Page 66 of The Girl from Widow Hills
CHAPTER 19
Tuesday, 10:30 a.m.
ICOULD FEEL THE WEIGHTof the box cutter in my purse, wrapped up in paper towels to keep it clean of any contamination that could be traced back to me, including my fingerprints.
I’d been waiting for the right moment to dump it—the right excuse to be down the hall in a patient’s room. I’d left a message asking Detective Rigby to meet me at my house after work, telling her that I’d found something. She hadn’t called back, and I was full of an irrational hope that the investigation had moved away from me and Rick. Or that something else more enticing had grabbed her attention.
My office door was open so I could hear when the right moment presented itself: discussion of a nurses’ meeting, maybe, when people would be off the floor except essential personnel. Worst case, I’d try to blend in during the lunch chaos and the changing of shifts.
I heard the voices as soon as the double doors at the end of the hall opened.
“Her office is right down here.” A woman’s voice—someone I knew? My pulse sped up, like my body could sense something instinctively before it registered.
“Thanks so much for escorting me up here. I didn’t realize there was so much security on the upper floors.” My back straightened, goose bumps rising on the back of my neck. That second voice I definitely knew: It belonged to Detective Nina Rigby, who was currently walking down my hall—toward my office. My purse was currently lying on top of the couch, the box cutter stuffed inside.
I stood quickly, chair pushing back, like I could stop this, catch her before she got here. But Detective Rigby was already in my doorway. “Olivia, I’m sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?”
Even though I was standing, I picked up my phone, just to have something to do with my hands. “Did we have a meeting?” I asked. “Did you call back? It’s been hectic here, sorry if I missed a message.”
“No, no,” she said, stepping fully inside my office. She stood, feet apart, eyes skimming the room. “I did get your message, though, and I was in the area—had to talk to some folks downstairs, actually.” She let that comment sit, let it fester, let my mind fill in all the gaps: People working in the morgue? Sydney Britton? Someone else?
We were both standing, my desk between us. “Can I sit?” she asked, gesturing to the couch.
“Yes, of course,” I said, easing back down in my chair behind my desk.
She positioned herself less than a foot away from my purse, so close I could feel my body breaking into a cold sweat. “So, what is it that you wanted to talk to me about? You said you’d found something? The message was pretty vague.”
I closed my eyes, nodded once. Wished I’d been more prepared for this moment, wished we’d done it on my terms. “I checked my mailbox this morning,” I said. “I hadn’t checked it since . . . before. Thursday, maybe? So the mail, it was from Friday, Saturday, Monday . . .”
She raised an eyebrow, urging me forward.
“There was a letter from him. From Sean Coleman.”
And with that, the detective was already on her feet. “You got a letter from Sean Coleman? And you’re just telling me this now?” She braced her hands on the edge of my desk, fingertips white from the pressure.
“I only just found it. On my way to work. I was running late, and I left you a message—”
She cursed to herself, hands now on top of her head. It was the first time I’d seen her with any show of emotion, and her reaction startled me.
Finally, she spun around again. “Is it here?” she asked, gesturing to my purse. Her hand brushing inches from the box cutter.
“No! No, I left it at home. On the entryway table.”
“I thought you said you got the mail on the way to work.”
“Timing-wise. Not literally on my way. I got the mail, brought it inside. Called you. Then left. Why does it matter?” I had officially crossed from omissions to lies, and I was curious, in a detached way, about how fluid that transition had been. Surprised that there had been no big step, no active decision, but a natural slide.
“It matters because it’s a piece of evidence in a murder investigation, and it’s just sitting on your entryway table with the rest of your mail! What, exactly, did you do when you got it?”
I felt my stomach twisting, my fists clenching. “I opened it. I read it. I called you. It said—”
She put her hand out, cutting me off. “No, I want to read it for myself. For the first time. Hear it in his words. Let’s go,” she said, turning for my door.
“I’m at work,” I said, and the purse was beside me, and there was no way I was bringing that box cutter back into my home, back within range of Detective Rigby.
She turned slowly, spoke each word clearly and pointedly. “And I’m a detective on a murder case. I’m sure your employer will understand.”
I realized something then: Yes, she was in charge, and out of her element, and fighting for something herself. All of us were trying to prove ourselves here.
