KITTY WAS STILL SHIVERING THIRTY MINUTES AFTER THE POLICE arrived. She wasn’t cold. Or maybe she was? She honestly couldn’t tell. “Numb” was a better word. She sat halfway up the staircase, leaning against the wall, her back to the living room.
She wasn’t even sure how much time had passed since Kyle and Tyler raced downstairs and found Kitty standing over the lifeless body of Rex Cavanaugh. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream, couldn’t even look away until Kyle grabbed her by the shoulders and guided her back to the foyer. One of them must have called 911 because she remembered the sound of sirens. Then bodies bustling in and out of the front door while voices shouted in the distance, at once angry and afraid.
Kyle and Tyler had disappeared; maybe they’d been asked to leave? Or were being questioned by the police? She had no idea, only knew that no one had bothered her. She probably should have told someone that she was there, that she’d been the one to discover the body, but she didn’t have the energy to peel herself off the soft, plushy carpet. She leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. Maybe if she was very quiet, they wouldn’t remember she was there.
People had been talking nearby, their words indistinct and muddled. Then she heard footsteps, strong and clear against the tile floor, and an authoritative voice broke through the white noise.
“Dr. Choudhary, do we have a time of death?” he asked.
Kitty knew that voice. Not daring to move lest he notice her, Kitty opened her eyes and strained to get a view of the foyer. Sergeant Callahan’s back was to her. He stood, hands on his hips, with two women in matching coveralls.
“The body had been there for quite some time,” Dr. Choudhary said, peeling off a pair of rubber gloves. “I’d say time of death is between eight and ten o’clock this morning.”
The body? He has a name. Kitty hated Rex, but she felt a knee-jerk reaction to the way the medical examiner stripped him of humanity. Maybe that was just how they managed to do their jobs, staring at death every day.
Sergeant Callahan nodded. “Accidental?”
Dr. Choudhary arched an eyebrow. “Not unless he broke his own neck.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The straight-line bruising is postmortem, plus there are signs of a struggle.”
“You’re saying it was murder.”
She nodded. “My best guess is that the murderer surprised our vic and attempted to strangle him with the belt. Vic fought back, causing the abrasions around his neck, which probably snapped during the struggle. Death was instantaneous.”
The news that Rex had been murdered came as no surprise to Kitty. She pictured Rex’s face—purple and bloated, eyes open, mouth frozen in a silent scream. It was a look of terror.
Her hands began to tremble again.
Sergeant Callahan inhaled deeply then let out his breath in a slow, controlled whistle. “Anything else?”
“We found several different hair samples on the victim. They’ll go to the lab for DNA analysis.”
Several different hair samples? Kitty wasn’t an expert but it seemed kind of odd that Rex, who had been home alone since before first period, would have had contact with enough people to accumulate that many strands.
Dr. Choudhary nodded to her assistant, who held out a plastic bag. “And we found this tucked into his shirt pocket.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Sergeant Callahan held the bag up to the light and Kitty’s breath caught in her throat. She could see the white card printed with clear, black letters. DGM.
“Does it mean anything to you?” Dr. Choudhary asked.
“Unfortunately.” Sergeant Callahan tucked the bag under his arm. “Forensics is going to take over. Call me if you find anything else.”
“You’re not staying?” Dr. Choudhary asked.
He shook his head. “I need to check out a missing persons report. A Mrs. Gertrude Hathaway called this morning in a panic. Said her nineteen-year-old son Xavier was kidnapped from his bedroom last night.”
Kitty’s eyes grew wide. Xavier Hathaway was missing too?
“Another one?” Dr. Choudhary asked. “Do you think they’re related?”
“Not sure,” Sergeant Callahan said as he turned toward the door. “But I’m keeping all options on the table.”
Ed sat in his car and stared at Olivia’s text message.
Rex Cavanaugh was dead.
He thought of what Olivia and Kitty had told him: about Ronny DeStefano, who’d tried to blackmail Christopher; about Coach Creed, who’d made Christopher’s life hell at Archway; and about Rex Cavanaugh, who shared a secret with Christopher, and who’d bullied him mercilessly as a result.
He thought of Christopher Beeman, placing the noose around his own neck in the boiler room of Archway Military Academy. Now three of the people responsible for driving him to suicide were dead with him.
Maybe there was justice in the world after all.
He checked the time on his phone, then laid it on the passenger seat and picked up a pair of mini binoculars, training them on a house at the end of the tree-lined residential street on which he was parked.
Should be any minute now.
After two hours of stakeout, the block was familiar now—the luxe gardens and expansive lawns, the mix of natural wood and white-washed fences delineating one property from the next, the luxury SUVs in every driveway. The house he gazed at through the binoculars seemed exactly like its neighbors, indistinct in every way. But that was only on the surface. Inside, Ed knew that house had been marked by tragedy.
A charcoal-gray sedan rounded the corner at the end of the street and pulled into the driveway of Brant and Wanda Beeman’s Palo Alto home. Ed was tense with anticipation as Wanda climbed out of her car and walked to the front door, then stopped dead in her tracks.
He could practically see her thought process as she stared at her front door, which Ed had broken into and left wide open. Did I forget to lock the door? It doesn’t look like someone broke in. No, I’m pretty sure I locked it. Is Brant home early from his business trip? No, the flight from LA was delayed.
Ed held his breath. Would she do it? Would she take the bait? After a few seconds, Wanda pulled out her cell phone and hurried back to her car.
Bingo.
If Ed had guessed correctly, and he was pretty confident that he had, Wanda Beeman was, at that very moment, calling whatever friend or family member had graduated from the police academy twenty years ago. He’d been very careful in his breaking and entering: he didn’t want it to look as if the house had been burglarized, because that would send Mrs. Beeman dialing 911 in a hot minute. No, he wanted it to be a disturbing but possibly innocuous event. She couldn’t be sure she had closed and locked the door behind her, but she couldn’t be sure she hadn’t. Not wanting to clog the emergency lines, she’d call whoever it was she knew in local law enforcement.
The wait seemed to take forever. Ed had been unable to find any Beemans in the local police force directories, and this was his last, best chance to follow this line of investigation. Maybe he was being paranoid? As if a cop would really be involved in this DGM murder mess. Still, a cop with a personal tie to Christopher Beeman? It was a plausible motivation.
Finally, a car turned the corner and Ed crouched down in the driver’s seat as a black-and-white police cruiser pulled up in front of the Beemans’ house. Ed peered through the binoculars, barely able to breathe as an officer stepped from the car, giving Ed a close look at his face.
“Oh shit.”
