It was possible. Sela Abbott could be out there hiding somewhere or long gone, for that matter. She might have transferred all sorts of funds by now. People like the Abbotts had money in foreign and online accounts that forensic accountants and investigators took weeks or months to discover. This was a possibility they had already considered without the vanishing-wife element.

“I think you’re right.” Kerri pushed back her chair and stood. “If Sela Rollins sought out Ben Abbott . . . found a way into his life and then moved back here as his wife with the intention of solving her sister’s disappearance, my guess is the true target was one or both of his parents. If he was the target, why not kill him in San Francisco? Why bother going to all the trouble of embedding herself in Birmingham?”

Obviously, Falco hadn’t considered that possibility, though he tried to school his surprise before she noticed. “How would you tie Abbott’s folks to this? The sister worked for Thompson.”

“You’re right,” Kerri agreed. “The sister lived here and worked for Senator T. R. Thompson, but his son isn’t the one who’s dead. It’s possible the sister became involved with Abbott somehow through her work with Thompson. The two families have a long history of association, at least socially. T. R. Thompson and Daniel Abbott are the same age. It’s possible they attended school together.”

Falco nodded. “Taking into account this new information, Detective Devlin, I think we should pay the Abbotts a visit whether we hear from Bellemont or not.”

Kerri shut off the computer. “First we should both work on finding a more definitive connection between Daniel Abbott and T. R. Thompson. Beyond the fact that they’re both from founding families and richer than God. We need something to throw on the table before we show our hand. We have an opportunity here to apply some pressure to a couple of key players. We have to do this right, or we lose the edge.”

“We’ll need pizza and plenty of beer for that.”

“Not tonight, Falco. You do your research at your place, and I’ll do mine at home. My daughter is feeling neglected.” Not fair to Tori and not good for Kerri since her daughter was no doubt using her mother’s absence as an excuse for spending the summer in New York.

“No problem.” He stood and reached for his jacket. “I think we’re onto something big here, Devlin.”

“If we’re right, Ben Abbott’s father or maybe one or both of the Thompsons may be the next victim we find.”

24

It’s all in the details.

There are details—many, many details required in a plan of this magnitude.

The fewer people involved in the execution, the better. But there are certain things that require the participation of one or more persons.

A good example is the car—and certain other things I acquired. These things were essential. Yet it’s those little things that can be traced—can create difficulties.

But I was smart. I kept contact to a bare minimum. Although the items can be traced back to who and where I was, they cannot reach who and where I am.

I am an enigma. I am well hidden.

No one will find me here. I work the ropes. Back and forth, back and forth. I no longer feel the pain. Perhaps I am too preoccupied to notice.

Even my single lifeline has no idea where I am. We communicate using disposable phones, and we only meet if absolutely necessary and never, ever anywhere near my hiding place. She, too, is keeping a low profile as a precaution. There are dangers associated with making an alliance with me. She is aware and willing, but I worry.

Of course, this arrangement might have to change if slipping out becomes too dangerous for me.

The details, every last one, are immensely important. Each one can make or break the plan.

The closer I come to the finale, the more precarious my situation grows. Because though I have carefully laid out this plan, taking great care with each detail, there is always a chance that a particularly smart person or detective can find something I overlooked or didn’t conceal well enough.

Or forgot in my rush to hide.

There are certain things that are impossible to hide. Perhaps if I had thought out the plan more clearly, I would have taken an alias at the start. But I did not, which leaves my history—at least part of it—naked for anyone to see if they dig deeply enough.

Time will tell. For now, I am safe. My mother always said I was stronger than my sister, but I don’t believe that to be the case. The difference between my sister and me is in the preparation.

As I prepared, I had the advantage of the old saying “Better the devil you know.”

I know this devil extremely well.

Everything is progressing as planned.

25

Sunday, June 10

9:00 a.m.

Abbott Crime Scene

Botanical Place, Mountain Brook

Kerri walked through the master bedroom, searching for any place that Sela might have hidden a secret from her husband.

Falco was going through the family photo albums with an eye toward a female who looked like Janelle Stevens from the image in her fifteen-year-old case file. Any photos he might have seen on his previous search would not have drawn his attention since they hadn’t known about the older sister at the time.

But they knew now.

They knew a lot of things they hadn’t known this time yesterday. Kerri had discovered that Daniel Abbott and T. R. Thompson had indeed attended high school as well as the University of Alabama together. Falco had grabbed that ball and run with it and learned the two were actually roommates their freshman year. On top of all that, Abbott was a longtime supporter of the Thompsons, politically and otherwise.

The connection between the two men ran deep. Whether the chief or the LT liked the idea of the two being persons of interest in the case, they were just the same.

Kerri found nothing between the mattress and the box spring. The linens had been taken to the lab for analysis. The bed was one of those platform types, so you couldn’t see anything on the floor beneath it without removing both the mattress and the box spring. With no other choice, Kerri dragged each, a piece at a time, onto a part of the floor she had already searched. The effort provided nothing but a few dust bunnies.

She rummaged through the bedside tables, even removed the lamps and turned the tables over to check beneath, as well as in and under the two drawers of each.

Then she moved on to the dresser and bureau. She should really check under stuff at her house. If she were murdered in her home, she wanted to be sure the investigators didn’t find anything embarrassing. No one ever expected to be murdered—at least no one normal. Over the past seven years, she had found all sorts of things in the private spaces of murder vics. Notes from secret lovers. Dirty underwear. Sex toys. A stash of cash. Drugs. You name it, she had seen it.

Since the Abbotts had lived in this house scarcely over a year, and, apparently, Ms. Jenkins was very thorough at her job, there wasn’t much in the way of dust or other unexpected items.

Kerri moved on to the walk-in closet, which was about the size of her bedroom at home. She went through clothes and shoes and moved on to purses. Sela Abbott had thirty-six handbags. But her attention to detail was commendable: she hadn’t left anything—not even a tissue or a loose dime—in a single one.

The large jewelry armoire provided nothing either. Sela owned her share of jewelry but nothing overly gaudy. More the quietly elegant pieces.

The mother’s room was next. Going through the same steps, Kerri found nothing there either. Lastly, she sat down on the bedside to have a closer look at the prescription bottles. Painkillers, mostly. Something for nausea. For constipation.

“Wait.” She went back through the bottles, checking the date prescribed. Each one had expired and not recently either—years ago. If the mother had been ill, why would she be taking years-old medication that might have lost its effectiveness?

Because she wasn’t ill, which would explain Dr. Moore’s findings. “Holy shit.” Kerri shook her head. There was a major cover-up going on in this family; there was no denying that at this point. And obviously the mother was as involved as the daughter. Kerri stared at the walker as she considered the ME’s comments about her good muscle tone—as if she worked out regularly. The lack of evidence that she’d suffered with cancer or had been under a doctor’s care. None of this added up.

“Devlin!”

She placed the prescription bottle back on the bedside table and went to the top of the staircase. “Yeah?”

“I found what we’re looking for!”

She hustled down the stairs. Falco had several photo albums spread on the coffee table.

He waved one in his hand. “This one starts when Sela was ten years old.”

Kerri collapsed onto the sofa next to him and thumbed through the pages of the album. Dozens of photos of the sisters over the course of several years. The last showed Sela when she was thirteen, according to the notes on the page. Her sister had graduated college. There were no photos of the sisters with their mother. Most were dated, but none had names written on the back.