concentration.
She had reached down for something there.
He scrunched his face up.
Her fingers touched the frame. It was a photo.
She picked it up, looked at it.
Then she put it back down.
But Puller had seen enough.
He opened his eyes and swore under his breath.
He hadn’t asked the obvious follow-up question because he didn’t think it was relevant and he was also trying to be tactful.
Well, the hell with tactful now.
“Knox? Knox!”
He rose, gripped her shoulder, and gently nudged her.
“Hey, wake up. I might have something.”
She stirred on the bed, mumbled something, and then sat straight up and looked at him crossly.
“What?”
He said, “Why would one woman know the history of another woman?”
She rubbed her face and then gave him an even crosser look. “I don’t even understand the question.”
He grabbed his laptop and sat next to her. “Here are my notes on a conversation I had with someone. Read through them.”
Knox yawned, stretched, and refocused. She read down the page and scrolled to the next.
“Okay,” she said. “That is a little unusual. I mean, she said they talked, but some of these things, at least it seems to me, the woman did her own research. I mean, they aren’t the sorts of things that would come up in normal conversation, certainly not between two women.”
“She said my parents and she and her husband frequently socially interacted. And that my mother helped them through their issues. She spoke reverently about her.”
“But she also said that your mother sort of floated above everyone else. You could read that two ways. Jealousy being one of them.”
“And there’s something else,” said Puller. He showed her the news article.
“Her husband committed suicide?” exclaimed Knox.
“His body was found the morning after my mother disappeared. But he could have died the same night that she vanished.”
“You think they might be connected?”
“I don’t know. But I also don’t know they’re not connected.”
“So this might explain what happened to your mother that night?”
“Let’s hope so, because I’m fresh out of leads and ideas.”
* * *
This time Puller did not phone ahead.
They arrived at eight o’clock in the morning on the woman’s doorstep.
Lucy Bristow answered the door in her bathrobe. She didn’t look happy, but then neither did Puller.
“What do you want?” she said brusquely.
“Answers,” said Puller bluntly.
“About what? I’ve told you all I know about your mother.”
“Can we do this inside?” asked Knox.
For a moment Bristow looked like she might slam the door in their faces, but then she stepped back and motioned them in. She led them into the kitchen and said, “I’m making some tea, would you like some?”
Puller declined, Knox accepted.
Bristow poured out two cups and they sat at the kitchen table.
“Now what exactly is this about?”
“You didn’t tell me that your husband committed suicide,” said Puller.
“I didn’t know I had a responsibility to do so,” she retorted.
“He most likely died on the very night my mother disappeared.”
“So what?”
Knox and Puller just stared at her. Finally, Knox put a supportive hand on the woman’s shoulder and said, “It’s okay, Mrs. Bristow. You had no way of knowing.”
The sobs racked the woman for another minute before she sat up, grabbed a napkin from the holder in the center of the table, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.
She sat back, let out a long breath, and said, “Well, I might as well get it all out.” She blew her nose again and wadded the napkin in her hand.
“I told Earl that I wasn’t coming over and…” She stopped and looked at Puller.
“And what?” asked Puller.