“And to ask me about my brother's vacation?” she asks.
I let out a sigh.
“I guess I'm not good at gossip, either.”
“No, you're not. Why are you so fixated on his going away for a few days?” she asks.
“Why are you?” I counter. “I can see it all over your face. Don't act as if nobody knows where he is.”
She draws in a breath and holds it for a second, seeming to hope a few extra seconds will somehow soften her words.
“I don't know where he is, Emma. I don't know where he would have gone. I know you think he did something horrible…”
“I know he did something horrible, Millie. A lot of horrible things,” I say.
“But you can't prove it,” she says.
“I can if someone helps me,” I say. “Someone who knows him better than I do.”
“I can't help you, Emma,” she says sadly, for what must be the ten millionth time in all these conversations. “I just can't.”
“Emma, if you get any more visitors, we're going to have to put a turnstile up at your room door,” Gloria calls over from the doorway, making me turn and look over my shoulder at her.
“I have another visitor?” I frown.
“Yep,” she says. “Want me to wheel you back over there?”
"No, I think I can do it.”
"Your arm is not going to be very happy with all this exertion," she points out. "Don't you want your sutures to heal so you can eventually get out of here?"
"It's that 'eventually' you threw in there that brings it all home," I mutter with a roll of my eyes.
"Come on," Gloria smiles. "Enjoy the ride."
"You could probably say 'wheeeeeee' in the hallway while she's going, and she wouldn't be able to do anything about it," Millie cuts in.
Gloria points a warning finger at her. "Don't you go giving her ideas. You haven't been any trouble since you got here, so don't start now on account of Emma. You're getting out of here soon.”
The news that she won’t have to stay in the hospital for much longer should make Millie happy. Instead, I notice her face fall. She swallows and turns away to look out the window.
That stays with me as Gloria takes hold of the wheelchair handles and steers me back toward my room.
"Wheee," I say softly as we turn the corner.
She laughs and shakes her head. “None of that, now. Be a good role model.”
“For who?” I ask. “The other adults recovering in the hospital?”
We get to my room, and she pushes me inside.
“You two, be nice. I don't want to have to come and break anything else up between you,” she says.
I don't need any explanation for why she would say that. I can already see it. Sitting in the chair next to my bed, her eyes sideways, trying to read as much of the case notes piled on my side table as she can, is Lydia.
“What are you doing here?” I narrow my eyes in frustration.
“Emma,” Gloria says. “Play nice.”
“Hi, Lydia,” I say. The nurse walks out of the room and closes the door. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard you got hurt,” Lydia says. “What happened?”
“I got hurt,” I tell her, climbing out of my wheelchair and getting into bed.
“Were you at the corn maze?” she asks. “I heard there was a lot of commotion up there the other night, and somebody got taken away in an ambulance. Was it you? And if it was, were you there because you were talking to Lilith Duprey?”
“Lydia, I tried to tell you. You are not part of this investigation,” I say.
“Hear me out,” she holds out a hand to stop me. “I know you've been asking around about her. You've gone and spoken to her a couple of times. There's something about her that interests you, and I think I have more information about her that you might like to hear. It could be helpful.”
“Fine,” I sigh, figuring any information she might be able to give me could be useful. “What have you got?”
Lydia grins and reaches into the bag at her feet to pull out a manila envelope. She hands it to me.
“She moved to Salt Valley twenty years ago. Ten years later, she moved to the farm,” she says.
“I know,” I nod. “When her husband was murdered.”
“Yes,” she says. “But do you know why she moved to Salt Valley?”
“Some sort of political scandal,” I say. “I don't know the details.”
“I do,” she says.
I'm instantly intrigued, but I don't want to encourage her too much, so I give a nod. “Go ahead.”
“Twenty years ago, Lilith's husband, Michael Duprey, was fairly early in his political career. He had already served a few years, was building up his name. But then rumors started swirling around that he was involved with a woman named Lindsey Granger.”
“Who is she?”
“An intern,” Lydia says.
“Of course she was,” I say.
“Exactly. So, they denied it. He denied and denied and denied. She would never make a public statement. They were never seen in public together or photographed after the rumors started. But there were still people talking. Then, it stopped.”
“Why did it stop?” I ask.
“Because she suddenly was just… gone.”
“Gone? What happened to her?”
“That's the big question,” Lydia tells me. “Nobody's really sure. She was seen going to a hotel, then nothing. People came up with all sorts of explanations, but nothing ever panned out. Michael, Lilith, and his daughter from a previous marriage, Rachel, put up a major united front. All of a sudden, they were this perfect, happy family. But here's the thing. Rachel was seen far more often than Lilith, and it was well known that the two of them didn't get along.”
“So, he was using his little girl as a political bargaining chip. That happens,” I comment.
“She wasn't a little girl,” Lydia says. “Michael was much older than Lilith, and Rachel was already in college by the time all this was going on.
