Page 55 of The Family Plot
I can’t leave this to Elijah, someone brainwashed to suspect us. He’s told me—assuredme—that he hasn’t been swayed by his father, but still, he keeps coming after mine. And the longer he looks for answers here, the longer they’ll go unfound.
I don’t know how the families of the Blackburn Killer victims have managed—living for decades without knowing the truth, enduring the public’s fascination with our island because of what happened totheirdaughters,theirsisters,theirwives. And all this time, no one has been able to give them justice, to punish the man who derailed their lives.
But I know someone who’s hunted that man for years, even after the case went cold. While I squinted at pictures of city streets, she pored over newspaper photos, sweeping a magnifying glass across audience members at public meetings.I bet you anything, Greta once told me,that when police held meetings about the Blackburn Killer, that motherfucker showed up to watch.
Phone still in my hand, I pull up her number, and as soon as she answers, I hear the café—spoons clinking against mugs, laughter overlapping, the burble of conversation like a distant stream.
“Bad time?” I ask.
“Perfecttime. I’ve been meaning to take my break.”
The background noises soften, and I hear Greta shutting the door to the stairwell that leads to my apartment. We’d sit there sometimes, splitting a muffin while she rested between shifts, and I’d inevitably think of Andy. Even years after I last saw him, it still felt like a tiny betrayal, sharing a meal with anyone else.
“I need your help,” I say to Greta.
“Anything.”
When I tell her about the shed, I ignore her gasp. I speak for minutes at a time—explaining about Fritz, about Ruby, about Lyle—while Greta whispers a refrain ofholy shit. Only at the end do I mention Elijah, how he tore our house apart, searching for the brand.
By the time I finally stop, Greta’s unusually quiet.
“Seems a little on the nose,” she says after a while. “Your father being a suspect.”
The response is so unexpected I almost laugh. “What?”
“Just with the way you were raised and all. It’s too—I don’t know—tidy, I guess, to think that someone who told you all these murder stories was out there murdering the whole time.”
“It was my mom who told us the stories,” I say. And I don’t know why I do that, contradict Greta while she’s defending Dad.
“Still,” she says, “he was part of that. And I mean, take me, for example. I’m as obsessed with murder as they come. You’ve seen my murder spreadsheets. But that doesn’t mean I actually want to kill someone.”
“So you think Elijah’s just biased?”
“Well, I get why he did the search. Your family owns the shed, and they can’t really ignore that. But do I think your father was this vicious serial killer, and you all had no idea? No. I don’t.”
I release a long breath. Despite my own theories, my dismissing of Elijah’s, there’s something about hearing Greta say this that feels especially validating.
“Will you look into Lyle Decker for me?” I ask. “See if there’s anything… off about him? A criminal record maybe? I don’t know. You’re always able to dredge stuff up.”
“I’m on it,” Greta says, a tremor of excitement in her voice. I imagine her scribbling notes on her server’s pad, itching to add Lyle’s story to her folder of files.
“I’ll see if I can connect him to any of the Blackburn victims,” she adds. “I actually really like him for this. It’s creepy, how overprotective he is of Ruby. What if he killed women as, like, a way to rewrite the story of his wife and daughter leaving him? He couldn’t get them to stay on the island, but he can make sure other women never leave.”
I pull my cardigan tighter. Outside my window, bare branches shudder. “Wow. That’s—”
“I’ll dig into your groundskeeper, too. He’s definitely involved in this. Actually, I should go. If I close early, I can get a head start. I’m sure the cops are waiting to announce the shed until they have a concrete suspect—which is good; it means they don’t have enough on your dad—but as soon as they go public, it’ll make things trickier.”
I try to ignore the buzzing of her eagerness, the reminder that, for Greta, this isn’t just a favor she’s doing for a friend; it’s an opportunity. I bet she can’t believe her luck: the privileged information, the glimpse into suspects no one else has heard of.
“Thanks,” I say, throat tightening. “But please, remember that this is… That Andy’s not just—”
“This is about your brother. Well, the Blackburn women, too. But right now, it’s about Andy, and I promise I won’t lose sight of that. You can trust me, Dahlia, okay? You can trust me.”
I’m heading toward the stairs when Tate calls my name.
I find her at her desk, hair piled into a knot on top of her head, and her room seems back to normal, the police’s mess not evident when I first walk in. Then I notice a sweater sleeve stretched out on the floor, looking like an arm reaching for help, and I realize she’s stuffed everything under the bed. Its ruffled skirt bulges out, trying to hold it all in.
“Who were you talking to just now?” Tate asks over her shoulder. Even in profile, I can tell her brows are furrowed.
