"Did she?"
"Not exactly. There were some sightings of Lindsey after that, but she never came back to Virginia to tell her side of the story. After that, most people started believing Rachel's story that Lindsey had tried to blackmail her father, and it didn't work because he was above reproach. Then when she realized that her grift had failed, Lindsey left in shame to start a new life. Since then, Michael skyrocketed in his political career, became an activist and advocate, and built a nice extra stream of income with motivational speaking and self-help seminars."
"Until he was murdered," I point out.
"Yes, that kind of put a damper on things. But thanks to Rachel's indomitable spirit, he might just be more popular now than he was even when he was alive. From what I’ve heard, the two women haven't spoken since his death, with both of them saying the other was responsible for all kinds of different reasons. Rachel inherited the majority of his estate, and they went their separate ways."
"If Lilith inherited anything, where did it go?" I ask. "She lives in that tiny cabin and doesn't seem to have much to her name."
"No idea," Lydia says. “For some reason, all that money is just missing.” She leans back and smiles. “So, what do you think?”
“What do you mean, what do I think?”
“Did I prove I'm a good enough investigator? Can I help?” she asks, her face lit up with hope.
I tilt my head this way and that, considering it, but let out a sigh. More for appearances than anything else.
“You aren't an investigator, Lydia,” I tell her. “You run an online sleuth website. A database of cold cases. You don't have the skills or the training to actually investigate something that's big and potentially dangerous. You could get hurt. You could compromise the work that's already been done. I really appreciate it that you found these things out, but I need you to just stay out of my way.”
The smile fades from her face.
“Fine,” she says. “I'll back off.” She scoops her bag off the floor and storms toward the door. She stops just before walking out and turns to face me.
“But one day, Emma, you’re going to have to forgive me for what happened to Greg. I might be convenient, but I’m not the one you should be blaming.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lydia’s words hang over me, haunting me long after she leaves. But I can't think about that right now. I don't have time to think about that right now. There are so many other things I have to figure out.
The details she gave me about Lilith and her past tumble around in my mind. It seems as if they're trying to fall into place. They're trying to make sense. I'm just not there yet.
Opening the folder Lydia gave me, I read through all the information again. She's included notes about everything she told me, as well as printouts from Rachel Duprey's website. The contact page has a picture of her. It's the quintessential image of a young woman in politics. Three-quarter profile, arms crossed at her waist. Slim navy pinstripes with a royal blue shirt underneath. Dark red hair swept up in a chignon shows off a long neck with a single delicate gold chain that drops a pendant right between her collar bones.
Her makeup is pristine and understated. The smile on her lips somewhere between reassuring and smug. I flip through the rest of the pages and find more images of her. These are less manufactured. They show her at various charity events and volunteer occasions. In some of them, her shirt is emblazoned with her father's name.
This is a woman who was deeply affected by her father's death and has carried him with her since then. I can understand that. I connect with her in that way, and it makes me want to know more about her. She was extremely young to be so involved in her father's political career, but it's obvious she burrowed her way in as soon as she could and never let go.
Maybe there's more she can tell me. An insight the interviewers weren't able to pick up on. Understanding what happened to Michael Duprey and his career is a starting place to understand how Lilith toppled so far.
Grabbing my phone from the night table, I call the private number Lydia scrawled across the top of the contact page printout. I don't know how she got it. I don't even know if I want to know how she got it. But before the third ring, Rachel answers.
"Hello?”
“Hi, is this Rachel Duprey?” I ask.
There’s a pause before she answers.
“Yes, this is Rachel Duprey. How did you get this number?"
"Hi, Rachel, this is Emma Griffin,” I say.
There's a brief pause on the other end of the line.
“I'm sorry, have we met?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “We haven't.”
“Any requests for appearances or business propositions that should be made through the foundation's direct line, not my personal line,” she says. “Thank you.”
“Wait,” I say. “I'm not calling for a business proposition or request for an appearance. I'm actually with the FBI. I’m Agent Emma Griffin.”
“Oh,” she says. “What can I do for you, Agent Griffin?”
“I am looking into a series of events, and they seem to have a tie to your father,” I say.
“My father?” she asks. “What could it have to do with my father?”
“I'm actually not entirely sure at this
