“In case what?”
He shrugged. “You never know. Evvie said you went to see Susan Gilman yesterday.”
Lizzy ignored the proffered card, wandering to the workbench instead. “I did. Turns out she never believed Althea was guilty. She also had some interesting things to say about her ex-husband.”
Lizzy filled him in on the details: the drinking, the boys, the condoms, Fred Gilman’s disturbing relationship with his daughters, and the fact that Susan wasn’t their birth mother.
Andrew’s brows shot up at this last bit of info. “I didn’t realize the girls were adopted.”
“They weren’t. Gilman’s first wife died in a fire when Heather was three. Darcy was still in diapers. Apparently, he didn’t handle it well. He refused to let Susan adopt them.”
“And that ties back to the murders how?”
Lizzy shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t. It just seems . . . odd. I did come away with something, though. The names of two of Heather’s girlfriends. I thought I’d try to track them down. Girls talk to other girls.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to wait until I get back from Boston?”
“Andrew, we’ve had this discussion. I need to do this, and I need to do it by myself. Besides, I don’t have all summer. Luc’s chomping at the bit.”
“Your boyfriend?”
“No, he’s . . . We . . .” She looked away, embarrassed by her fumbling. “He’s my boss.”
“Is that your final answer?”
Lizzy flashed him a look, annoyed that he’d picked up on her clumsy response. “I thought you had somewhere to be.”
“Right. Guess I’m off to Boston.”
She watched him go, already wishing she hadn’t been so abrupt. The man was persistent, she’d give him that. But he meant well. He’d always meant well. He just didn’t understand that for the Moons, self-reliance was genetic, a survival mechanism passed down through generations. Solitary meant safe.
Lizzy’s cell was going off on the kitchen counter when she walked back into the house. Before she could grab it, the call went to voice mail. Seconds later, she heard the alert ping. She pulled up the message, listening as she carried her mug to the coffee maker for a refill.
“Hi, it’s Catherine Daniels from Chuck Bundy’s office. He asked me to give you a call and let you know he’s not going to be able to keep your ten o’clock appointment. His little boy took a bad spill this morning, and he and his wife are at the ER, waiting to find out if he’s going to need surgery. He said he’d get back to you next week to reschedule.”
Next week?
Lizzy swallowed a groan. Everything was taking longer than she’d anticipated, and there were decisions that needed to be made, requiring vastly different sets of documents, phone calls, and legwork. She’d been counting on Bundy to nudge her in one direction or the other. Instead, she was in a holding pattern. Again.
But in the meantime, maybe there was a different kind of legwork she could begin. She picked up her phone, opened the Facebook app, and tapped in Jenny Putnam’s name. There were five profiles listed, but only one Jenny Putnam in New Hampshire.
Seconds later, Lizzy was staring at a photo of a petite blonde in cyclist gear, with a number on her chest. According to her profile, she was married with twin girls—Bella and Shay—and still lived in Salem Creek. Her married name was Wittinger—husband, Donny—and she worked at New England Regional as a labor and delivery nurse. A quick call to directory assistance and Lizzy had a phone number.
She held her breath as the number connected, wishing she’d given some thought to what she would say if Jenny actually answered or, worse, if voice mail picked up. Maybe she should hang up, think it through, then call back. She was about to do just that when a woman answered.
“Hello?”
Her voice was thick and slow, as if she’d been asleep. “Mrs. Wittinger?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Lizzy Moon, and I’m calling—”
“I’m sorry. You’re . . . Who are you?”
“Lizzy Moon.” Lizzy held her breath, expecting the line to go dead. It didn’t.
“What do you want?”
“I was wondering . . . I spoke with Susan Gilman yesterday, and she gave me your name. I was hoping we could talk. About Heather.”
“Why would I talk to you?”
“Because Heather was your friend, and whoever hurt her—and Darcy—is still free.”
“I heard you were back.”
Lizzy ignored the dry response. “I have a few questions. About things Susan told me. I was hoping we could meet somewhere. I could—”
Jenny cut her off. “I’m not meeting you anywhere. In fact, I’m not sure I want to talk to you at all.”
“Please. I just have a few questions.”
“You got my number from her mom?”
“No. Information. But she gave me your name. She thought you might be able to help.”
Another pause, longer this time. The sound of ice dropping into a glass, then running water. “What do you want to know?”
Lizzy breathed a silent thank-you. “She said you and Heather had a falling-out.”
“It wasn’t just me. She stopped hanging out with all of us.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? She’d been acting weird for a while—standoffish and kind of jumpy. Then one day she just stopped talking to us.”
“She never said why?”
“She never said anything. It was like we were invisible.”
“Did she start hanging out with anyone else?”
“Not at school. She kept to herself, sat alone, ate alone. Then she started skipping class. No one knew where she went. And after a while, we stopped caring. I know that sounds harsh, but if someone doesn’t want to be your friend, you can’t make them.”
“No,” Lizzy said, noting the tinge of petulance in her tone. “You can’t. You said she’d been acting funny. Did you ask her why?”
“She’d get mad when I tried to talk to her about it. We used to hang out at her house after school because her mom baked all this amazing stuff. All of a sudden she wanted to hang out at my house, or at Cynthia’s. It was like she hated going home. Maybe because of how things were between her and her mom.
