Page 47 of Go Under

“Then be chill,” Daniel said. He was smiling again. “Be chill, and I’ll take you out for ice cream tonight. How does that sound?”

Nora might be eleven years old, but ice cream always sounded delicious. She bobbed her head up and down, threw herself into her big brother’s arms, smelled the cologne he wore far too much of but that smelled delicious to her, and told herself that she’d always have him.

***

But she didn’t always have him. That same day, only a few hours later, he was arrested for murder. Nora knew right away that he didn’t kill that man at the jewelry store. Danny would never do anything like that. She knew it must have been one of those other boys, the ones who looked at her with mean, stray dog eyes.

But no one believed her. Mom and Dad said they did, but lately, Nora realized they didn’t. That’s why they never looked her in the eyes when they talked about him.

She took a deep breath. Tonight, it would end. Tonight, the last false witness would pay. Then Nora would wait until God took her to Heaven. She would see Danny again, and he would lift her into his big, strong arms and tell her how proud he was of her.

The last of her tears welled in the corners of her eyes and fell, cooling the heat in her cheeks. The snow was coming down heavier now, a sign of God’s approaching judgment.

Tonight. One more correction. Then the world would be right again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Darnell was rarely frustrated. His personality was not the sort to give into impatience. In his experience, impatience led to mistakes, and mistakes led to failure. Evidence would arrive when it arrived, and so long as everyone was doing the best they could, they should be satisfied with the results.

That philosophy held no water here. This woman had killed four people in as many days, and was, in all likelihood, hunting a fifth. They didn’t have time for evidence to arrive when it arrived.

They also didn’t have a choice.

As Darnell paced the lobby of the field office where he’d served for the past fourteen years, the first time he’d engaged in that restless activity, he could feel tendrils of fear creeping into his frustration, trying to turn it into panic, asking questions that he couldn’t answer, challenging conclusions he’d already accepted.

What if Nora Avery wasn’t their killer? What if someone else had taken this crusade upon themselves? What if Cox had researched the case and dictated every step of the action, making it appear that Nora was out for revenge when it was really just one of his disciples acting on his twisted form of religious devotion? What if they’d missed some clue that would tell them exactly where to go? What if the intended victim wasn’t the 911 caller at all but someone completely different?

Darnell’s experience allowed him to ignore these questions, but his emotions refused to comply. He could only walk back and forth, hands clasped behind his back, nose pointed at the ground, waiting, like Marcus and Kate, for the one little thread they needed to pull.

When his phone finally rang, he snatched it from his pocket with so much force that he tore the seam of his pants. He didn’t care.

“Yes?”

“Special Agent Okoye?” a jovial male voice asked.

Even that little bit of procedure frustrated him. Goddamn, they didn’t have time. “This is he.”

“I have the records you wanted. You’re looking at 115 Paul Revere Boulevard, right?”

“Yes. I need the unit number to which the landline I provided was assigned.”

“Yep. Got it. Looks like you’re looking for unit 316. Third-floor, one-bed—”

“Thank you.”

Darnell was rarely rude, but he just didn’t have time to chitchat. He looked up, gratified to see Kate and Marcus already there, their full attention fixed on him. They knew how to focus on their jobs. “Unit 316.” “Outstanding,” Marcus said. “Next step is to look up residency records.”

“They already said they didn’t have those,” Kate reminded him.

“The property managers don’t, but someone will have a record somewhere,” Marcus said. He tapped and swiped rapidly on his cell phone as he spoke. “I’m going to do a full records sweep looking for any record addressed to 115 Paul Revere Boulevard number 316, Philadelphia, during the year 1991. If there’s a single surviving record of any kind, we’ll have the occupant’s name.”

“Good thinking,” Darnell replied. “How long will it take?”

Marcus chuckled. “Well, that’s always a crapshoot. Sometimes it takes a few hours, and sometimes—” His phone beeped. He grinned. “And sometimes, you get lucky.”

He showed Kate and Darnell the phone. A tax record popped up, revealing the residents of Unit 316 as Carter and Iris Doyle.

Darnell pumped his fist, another uncharacteristic display. A lot of firsts for him on this case. “Outstanding. Now we can look them up and determine their current address.”