Chapter 42 (1)
Abigail
The morning sun barely peeked through the heavy gray clouds as I pulled into the parking lot of the police station. The chill in the air wrapped around me, but it wasn’t enough to cool the nervous energy buzzing under my skin. I stepped inside, the fluorescent lights overhead casting an pleasant glow on the scuffed tile floor. A tired looking officer glanced up from his computer as I approached the front desk.
“Good morning,” I said, offering him a polite sinile. “I’m here to see someone. Her name is Marcy.” I paused, then added her full name in case he needed IL.
The officer typed away at his keyboard, his fingers moving with efficiency. “Give me a moment,” he said, his voice neutral. I shifted my weight from one foot to the offic, my gaze darting around the room. There was an odd quiet here, punctuated only by the occasional shuffle of papers or muted conversation..
After what felt like an eternity, the officer glanced up at me “Marcy was bailed out a little while ago.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Bailed out? By who?”
He turned back to his computer, scanning the records. “Her mother,” he said, matter–of–factly.
I processed this information, my mind already spinning with questions. Was the only one who hadn’t known when she’d bailed out? Was Conrad aware? “Thank you,” I said to the officer, my voice calmer than my thoughts. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” the officer asked, although he was already looking away from me.
I shook my head. “No, that’s all. I appreciate your help.”
As I stepped back out into the cold morning air, I pulled out my phone, hunting down Marcy’s contact Information. I knew I was grasping at straws, but I wasn’t ready to give up. She had been the closest thing to a loose end in this entire tangled mess. When I found her phone number, I hit the call button.
The line rang once, twice, three times. No answer.
1 frowned, my grip on the phone tightening. I wasn’t going to let this go. Before I could even consider turning back into the station to ask for Marcy’s mother’s contact information, I hit redial. This time, after a few rings, the call connected.
“Hello?” Marcy’s voice came through the line, way more cheerful than the last time I had heard it. “Who’s this?”
“Hey Marcy, it’s Abigail,” I said, keeping my tone as friendly as possible.
The shift in her tone was immediate. The warmth disappeared, replaced by something sharp and wary. “Oh, Mrs. Remington,” she said, her voice informal and cold. “What do you want?”
Her sudden frostiness caught me off guard, but I quickly recovered, forcing myself to stay composed. “Nothing major,” I said smoothly. “I was just hoping we could have a chat.”
“A chat?” she repeated, her tone dripping with suspicion. “About what?”
Her hostility rubbed me the wrong way, but I bit back my irritation. “If I told you that now, there wouldn’t be much point in meeting, would there?”
She hesitated, and I could almost hear her mind racing through excuses. Before she could brush me off, I pressed on “Would you prefer to meet at a park or a restaurant? I won’t take much of your time.”
To my surprise, she sighed heavily, as though resigning herself to an unpleasant chore. “It’d be better if you came to my place,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll text you the address”
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Chapter 42 (1)
“Thank you, Marcy,” I said, keeping my voice even.
“Sure,” she muttered before the line went dead.
I stared at my phone for a moment, unsettled by the interacion. Her abrupt shift in tone, her initial resistance, and now her invitation to her home–it didn’t sit right witlime. I couldn’t help but wonder if Marcy was hiding something. Had Susanna told her something about me?
Still this was a lead–my only lead. And I wasn’t going to le it slip away.
A text pinged through, and 1 glanced at my screen. The address was there, and it wasn’t far from where I was. Climbing back into my car, I input the address into my GPS. As the engine roared to life, so did my determination. Whatever Marcy was hiding, I intended to find out. As I drove, the city faded into the background, replaced by quieter streets lined with older homes.
Each mile was weighed down by the growing sense of unease in my chest. Marcy’s accusation had been a wildcard I hadn’t seen coming last time, and now, I knew I had to tread carefully.
When I reached her house, I parked on the side of the street, taking a moment to assess the modest, slightly worn- down property. The paint on the shutters was peeling, and the yard was unkempt, the grass growing wild in patches.
I stepped out of the car, the crunch of gravel beneath my boots the only sound in the still morning air. Whatever Marcy knew, I would get it out of her.
With a deep breath, I raised my hand and knocked.
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Chapter 42 (2)
Chapter 42 (2)
Abigail
The door creaked open slowly, revealing Marcy on the other side. From the get–go, her expression gar me a sneak peek about how her attitude would only worsen from here on out. With that cold, disdainful look, you would think I was some wild dog tracking dirt and mud into her pristine home after a rainy day. She didn’t need to say a word; the set of her jaw and the sharpness in her eyes told the this was going to be far more troublesome than I had prepared for.
Still, I smiled, softening my features as much as I could. Letting my pride dictate how I treated her would do me no good. “Good morning, Marcy. Can I come in?”
For a moment, she just stared at me, her lips pressed into right line. Then, with a stiff nod, she stepped aside, holding the door open just wide enough for me to slip past her into the house.
The inside wasn’t much different from the exterior–worn, tired, and a little neglected. The living room was small and cluttered, with mismatched furniture that had seen better days. A sagging couch with faded floral upholstery dominated the space, flanked by a scuffed coffee table littered with old magazines and an empty mug The curtains were thin, barely filtering the pale morning light, and the faint scent of cleaning solution mingled with something more earthy, like damp wood.
“Nice place,” I offered, trying to set the tone, though the words sounded hollow even to me.
Apparently, Marcy thought the same. She didn’t respond as she brushed past me, her movements clipped as she disappeared into what I assumed was the kitchen. She was so much more different than the timid caretaker who didn’t know whether she should breathe unless Susanna allowed it. I hovered awkwardly in the living room, unsure whether to sit or remain standing, until the clink of ceramic broke the silence.
Minutes later, Marcy returned, carrying a tray that held half a pie, a bottle of fruit juice, and a single glass. She set it down on the coffee table with a loud huff, the tray wobbling slightly before she steadied it.
“Sorry if it’s not up to your standards,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “But this is all I’ve got.”
Her words were clearly intended to get a rise out of me, but forced myself not to react. I was not as easy to bait as she thought. Instead, I flashed her a warm smile. “This is more than enough. Thank you.”
Marcy’s lips twitched, but she said nothing. Her discomfort was palpable, her posture stiff as if unsure how to act now that I was here, in her space, after everything that had happened.
“Please,” I said, gesturing to the couch opposite me. “Sit down.”
She hesitated, then reluctantly sank into the worn cushions her movements jerky and guarded. For a moment, we sat in silence, the tension between us thick enough to cut with a knife.
Marcy reached for the pie, but I was quicker. “I’ve got it,” I said, picking up the knife and cutting myself a small slice. “Relax. I’m not here to interrogate you.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, her skepticism clear, but she leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest.
I took a bite of the pie–sweet, a little tangy, not bad–and forced myself to keep the conversation light. Maybe if I kept the talk simple at first, her guard would lower so I could really ask her what I was here for. “So,” I said after swallowing “You have a nice home. Do you live alone?”
It was a harmless enough question, or so I thought.
Marcy’s entire body seemed to tense, her jaw tightening as her gaze turned icy in a split second. “Stop,” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to make me flinch.
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Chapter 42 (2)
I blinked, taken aback. “Stop?”
“Stop pretending like we’re friends,” she spat. “You didn’tcome here to compliment my house or chat about my living arrangements. Just say whatever it is you came to say and get it over with.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy and cutting
I
For a moment, I just stared at her, my heart thumping as scrambled to adjust. Clearly, my attempt to ease into the conversation had backfired spectacularly.
I set the pie plate down carefully, wiping my hands on a napkin to buy myself a few seconds. “You’re right, we’re not friends,” I said patiently, keeping my voice steady, “BI’m not trying to insult you or waste your time. I just thought… maybe it’d be easier to talk if we weren’t at each other’s throats.”
Marcy scoffed, her eyes narrowing further. “Talk about what, Mrs. Remington?” she demanded. “What could you possibly have to say to me after everything? After you threw me to rot in a cell?”
I raised an eyebrow. “You and I both know that’s not true,” said simply. “But I’m not here to debate. I need your help.”
Her laughter was bitter and humorless. “My help?” she repeated, shaking her head. “That’s rich. What could I possibly help you with?”
you
1 leaned forward slightly, holding her gaze. “I think you know more about what’s been going on than anyone gives
credit for,” I said carefully. “And I think you might have answers to questions I can’t get from anyone else.”
Marcy’s eyes flickered, a brief flash of something–fear, maybe, or guilt–crossing her face before she masked it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said flatly.
“Don’t you?” I pressed gently. “Marcy, I know you were dragged into something bigger than you realized. I know people have used you, manipulated you. I’m not here to judge you for that. But I need to know the truth. What did you try to frame me?”
For a moment, Marcy just stared at me, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she leaned backward, resting her palms on her knees. “I think you’re mistaken, Mrs. Remington. I didn’t try to frame you. You asked me to steal Susanna’s jewelry, remember?”
It was my turn to stare at her. “You can drop the act, Marcy I know you got caught up in something bigger than you, but it’s just the two of us now. You can tell me the truth.”
Chapter 43
