More important, it would give him a chance to think.

Adam stood. “I have to go.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No. If you want my help, give me a few hours.”

“There are two dead women here.”

“I understand that,” Adam said, moving toward the door. “But you’re looking at this wrong anyway.”

“How should we be looking at it?”

“The man who was traveling with Ingrid,” Adam said, “the one at the American Legion Hall.”

“What about him?”

“Do you know who he is?”

She glanced behind her at Len Gilman, then back at Adam. “No.”

“No clue?”

“No clue.”

Adam nodded. “He’s the key to this. Find him.”

Chapter 42

Gabrielle Dunbar’s house had probably been charming at one point, but over the years, the once-modest Cape Cod had been transformed into a bloated, characterless McMansion by additions and updates and purported “improvements.” The newer architectural touches, like bay windows and turrets, distracted rather than enhanced—they gave the house an overly artificial feel.

Adam approached the ornate front door and rang a bell that played an elaborate tune. Not wanting to wait for the police to drive him back home, he’d used his Uber app to summon a car and get him here. Andy Gribbel was on his way to pick him up and take him to the office. Adam didn’t expect this to take long.

Gabrielle answered the door. Adam recognized her from the Facebook photos. She had raven-black hair so straight it had to be ironed. She had a welcoming smile on her face as she opened the door. The smile dissolved the moment she saw Adam.

“Can I help you?” she said.

Her voice had a quiver in it. She didn’t open the screen door.

Adam dove in. “I’m sorry for just intruding like this, but my name is Adam Price.” He tried to hand her his business card, but the screen door was still closed. He slid it through the doorjamb. “I’m an attorney in Paramus.”

Gabrielle stood there. The color was ebbing from her face.

“I’m working on an inheritance case and . . .” He held up his camera phone with the screen grab on it. He used his fingers to blow up the image, so she could see the stranger’s face clearer. “Do you know this man?”

Gabrielle Dunbar slipped her fingers into the doorjamb and plucked out his business card. She stared at it for a long time. Then, finally, she turned her attention to the image on his iPhone. After a few seconds, she shook her head and said, “No.”

“It was an office party, from the looks of it. Surely, you must—”

“I have to go now.”

The quiver had grown toward something closer to panic or fear. She started to close the door.

“Ms. Dunbar?”

She hesitated.

Adam wasn’t sure what to say exactly. He had spooked her. That was obvious to him. He had spooked her, and that meant that she had to know something.

“Please,” he said. “I need to find this man.”

“I told you. I don’t know him.”

“I think you do.”

“Get off my property.”

“My wife is missing.”

“What?”

“My wife. This man did something, and now she’s gone.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please leave.”

“Who is he? That’s all I want to know. His name.”

“I told you. I don’t recognize him. Please, I have to go. I don’t know anything.”

The door started to close again.

“I won’t stop looking. Tell him that. I won’t stop until I find the truth.”

“Get off my property, or I’ll call the police.”

She slammed the door shut.

•   •   •

Gabrielle Dunbar paced for ten minutes, chanting the words So Hum over and over. She had learned this particular Sanskrit mantra at yoga. At the end of the class, her teacher would have them all lie on their backs in Corpse pose. She would have them close their eyes and repeat “So Hum” for five straight minutes. The first time the teacher had suggested this, Gabrielle had practically rolled her closed eyes. But then, somewhere around minute two or three, she began to feel the toxins of stress drain from her body.

“So . . . hum . . .”

She opened her eyes. It wasn’t working. There were things she had to do first. Missy and Paul wouldn’t be home from school for hours. That was good. That would give her time to prepare and pack. She grabbed her phone, scrolled through her favorites, hit the contact she called Douche Nozzle.

Two rings later, her ex answered. “Gabs?”

His nickname for her—the only one who called her that—still grated. When they first began dating, he started calling her “my Gabs” and she’d thought it was adorable in that way you do when you first fall in love and then, months later, the very sound of it makes you gag.

“Can the kids stay with you?” she asked.

He didn’t bother hiding his exasperation. “When?”

“I was thinking of dropping them off tonight.”

“You’re kidding, right? I’ve been asking you for extra visits—”

“And now I’m giving it to you. Can you take them tonight?”

“I’m in Chicago on business till the morning.”

Damn it. “How about Whatshername?”

“You know her name, Gabs. Tami is here with me.”

He had never taken Gabrielle on business trips, probably because he was meeting up with Tami or one of her predecessors. “Tami,” Gabrielle repeated. “Does she dot the i or put a heart over it? I forget.”

“Funny,” he said. But it hadn’t been, she knew. It had been stupid. There were much bigger fish to fry than a long-dead marriage. “We’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll drop them off then,” she said.

“For how long?”

“A few days,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”

“All okay, Gabs?”

“Peachy. Love to Tami.”

Gabrielle hung up. She looked out the window. Part of her had known this day would come from the first time Chris Taylor had approached her. It was just a question of when. The whole enterprise had been enormously appealing, a win-win, revealing truths and making money, but she’d never forgotten the obvious: They were playing with fire. People will do anything to keep their secrets.

Even kill.

“So . . . hum . . .”

It still wasn’t working. She headed up to her bedroom. Even though Gabrielle knew that she was alone in the house, she closed the door. She lay on her bed in a fetal position and started to suck her thumb. Embarrassing, but when the so-hums couldn’t do the trick, reverting to something so primitive and infantile often did. She pulled up her knees tighter to her chest and let herself have a little cry. When she was done, she took out her mobile phone. She used a VPN for privacy. It wasn’t foolproof, but for now, it would be enough. She read the business card again.

ADAM PRICE, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW

He had found her. And if he had found her, it made sense that he’d also been the one who found Ingrid.

To paraphrase that movie with Jack Nicholson, some people can’t handle the truth.

Gabrielle reached into her bottom drawer and took out a Glock 19 Gen4 and laid it on the bed. Merton had given it to her, claiming it was the perfect handgun for women. He’d taken her out to a firing range in Randolph and taught her how to use it. It was loaded and ready to go. She’d been worried at first about keeping a loaded gun in the house with young children, but the possible threats had trumped standard home safety.

So what now?

Simple. Follow procedure. She snapped a photo of Adam Price’s card with her iPhone. She attached the image to an e-mail and typed in two words before hitting SEND:

HE KNOWS

Chapter 43

Adam left work early and drove to the new turf field at Cedarfield High School. The boys’ lacrosse team was practicing. He parked down the block, out of sight, and watched his son Thomas from behind the bleachers. He had never done this before—watched a practice—and he probably couldn’t articulate exactly what he was doing here. He just wanted to watch his son for a while. That’s all. Adam remembered what Tripp Evans had said at the American Legion Hall the night this all started, how he couldn’t believe how lucky those of them who lived in towns like this were: