Beneath Devil's Bridge(3)

“Obviously,” I echo. But Rachel’s avoidance has only sharpened my determination. People who don’t want to talk have the best things to say. Interview subjects who eschew social media and society in general usually have something good to hide, which is why getting Rachel Walczak to open up on the record will be a freaking coup. I can almost taste it. Success. This project has the early markers of a breakout. Ratings and reviews skyrocketed after the first episode went live a week ago. The second episode, which aired yesterday, brought even better stats. Media interest is swelling. Every true crime aficionado awaiting the next episodes is expecting to hear from Detective Rachel Walczak. How she hunted the killer down. How she interrogated him, got him to confess. Put him behind bars.

“Don’t look now, but I can see her husband up in the attic window,” Gio says, coming up behind me. “He’s watching us. Probably loading his shotgun. We’re trespassing, you do know that?”

I keep going, excitement building as the tractor nears the barn. I move faster. The rain intensifies, wetting my hair. Mist thickens, swirls as it fingers around the barn.

Gio stumbles and curses. “Have you seen these?” he yells. “Freaking Franken-potatoes. Buried just under the surface of this mud. Big as my head.”

I see the giant potatoes. Left behind at harvest—too big for market. But my attention remains locked on the green tractor. It comes to a stop outside the barn doors. The dark-haired woman climbs down. She’s wearing a ball cap, rain pants, a rain jacket, and muddy gum boots. The dog jumps down behind her and starts barking as it runs toward us, hackles raised. We both stop dead in our tracks. It’s obvious she’s seen us, but she continues to ignore us as she removes a bucket of rutabagas from the tractor and proceeds into the barn. The dog keeps yapping, holding us at bay.

“Rachel?” I call over the barking dog. “Rachel Walczak? Can we please talk to you?”

For a moment Rachel hesitates just inside the doors, but then she enters the old structure and whistles. The border collie gives one more yap and runs into the barn behind the ex-detective.

I take the opportunity and quickly enter after them, wiping rain off my face.

“Rachel Walczak, I’m Trinity Scott, cocreator and host of the true crime podcast It’s Criminal, and this is Gio Rossi, my ass—”

“I know who you are.” Her voice is rich. Husky. Authoritative. She sets down her bucket and faces us. Her eyes are an icy gray, her lashes long and dark. Lines bracket her strong, wide mouth. Silver strands streak through the thick, damp braid that hangs over her shoulder. She’s tall. Lithe and strong-looking despite the fact that she’s almost old enough, technically, to be my grandmother. She makes me feel short even though I’m not. Rachel is everything I hoped she would be.

“I’m not interested in talking to you,” Rachel says. “I’d like you to get off my land.”

Hesitation sparks through me. I shoot a quick glance at Gio. His dark eyes meet mine. The expression in his gaze mirrors my thoughts: This is our one last shot. Lose it, and we won’t get another window.

“It’s been almost a quarter of a century,” I say calmly, my heart thudding inside my chest. I think of Granger and the possibility of a shotgun, and the fact that we are trespassing. “It was the same time of year when your dive team found Leena’s body in that brackish water. Cold. Misty. Rain hovering on the verge of sleet. Wind driving off the sea.” I pause. Rachel’s sharp eyes narrow. There’s a subtle shift in her posture.

“Same scents in the air,” I say. “Smell of woodsmoke. Rotting leaves. The dead fish. Winter coming.”

Rachel’s gaze remains locked on mine. I take a tentative step closer. I see that the lines that fan out from Rachel’s eyes are deep. Not laugh lines—tired lines. A sudden empathy washes through me. This cop has seen things. Done things. She just wants to be left alone now.

The dog growls softly. Gio stays back.

“Your husband—”

“I’m not married.”

“Your partner, Granger, told us when we drove out last week that you wouldn’t want to speak to me, and I can understand your resistance.”

“Can you?” Sarcasm cuts through her words.

“I’ve done my research. I know how the media hounded you all, and how you ended up leaving the force. But I only want to talk to you about the actual nuts and bolts of the Leena Rai investigation. The strategy behind it. How you guys brought on Detective Luke O’Leary. How you got Leena’s killer to confess, which put him behind bars. That’s the scope.”

Rachel opens her mouth, but I shoot my hand up, stopping her. “Just the basics of the investigation, Ms. Walczak. The impact of the teen’s horrendous death on the small and tightly knit community—on her teachers, friends, classmates—”

“It’s Hart. Rachel Hart. I no longer go by Walczak.” She reaches for her bucket. “And the answer is no. I’m sorry. And like you said, I was not the only detective on the case. Try Luke O’Leary. Or Bart Tucker.”

“Bart Tucker referred me to a PD press liaison officer. Detective O’Leary is in hospice care. He’s lucid only some of the time.”

Rachel goes dead still. Her face pales. Quietly she says, “I . . . I didn’t know. Where . . . which hospice?”