Page 38 of In Her Path

“I’m on my way with my team,” Dr. Stark said. “Twenty minutes.”

Jenna hung up and pocketed her phone. Just as she moved back to the hallway, the front door opened. A woman stepped inside, a canvas tote bag in one hand and a set of keys in the other. She wore a practical coat over a sweater and slacks, her dark hair streaked with gray and pulled back in a loose bun. She stopped when she saw the people in the hallway, taking in the scene—Jenna and Jake with their sheriff’s badges, Gerald slumped on the bench beside Jake, the tension in the air.

The woman’s face went still, the keys in her hand making a soft jingling sound as her arm dropped to her side.

“Sheriff?” Her voice wary. “What’s happened?”

“Who are you?” Jenna asked.

The woman met Jenna’s eyes. “Doris Gordon,” she said. “I work for the Holts. I … take care of things here at home.”

Jenna stepped forward, gesturing toward the living room. “Can I speak with you for a moment, Ms. Gordon?”

Doris set her bag down by the door. “Is Mr. Holt all right?” she asked, eyes still on Gerald.

“He’s in shock,” Jenna said. “Come with me.”

In the living room, Jenna turned to face Doris. “Your employer, Diane Holt, has been murdered,” she said plainly. “We found her body in her office about forty minutes ago.”

Doris’s face didn’t change, but her hand moved to her throat. “Murdered,” she repeated. “How?”

“The same way as a councilman was the night before last,” Jenna said, not volunteering any further details—at least not yet.

Doris closed her eyes briefly. “I see,” she said, her voice shaky. “And Mr. Holt? What’s he been saying?”

“He’s been telling us he killed her,” Jenna said. “Though I don’t believe that’s literally true.”

“No,” Doris agreed, a hint of sadness in her voice. “He wouldn’t. He couldn’t, physically. He’s barely able to get around most days.” She straightened. “Can I speak with him? I might be able to get through in a way you can’t.”

“Of course.”

They returned to the hallway, where Gerald still sat motionless. Jake was standing nearby. Doris approached Gerald and sat down beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched.

“Mr. Holt,” she said, her voice low and familiar. “It’s Doris. I’ve come for my shift.”

Gerald’s head turned slightly, his eyes focusing on her face. “Doris,” he said, the name emerging as a sigh of recognition.

“That’s right,” she said. “Can you tell me about your evening? What did you have for dinner?”

The question seemed to reach him where more direct approaches had failed. “Chicken,” he said finally. “Diane made chicken in the oven. With the lemon.”

Doris was encouraging. “That sounds nice. And after dinner? What did you do?”

“I took my pills,” Gerald said. “At nine. Like always.”

“And then?”

Gerald’s expression clouded. “I don’t—” He stopped, swallowed hard. “I think I went to bed. I must have. But I didn’t lock the door.” The last words came out in a rush. “The back door. I’m supposed to keep it locked all the time, day and night. But sometimes I step outside for some air, and when I come back in I forget. Diane usually checks at night, but I woke up and went to find her—” His voice broke. “The blood. There was blood.”

Doris laid a gentle hand on his arm. “You didn’t lock the back door,” she repeated. “Is that right?”

Gerald’s eyed filled with tears. “It’s my fault,” he whispered. “If I’d remembered, if I’d checked—”

“It’s not your fault,” Doris said firmly. “Do you understand me? It’s not your fault.”

She looked up at Jenna, a clear question in her eyes.

“The back door?” Jenna asked. “That’s a problem?”