Page 73 of Trust No One

Sitting on a brick wall in the shade, he opened the envelope. Inside: cash. And a note. No postmark. No return address. Why hadn’t it been confiscated?

He read the note.

Short. Simple. Directions to a location three hours south of here.

He’d seen instructions like this before. Followed them. Gotten the shit beaten out of him after he’d been torn off Raine.

Take the cash. Run. He’d never win this game.

But this now was really about Raine.

And he needed to see her again.

Their business wasn’t finished.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Raine

Tuesday, October 20, 2026, 10:00 a.m.

I’d unpacked Mom’s vintage suit hanging in the closet in the east room, where Mom had stored the overflow of designer clothes she couldn’t stop buying. The suit was a classic. Barely wrinkled. It took twenty minutes to find the old iron and ironing board in the back of the kitchen pantry.

The thick, tightly woven suit fabric reminded me of my mother. I was about six when she’d bought this outfit on a New York shopping trip. In these few rare fashion sessions, I’d had Mom’s undivided attention. But when I was a little older, her mind began to fade. Mini strokes, the doctor had said. Soon, she was physically present, but she wasn’t always mentally attached to the world.

I smoothed out the fabric with the iron. Mom’s black pumps completed the look. My briefcase was in storage, so I stuffed my laptop and notepads in my backpack.

The drive into town took a half hour. A stop at the printshop took a few minutes.

The county jailhouse wasn’t huge. The one-level building housed dispatch, a small jail, and an interview room. The magistrate’s office was in the adjacent courthouse, built circa 1900.

The jail’s small reception area smelled of bleach and stale air. Beyond was a glass partition equipped with a microphone. On the other side was an older man wearing a sheriff’s deputy uniform.

“I’m Raine Hale. I understand you’ve arrested my client, Gabe Durant.”

The old man’s eyes darkened with surprise. “That’s right.”

I hadn’t represented anyone since Pete Miller. Panic tightened my chest as memories of his large hands crushing my windpipe surfaced. His amused face loomed over mine. As the guards pulled him off me, his fists landed hard blows against my ribs.

“I’d like to see him.”

“Agent Blackwood is talking to him now.”

“Tell the agent that I’m here. I want to see Mr. Durant now.”

The deputy rose from his desk and left, leaving me to wander the small space and read random community service posters. The Dare campaign had kicked off. Two missing teens from Richmond were spotted on Route 60. The local high school was sponsoring a fundraiser to buy bulletproof vests for the county’s K-9 unit.

The police station hadn’t changed since I was here when Detective Hutchinson had interviewed me. He’d offered to come to the house, but I didn’t want him in Hale House. So I’d arrived at the police station and waited on a new orange plastic chair in the reception area. Seventeen years had left the chairs looking tired and overused. The tile floor, with exactly 106 tiles, remained the same speckled gray. And the air still smelled the same.

As a high schooler, I hadn’t worried as I drove to the police station. As an afterthought I’d called the family attorney. I’d left a voicemail. Looking back, I cringed at my foolishness. Talking to the cops alone was never smart. I advised clients to get an attorney even if they were just fighting a parking ticket.

Detective Hutchinson had been kind when he’d escorted me back to an interview room. I’d sat at a cheap table and noticed that the video recorder’s red light never blinked on.

I’d sat a little straighter and folded my hands in my lap like my mother had always insisted. “Always a lady,” she’d said.

Hutchinson’s questions were straightforward.

“How long has Amy Stocker been in your employ?”