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So he’d gotten into his RAV4, driving across town to where the Beckhams lived—stopping for gas even though he had three-quarters of a tank. He’d be on the gas station’s security camera. In case he needed an alibi.
He also kept the receipt, because those were good for alibis, too, right?
And now here he sat, in front of the Beckhams’ modest home. He could have been inside already, talking to them. But this was not so simple.
Should he give his real name? He’d considered an alias. It wasn’t illegal, per se, but it was dishonest. Should he simply be honest with them as to why he was asking questions?
If he did, he could ruin his career. Although if he wasn’t cleared without equivocation soon, he wouldn’t have a career.
And in the end, what mattered more? Stopping a murderer? Or his career?
He knew the right answer, but he was selfish enough to hesitate over the possibility of losing the career he’d worked so hard to build.
But what if he could save his livelihood and help this family?
So walk up to the door and knock. Help these parents.
Bracing himself, he got out of his vehicle and walked to the front door. A gangly teenage boy stood there uncertainly, his eyes red-rimmed, like he’d been crying. He looked to be about fifteen. The same age his sister had been when she disappeared, because this boy resembled Naomi too much to be anything but her brother. Nathan, Sam remembered, from the online messages to Naomi. He was three years younger than his sister.
“What do you want?” Nathan asked, voice husky. He wasn’t rude, but he didn’t open the door wide enough for Sam to see inside. “Didn’t you hurt my mom enough already?”
“Who?” Sam asked gently.
“You cops,” the boy spat. “You stir up everything but you don’t fix anything. You—” He broke off, shaking his head. “My mom can’t talk to you any more. She’s asleep now.”
Cops? “Did Detective McKittrick come by?”
The boy nodded, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah. Two hours ago.”
Sam knew that he shouldn’t be surprised that McKittrick was also following leads. He’d mentioned Avondale when she’d had him in that interrogation room the morning after she’d arrested him.
This explained the boy’s tears. So many memories dredged up.
Any and all thoughts of disguising his name fled right out of his head. “I’m not a cop. My name is Dr.Reeves. I’m a psychologist.”
Nathan recoiled. “A shrink?”
Sam sighed and shrugged self-deprecatingly. “ ’Fraid so. Sorry.”
“What do you want?” Nathan demanded.
“A few answers. I’ve been drawn into this case. Not my idea,” he added when the boy scowled. “I was being a Good Samaritan, but everything’s gone upside down and now I’m involved. I know this doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, it really doesn’t. Why are you here?”
Sam hesitated, but... In for a penny, in for a pound. This boy had lost his sister, and his mother was hurting. So he’d be honest. “Did you hear about the young woman who was killed last night?”
Nathan shook his head. “I wasn’t home from school when the cop came by. I got here in time to pick up the pieces of my mom she left behind,” he added bitterly.
Such pain. Sam’s gaze dropped to his feet for a moment before lifting to meet the boy’s angry eyes. “A woman was killed this weekend. The cops think the same person might be responsible for your sister’s disappearance. The woman was my friend. She walked my dog. Her killer made it look like I did it.”
Nathan took a step back, nostrils flaring. “How?”
“A text on her phone to her parents, saying she was meeting me. I was camping and...” He shrugged. “No alibi.”
Nathan scoffed. “Anyone could have sent a text. They could have spoofed it.”
“I know. And the cops know this, too.”
