Page 144 of Trust No One

“If I were sneaking into Hale House regularly, I’d kill the camera, too.”

It was a smart move. Someone had been thinking ahead.

Meg folded her arms. “Whoever she is, she moves around the house as if it’s very familiar to her.”

“When does she leave the house?”

“Six a.m., Sunday, September 21. She stayed in the house for thirty hours.”

“And no clear image of her face?”

“No.”

I drew a frustrated breath. “What about the other cameras?”

She placed her cursor on the image and fast-forwarded to Wednesday, October 14. Eight days ago. “The good stuff comes toward the end.”

This time, the feed caught a blond woman staggering from the shadows through the woods on a path toward the creek bed. Several times, she paused, resting a hand on a tree trunk. A hand pressed to her belly, she dry-retched. She glanced back, wary. Then she staggered forward, vanishing from the frame.

The woman was Amy.

I leaned closer, waiting. At 12:10 a.m. another figure emerged. Also female. Hooded. Steady. Methodical. Following.

“Amy looks sick.” Meg noted the time stamp. “I’m no medical examiner, but I’d say Amy Stocker’s time of death was Wednesday, October 14, around midnight.”

“ME’s rough estimate is about that time.”

Meg kept watching the screen. “The fibers the medical examiner found in Amy’s nostrils are being tested. No matches yet.”

“Okay.” I watched the footage, observing Amy’s movements. “She stumbles. Collapses in the creek.”

“She doesn’t die fast enough.”

“And someone finished the job—pressing fabric over her face until she stops breathing.”

“Any more footage?”

“That’s all.”

“I’ll reach out to the sheriff’s office,” I said. “There are gas stations, fast-food places, and a farm-supply outlet near Hale House. See who has security cameras.”

Meg nodded. “Thinks she’s thought of all the camera angles.”

“And there’s always one more.”

Chapter Fifty-Four

Raine

Thursday, October 22, 2026, 6:30 p.m.

The day unfolded as normally as I could make it. Molly and I drove to the grocery store. She picked foods that were her favorites. I said no to a few bags of candy. She scowled, fists clenched, but no full-on meltdown. A win in my book.

We were putting the groceries away when the locksmith arrived. Molly ignored him, absorbed by the television, while I watched as he changed the locks on the front and back doors and installed sensors on the window frames. I paid him, tipping him well. The extra locks were nice, but if someone wanted to get inside the house, they’d find a way.

I considered one of the three dishes I could make. Tacos. Easy and always a fan favorite with Ken, who was really a big child. My two other specialties were spaghetti and boxed macaroni. Time to kick up my game in the kitchen. But that was next week’s problem.

My voicemail held more messages from Edith. I owed her a call, but I’d wait until Molly was asleep.