The Last House Guest(83)

Maybe the second payment that Sadie had copied on the flash drive had gone to him, this doctor who knew that Parker had been significantly injured, and was paid, in turn, for his silence. Who was rewarded for not asking too many questions.

This was it. As close as I could get to the proof. I looked out the window, but the driveway was empty. I took a picture of this document with Parker’s injury, including the date of treatment, and I sent it to Detective Ben Collins’s number, with a note: I need to talk to you about Parker Loman.

Then I sent Connor a text: Is the ceremony still going on?

I checked the window again. Still no car.

I started stacking the files away again, then stopped. I didn’t care if they knew. Grant’s words in my ear, a cruel whisper—that he had overestimated me. Like Faith, I wanted them to know. Who else would know better where to look than someone they had taken into their home?

My life had diverged because of them. Everything I’d lost, because of them.

My phone dinged with a response. Not from the detective but from Connor: It’s almost over. Where are you?

I wanted to see Connor, to tell him. He may have kept Faith’s secrets, but he’d also kept mine. And after everything, he deserved to know the truth.

But I needed to find Detective Collins first, ask to speak at the police station, present everything I’d found—calmly, clearly. I didn’t know for sure who’d killed Sadie. Couldn’t prove yet that it was Parker—but I had his motive now. The most important thing was that they believe me.

I had gathered up my things, ready to go, when a door closed somewhere in the house.

I froze, my hands hovering over the desk. I didn’t even breathe. Footsteps on the stairs, and I looked frantically for somewhere to hide. The only place hidden from view was the closet, and all of the paperwork was already out. If the footsteps veered the other way down the hall, I could make a run for it—

“Avery?” The voice was so close. A man. Not Parker. Not Grant. There was no point in hiding. Whoever it was, he was already looking for me.

And then Detective Ben Collins stood in the open office doorway, his forehead knotted in confusion. His eyes scanned the desk, my hands hovering over the top. He took a step into the room. “What are you doing in this house?”

I swallowed nothing, my throat parched. “Did you get my text?”

“Yes,” he said, moving closer to the desk. “And I saw you heading this way earlier. You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing in here?”

I was breaking and entering, and he’d found me. He knew what I’d been looking through and where to find me. Cornered me and caught me red-handed.

“Wait,” I begged, hands held out in front of me. “Just wait, please.” I had to show him right then, before he could change his mind, bring me in, call the Lomans, and I’d never stand a chance. The Lomans could ruin anyone. “I have to show you something.” I rifled through my bag, pulled out everything I’d brought with me. Trying to clear some space on the desk. “Here’s what I sent you,” I said, holding out the medical form for Parker. “See?”

His forehead was scrunched in concentration as he read the document. “I don’t know what I’m looking at here.”

“This is evidence that Parker was hurt the same time my parents died in a car accident.”

He stared at me, green eyes catching the light from the window. I couldn’t read his expression, whether he believed me, whether he was putting things together himself.

“Sadie,” I said, handing him the flash drive, my throat scratching on her name. “She found evidence that her family paid off my grandmother after my parents’ accident. One hundred thousand dollars. It’s here.”

He took it from me, frowning. Turning it over in his hand.

“I have more,” I said. I had everything. I tallied the evidence, pushed the folder I’d brought across the desk in his direction. The matching account number from my grandmother’s checkbook. It had to be enough. “There’s proof that my grandmother paid down her mortgage with this money right after they died. And,” I said, taking out my phone, my hand shaking, “proof that Sadie was hurt at the party last year. Detective, she was there.” I pulled up the photos I’d just taken, handed him my phone, the words tumbling out too fast. Trying to walk him through the course of events—the bloodstain from the bathroom, my belief that someone had taken her from the house, wrapped her in a blanket, lost her phone in the process.

“They used my car. My trunk,” I said, a sob caught in my throat. “The crime scene was there. Not here. She didn’t jump.”

The corners of his mouth tipped down, and he shook his head. “Avery, you have to slow down.”

But that wasn’t right. I had to speed up. Sadie didn’t want a fucking bell, a sad quote. She wanted this. To be seen. To be avenged. And he wasn’t paying attention. What did I need to do to get him to see?

He stared at the photos on my phone, his hand faintly shaking as well, like I’d transferred my fear straight to him. His eyes drifted to the window behind me, and I knew what he was thinking—the Lomans would be back soon.

He had to believe me before they arrived.

“There have to be people in the department who remember the accident,” I said. “Who know something. It was a long time ago, but people remember.” It was horrific, that was what the first officer on the scene said. I had the article with me in that folder on the desk. “Maybe we can talk to the person who was first on-scene. Maybe there’s some evidence that didn’t make sense.” Another piece of proof to link the cases together.