“She has a right to be here,” Becca said. “This is her life imploding.”
Ann rushed toward him, her face pale and her features tight with anger. “Joan is still unconscious, and I cannot just sit and wait. What is going on?”
“I don’t know. I’m hoping the answers are inside.”
“Have you gone in yet?” she asked.
“About to. We’re working on the lock.”
“Why aren’t you using my keys to get into the house?”
“The lock’s been changed,” Gideon said.
“Why would he do that? He kept saying he wanted me to move home. Why would he change the locks?”
The locksmith worked his implements into the lock, and it clicked open. He twisted the knob and pushed the door open. “There you go.”
“I want to be there,” Ann said.
“No,” Gideon said as he blocked her path.
“This house was my home for so many years,” she protested.
“Right now, it is a crime scene investigation. So you will stand on the curb and wait. I don’t want you anywhere near this investigation.”
“He is . . . was my husband.”
“I know, Ann. I know he was a good father and he loved you. But I’m not sure if we ever really knew him.”
“I knew him,” she said, frowning. “Or at least I thought I did.”
“We were all fooled.” He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Now, I need to ask you to step back. This is a criminal investigation, Ann.”
She wrapped her arms around her chest. “It can’t be happening. I’m going to wake up and this nightmare will be over.”
“Ann, have you spoken to Nate?”
“Not yet. I will soon. I just need to get my head around all this.”
“You should be with him. You two need to talk. Let me take care of this.”
Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “Call me when you know something.”
“I will. You should go and see Nate.”
“This is all too much. I still can’t process it,” Ann said. “How’s Joan ever going to forgive me?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Ann. Don’t take any responsibility for what Clarke did.”
She shook her head. “I should have listened to her years ago. I should have left and moved east.”
“Don’t do that. No good will come of it. Go home to Nate. Let me figure this out.”
Ann drew in a breath and squared her shoulders. “Thank you, Gideon.”
He watched as she got in her car and drove off.
“I got it,” the locksmith said. “Have a look at this.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
Gideon followed the locksmith’s finger to a small piece of tape secured to the door and jamb. It was unbroken. He pulled on protective gloves and summoned the tech over. She collected the piece of tape and bagged it.
“Check it for fingerprints.”
“Will do, boss.”
Gideon stepped over the threshold. He moved into the kitchen, opening the pantry. There were no empty milk jugs or rags as Joan had said.
He looked around the kitchen, searching the corners and the vents for any sign of a camera. But security could have been as low-tech as a piece of tape on the front door or a back window to have alerted Clarke.
He moved to the bedroom overlooking the patio and tried the window. On the dresser was a framed picture of Clarke, Ann, and Nate. Beside it was a picture of Ann that had been taken the same day the other image of Joan, Ann, and Gideon had. If Clarke had taken these pictures, he was likely the source of the picture Lana had had in her suitcase.
As he searched Clarke’s face in the first picture, he wanted to see signs of the evil in the man. But there was nothing that appeared to lurk behind the smiling eyes.
He turned to the window and studied the lock. On the top sash was a clear piece of tape that had been dislodged. If this was how Joan had accessed the house, Clarke would have discovered it. “You were made in seconds, Joan.”
He looked around the bedroom, taking in the unmade bed and the scattered clothes. He moved to the closet, where Clarke had lined up a collection of books next to a small cabinet secured with a combination lock.
Given that Clarke had been caught trying to commit murder, Gideon’s search warrant allowed him access to every corner and drawer in this house. He spoke to the forensic tech, who retrieved a pair of bolt cutters. Wrapping the sharp ends around the lock, Gideon shoved the handles together. The lock snapped open.
As the tech filmed the process, Gideon opened the cabinet door. Inside was a collection of DVDs, and each was marked in Clarke’s neat, bold handwriting. Gideon selected the first recording, identified with the description “Practice fire #1.”
When Joan woke up in a hospital bed, she was aware of the beep of a monitor, the IV in her arm, and the bright sunshine. When she raised her hand to shield her eyes, she noted that both her palms were bandaged.
As she shoved through the haze in her brain, she struggled to remember the day and then the year. Her throat was raw, and her skin felt tender, as if she had a bad sunburn.
“Welcome back.”
She turned to see Elijah sitting in the corner of her room. He carefully closed a large textbook already filled with multicolored tabs.
He set the book aside, rose, and walked gingerly up to her bed. As she had done for him yesterday, he held up a cup of water and a straw so she could drink. The water scraped against her raw throat, but her body was greedy for the hydration. She drank the entire glass.
“Aren’t you the good little patient,” he said.
“I aim to please.” Her voice sounded ragged, as if she were recovering from a cold. “How long have I been sleeping?”
“A few hours,” he said. “The good detective was here for a while, but duty called. Ann was also here for
