“What can I help you with?”

“Bowen’s dead.”

Silence.

“You there?”

“Yes,” Dillon said. “Garrett Bowen is dead?”

“Hung from his chandelier. Sometime last night after the party. We need to talk.”

“I’ll be at the hospital at noon, as we settled yesterday.”

“I need to know what you know.”

“How did Bowen die?”

“I told you. He hung himself.”

“No, you said he was hanging from his chandelier. Suicide…or murder?”

“He left a note.”

“Is Gage there?”

“Yep.”

“I find it hard to believe a man like Bowen would kill himself.”

Will said, “I was looking at him, Dil, and he knew it.”

“Looking at him for what? Killing Judge Montgomery?”

“No, instigating it. And that teacher, Paul Judson. I know you have the e-mails, so don’t play stupid.”

“I’m not, Will.”

“You’ve been running your own investigation with Connor and the counselor, and it may have led to Bowen whacking himself. I need to know what you know.”

“After you talk to Emily, we’ll talk.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“It means I’ll tell you everything I can without jeopardizing Emily’s defense. You do think Emily was involved in Montgomery’s death, correct?”

Will stared at Bowen’s body. “I don’t see any other way it could have happened, but at this point, I don’t know what the hell to believe.”

“See you at noon.” Dillon hung up.

Gage called from upstairs. “Will, I got something.”

Will headed upstairs. “Better be good. I need a break right now.”

“I don’t know about good, but it’s damn interesting.” Gage pointed to the railing. “See those scrapes?”

“Barely.”

“They’re faint, probably caused by the buttons on Bowen’s shirt as he leaned over the railing.”

“Okay. So he puts a noose around his head and climbs over the railing.” Will looked up at the chandelier. “How the hell did he get the rope secured?”

“That’s easy. The chandelier is on a chain. It can be lowered mechanically through a panel by the front door, for cleaning.”

“So he lowers the chandelier, attaches the rope, hauls it back up. Why not just put the noose around his neck and let the chain pull him off the ground?”

“The motor might not be designed to pull the additional weight. But that’s not the interesting thing.”

“Then what is?”

“There are no fingerprints on this railing.”

“None?”

“Wiped clean. And I mean clean. Smell that?”

Will took a whiff. “Bleach?”

“Someone wiped down this entire banister.”

“Maybe the cleaners came in after the party last night.”

Gage pointed to the ceiling. “It cracked under the weight of Bowen’s body. When we analyze the breakage, I think we’ll see he came off the ledge here, like these marks indicate.”

“Why didn’t he fight back? I didn’t see any marks on his hands.”

“Maybe he was incapacitated. We’ll be able to tell in the autopsy.”

“This case just gets weirder and weirder.”

“And another thing.”

“What?”

“The paper the note was written on? I can’t find any more of it in the house.”

TWENTY-ONE

Connor was on his way to the hospital when Dillon called him. “Bowen’s dead. Possible suicide.”

“Possible?”

“He left a note, but I’m not buying it. Will is meeting us at the hospital at noon. Will’s theory is that Bowen led some sort of vigilante killing team. I think we need to tell Will about the Jason Ridge connection.”

Connor frowned, made an illegal U-turn, and headed toward Julia’s house. “I think I’ll go pick up the counselor.”

“You don’t think she’s in danger?”

“I don’t know, but she’s been asking a lot of questions about Jason Ridge and pulled a bunch of files at the courthouse. She was all over the party last night. If Bowen was involved like Will thinks, that means the killers he created are free to do whatever the hell they want. If Bowen wasn’t involved, someone is trying to make it seem like he is, and they wouldn’t want Julia digging any further.”

“You’re right. Pick her up and we’ll all meet at the hospital.”

Connor sped through the streets toward Julia’s, trying to reach her by phone.

No answer. Maybe she’d already left, but then he’d pass her eventually. Her classy Volvo would be easy to spot on the quiet Sunday-morning roads.

Julia loved her house and its ocean view soothed her soul. The road in front of her house had the opposite effect. It was the road Matt died on. She’d almost sold her house after his death, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. This house was more than just a place to sleep, it was a symbol of her independence from her family and the Chandler name. It was her refuge. Matt had told her he saw her happiness etched in the fine woodwork she had herself lovingly restored.

So she kept the house and drove down the winding stretch like an old woman, slow and cautious. There were five other driveways off the road before it merged with a street leading to Highway 1.

Passing Mrs. Hutchinson’s driveway, in her rearview mirror Julia saw a large black pickup truck pull out behind her. For a split second she thought it was Connor, then remembered his truck was dark blue, not black.

Mrs. Hutchinson’s son must have gotten a new vehicle. He came by to check on her several times a week. Julia was about to wave in the rearview mirror, but the truck was now tailgating. She frowned, pressed the gas pedal down a hair more. Her heart suddenly started beating faster as she neared the spot where she’d gone off the cliff and slammed into the tree six years ago, killing Matt.

The truck was inches from her bumper. Julia didn’t recognize the driver and couldn’t make out details other than he had dark hair.

Hands clutching the wheel, Julia sped up. The truck bumped her hard. She swerved, compensated, and then he hit her again, even harder. Her head hit the steering wheel, her seat belt locked into place.

She could only think about survival as her tormenter sped from behind and pulled his truck parallel to her Volvo.

She braked as fast as she dared, hoping to let him pass, but he turned his truck into her car, though not enough to force her into the gully on the right. Had she not been braking, the impact could have forced her out of control and the drop on the left was precarious.

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