A Deadly Influence (Abby Mullen Thrillers #1)(90)

“Of course, I’ll send them to you . . . are you investigating a possible connection between the murder and the kidnapping case?”

“We’re looking into all possibilities,” Carver said carefully. He hated interviewing reporters. Every question he asked would be analyzed later by McCormick and his editor, and would provide background material for the Chronicle’s articles about the case. “Did Layton tell you anything beyond what appears in the interview?”

“He gave me some background material about his friendship with Gabrielle. And about her life before the kidnapping.”

“What did he tell you about her life?”

“Well, I’d have to check my transcriptions for all the details, but it was mostly about her parents. Her parents got divorced when Gabrielle was young. Her mother struggled to support them, so she was out of the house a lot. And her dad never talked to her since, even though she tried to reach out to him—”

“Gabrielle tried to talk to him?”

McCormick nodded. “He still lived in some sort of Christian community that Gabrielle grew up in. So she called the community three years ago and asked to talk to him. But the people she talked to said her dad wouldn’t talk to her on the phone.”

Carver leaned back in his chair, his mind kicking into high gear. This was probably how Otis had found out where Eden and her kids lived. “You said the people she talked to said her dad didn’t want to come to the phone. Did she talk to several people?”

“I’m not sure; maybe it was an expression. Could be she only talked to one guy. But you can ask her.”

“And they said he wouldn’t come to the phone?”

“According to Eric they suggested she come in person, but she wouldn’t. She said they creeped her out. And she was furious at her dad for refusing to talk to her.”

Carver doubted whomever Gabrielle had talked to had even mentioned it to David. Whom had she talked to? Otis? Karl?

“Did he tell you anything else about her life there?”

“No. He kept dropping hints about it. Like he knew some stuff I wouldn’t believe. But I think it was just talk.”

“During the interview, was there a point he seemed thoughtful? Or distraught?”

“When I showed him Nathan’s picture with the newspaper, he was very upset. He began crying.” McCormick’s eyes suddenly widened. “Do you . . . do you think he was murdered because of the interview?”

Carver twisted his mouth. He had to raise the subject eventually. McCormick could be in danger as well. “This is strictly off the record.”

“Of course.”

“It’s a possibility we’re investigating. Did you see anything strange in the past day? People you don’t recognize near your home? Maybe someone following you?”

“I live in Manhattan. I see people I don’t recognize all the time. Do you think I might be in danger?” McCormick blinked.

“I don’t believe it’s likely. But if you notice anything out of the ordinary, call me immediately.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.” McCormick’s mouth twisted.

Maybe another police ineptitude piece was about to be published soon. He gave McCormick his card. “If you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to call. And send me those transcripts as soon as you can.”

Whatever Eric had said during that interview had probably gotten him killed. But Carver wasn’t closer to figuring out what it was.





CHAPTER 62


Abby was thirty-nine years old with two kids of her own. And yet whenever she walked through her parents’ front door, she felt that sweet safety that rose when someone else took control. It was almost as if she could stomp into the living room, shout angrily that she was hungry, and slump on the couch.

In fact, she probably could do that. And her mother would walk in, give her a sandwich and a warm cup of cocoa, and ask her how her day had been.

Her mother was in the kitchen cutting vegetables, and as soon as Abby stepped inside, she put down the knife and swept Abby into a warm, slightly suffocating hug.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said. “Who’s your friend?”

Abby drew back. “Mom, this is Eden Fletcher. Eden, this is my mom.”

“You can call me Penny,” her mother said. Her face betrayed nothing, but Abby felt the slight tension in her mother’s body when she realized who Eden was.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs., uh . . . Penny,” Eden said meekly.

“Can I get you both something to drink?”

“A cup of coffee would be amazing,” Abby said.

“Just water,” Eden said.

Penny turned to make the coffee. Everything she did in the kitchen was a statement. She moved fast, her movements sharp and assertive. She slammed the cutlery drawer as if it were an enemy that needed vanquishing before it would give up a spoon. Abby’s dad had to fix a broken drawer or cupboard door every few months due to her mother’s aggressive stance toward kitchen furniture. Eden visibly flinched when her mother shut the cupboard door. Abby was used to it—loved it, in fact; it was part of her childhood’s music.

“Is Dad at work?” Abby asked. Her dad worked at an advertising company.

“Yes. He’s been working really hard. They got the pizzushi project, so you can imagine what that’s like.”