples we have from Ms. Lancaster. I won’t act on it unless we feel confident of a match.”
“You’re going to do DNA testing?”
He holds up the baggie containing the myst
ery hair. “Yes, although DNA testing capabilities are limited on hair that’s naturally shed. If we find hair that’s been ripped forcibly from the scalp, sometimes we get lucky and there’s usable nuclear DNA material there. But we can still run the test and see if it shares mitochondrial DNA with hair samples we have for your friend. But I wouldn’t do that first.”
“What will you do?”
“I would start off by doing a microscopic comparison to Ms. Lancaster’s hair,” he says. “It’s far less specific than DNA testing or a fingerprint and wouldn’t be enough to prove anything in court, but we have a great forensic pathologist. If she agrees there’s a high likelihood it’s from the same person, we’ll run the mitochondrial DNA analysis.”
“Oh.” The microscopic comparison is the same thing Jolene did, although she’s far from an expert on hair. Still, he seems confident.
“So what’s this guy’s name?”
I take a deep breath. Once I tell him Hunter’s name, I’ll have gone down an irreversible path. But I have to tell him. I have to know the truth. “Hunter T. Stone.”
“What does the T stand for?”
“I don’t know.”
Detective Bateman scribbles something down on one of the million papers on his desk. But even as he writes, his eyes are trained on mine. “And you’re dating this guy?”
I hesitate a beat before I nod.
A tiny smile plays on his lips. “So you’re dating a guy who you think could be a murderer and you’re just… okay with that?”
“I’m not okay with it!” I cry. “That’s why I gave you the hair.”
“Are you going to go out with him again?”
I hesitate again. “We have a date tonight.”
The detective throws back his head and laughs. “I guess it really is true—women like dangerous men.”
“If it turns out he killed Sydney, I’ll end it,” I say. When I see the look he gives me, my cheeks grow warm. “Obviously.”
“I’ll be in touch,” he says. “Just to let you know if you should cancel your next date because we’re taking Mr. Stone to jail.”
“I’d appreciate that,” I huff.
I feel a little ridiculous. He’s right—if I really think there’s any reasonable chance Hunter killed Sydney, why would I go out with him again? Am I really that dumb?
Apparently so, because I have no inclination to cancel.
Chapter 23: Tom Blake
April, 1907
Over the last two days, a search party of several men from town has been formed to look for George, as well as for Agnes Perkins. I was not asked to be part of this search party. I don’t know what Chas did with the body, but I fear it’s just a matter of time before it’s discovered. They’re going over the entire town and the adjacent woods with a fine-toothed comb.
My only piece of good fortune is that George has a reputation around the county for being temperamental and impulsive. The gossip I’ve heard most frequently is that he’s taken off with another woman—a whore he met at the saloon. I’m saved by the fact that George is so much larger than me, people find it ludicrous that a skinny seventeen-year-old boy might be able to best him in a fight.
Sometimes I pretend it’s true. I didn’t slit George’s throat in our living room. He took off with a whore named Mollie. And we’re all better off now that he’s gone.
Mrs. Perkins’s disappearance is more troubling to me though. From what I hear, the luggage is all in her closet empty, so it does not appear she’d packed for a journey. Nobody has heard a word from her since Sunday night.
So when Chas shows up behind the smokehouse this afternoon while Mr. Sullivan is minding the shop, I decide I have to get some answers. I need to ease my mind.
“You’re holding up very well, brother,” Chas tells me when he appears like an apparition just after I got the fire started up again and left the smokehouse. He’s wearing that dark cloak again like he always does—I wonder if he ever dresses in a normal shirt and slacks.
“Thank you,” I mumble. I glance at the shop, hoping Mr. Sullivan is occupied up front. It wouldn’t do for him to come back here and discover Chas.
“I saw that sheriff questioning you,” he adds. “You stuck to our story—well done. He’ll be back though.”
I lift my eyes to look at my brother. “Chas, on Sunday night, did you see Mrs. Perkins?”
He frowns. “Mrs. Perkins?”
“The old lady who lives across the road from us.”
“Ah.” Chas nods. “Yes. Don’t worry about her. She’s taken care of.”
My stomach sinks. “Taken care of?”
“She saw everything, Tom.” His eyes darken, turning into pools of blackness. “Everything. I could see the old witch watching from her window. She would have turned you in.” He shrugs. “Also, I was thirsty. You got to drink that night, but I didn’t.”
My mouth feels too dry to speak. I don’t want to believe what I’m hearing. Maybe I’m misunderstanding him.
“What did you do to her?” I croak.
“I told you not to worry,” he says. “They won’t find her body so easily.”
He has murdered Widow Perkins. He killed the nice old lady who’s lived next door to me as long as I can remember. Mrs. Perkins, who makes the best peach pie in town, and calls me over just as it is cooling. He broke into her home, slashed her throat the way I did to George, and drank her blood.
Two people in one night. Who will be next?
Chas reaches out and rests a hand on my shoulder. I flinch and pull away from him. “I didn’t want you to kill her,” I say sharply.
“It wasn’t your decision to make, was it?” An amused smile touches his lips. “Anyway, I did it for you, Tom. Like I said, she would have turned you in. Not me—you.”
Ma said the same thing when she explained why she married George Blake. I did it for you, Tom.
I feel like I’m going to be sick. I lean over and retch, but nothing comes out. I haven’t eaten all day. I have little appetite these days. I even stopped sneaking animal blood when Mr. Sullivan’s back is turned. I’m done with that. Done.
When I straighten up again, Chas is watching me. The look in his dark eyes is something between amusement and disgust. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter what he thinks of me. I just want him gone.
“Chas,” I say, “please don’t kill anyone else here.”
He laughs. “What do you think—that I’m going to go on some sort of killing rampage? Do you think so little of me?”
I don’t answer.
“One thing our father taught me,” he says, “is that you never kill more than three people in one location. Three people, then you move on.”
“Please,” I beseech him. I’m ready to get down on my knees. “Just… go.”
My brother looks at me appraisingly. If I’d known a week ago that I’d be standing next to my own flesh and blood brother, I’d have been ecstatic. Now all I can think is I never want to see this man ever again.
“I can’t go, Tom,” he finally says. “Not while you need me.”
_____
When we hear a knock on the door just as Ma and I are finishing dinner tonight, I know it isn’t good news. It can’t be. Ma, on the other hand, jumps out of her chair excitedly. “Maybe it’s George!” she chirps.
It isn’t George. Obviously. It’s Sheriff Eckley and his deputy, Clyde Ubend.
My mother’s eyes go wide at the sight of both of them standing at our door. This time Sheriff Eckley isn’t even pretending to smile. The expression on his face is grave.
“Hello, Meg,” he says.
“Any news?” Ma asks anxiously, swiping strands of blond hair from her pale face.
The sheriff’s green eyes go straight to me. “We found Agnes Perkins.”
“Oh!” Ma smiles, because she doesn’t know what I know. “That’s great! Where did you find her? Was she traveling?”
“She was buried under the floorboards in her cellar,” Sheriff Eckley says, hi
s eyes boring holes into me. “Her throat was slashed.”
My knees turn to liquid and it takes all my strength to remain upright. Chas hid Mrs. Perkins’s body under the floorboards in her cellar. She’s been lying there rotting for days.
The smile vanishes from my mother’s face. She grabs onto the wall, looking like she might hit the floor. Deputy Ubend, younger than the sheriff by a decade and always the gentleman, gives her a concerned look. “Are you all right, Missus Blake?”
“Yes,” she manages. She glances at our parlor. “I just… if I can sit down…”
Deputy Ubend helps my mother to the sofa. She can’t stop trembling so I go to fetch her a cup of water. Despite how nervous I am, my hands don’t shake as I hold out the glass for her to take. The sheriff keeps his eyes on me the entire time, like he is studying me. I wonder if he came here to arrest me.
“Who could have done such a thing?” Ma murmurs to her cup of water.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Sheriff Eckley says to her, although he is still looking at me. “Tom, did you see anyone go into Mrs. Perkins’s house at any point on Sunday?”
“No, sir,” I say.
“Did you see her at all on Sunday?”
I shake my head no.
The sheriff sighs. “Meg, I’m going to have to ask you to let us take a look at your cellar.”
Ma’s eyes widen. “You don’t think that… that George might…?”
“I think it’s worth having a look,” he says.
My mother buries her face in her hands. I can’t tell if she is crying or not. “All right. Go ahead.”
Sheriff Eckley’s eyes go back to me. “I’m going to have to ask you both to remain on the premises while we’re checking out the cellar. Depending on what we find, there may be more questions.”
He isn’t fooling anyone. I know if he finds George’s body down there, he is taking me to jail. But I’m certain Chas removed the body from the house.
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