Page 57 of In Her Memory

The receptionist looked up from her computer, her expression shifting from surprise to resigned recognition. She was in her sixties, with close-cropped gray hair and glasses that perpetually slipped down her nose. She’d been with Ray for fifteen years, enduring his temper and running interference with clients who’d learned to dread his confrontations.

“Sheriff Graves,” she said, straightening in her chair. “What can I do for you today?”

“Mavis, I need to speak with Ray,” Jenna replied, stepping up to the counter. “It’s urgent.”

Mavis’s mouth tightened. “I’m afraid he’s not in right now. He had a site meeting over in Pinecrest. Won’t be back until—”

“Nice try,” Jenna cut her off, already moving past the counter toward the hallway that led to Ray’s office. “I know the drill.”

“You can ‘t just— “Mavis began, half-rising from her chair.

“I can, actually,” Jenna called back. “Official police business.”

She strode down the short hallway. Ray’s door stood at the end, his name stenciled on the frosted glass in block letters. She knocked—a courtesy only—then pushed the door open.

Ray Pruitt sat behind a cluttered desk; phone pressed to his ear. He was in his late forties, with the weathered complexion of someone who spent more time on job sites than in an office. His dark hair was shot through with gray, and a day’s stubble shadowed his jaw. He looked up as she entered, his expression darkening.

“I’ll have to call you back,” he said into the phone, not taking his eyes off Jenna. He hung up without waiting for a response and leaned back in his chair. “Mavis!” he shouted. “I thought I told you—”

“She did,” Jenna said, closing the door behind her. “But I’m not leaving until we’ve talked.”

Ray’s office was an organized chaos. Blueprints and work orders covered every surface; a collection of miniature tools lined one shelf; a coffee mug bearing the faded slogan “I Dig Historical Preservation” sat beside his computer. The walls were covered with framed photos of completed projects—Victorian homes with restored gingerbread trim, storefronts with freshly painted facades, and, in a place of honor, Calloway House in various stages of renovation.

“So,” Ray said, folding his arms across his chest, “is Sheriff Graves here to arrest me again? Or is this just a social call?”

Jenna remained standing, keeping the desk between them. “I assume you’ve heard about Donna Marsh.”

Ray’s eyebrows rose. “The woman at Calloway House? Yeah, tragic accident. Fell off a ladder reaching for something.” His tone was casual, almost dismissive.

“I’m not so sure it was an accident,” Jenna replied.

Something flickered across Ray’s face—surprise, perhaps, followed by wariness. “You think somebody killed her? In a building full of condo owners and staff?”

“I think there’s more to the story,” Jenna said. “Starting with the network of passageways throughout the mansion.”

This time, the reaction was unmistakable—Ray’s posture stiffened, his eyes narrowing with caution. “I can’t talk about that,” he said.

“Can’t, or won’t?”

Ray leaned forward. “Can’t. Literally can’t. Legal reasons.”

Jenna studied him, watching for the telltale signs of deception. But Ray’s face showed only guarded wariness.

“You signed a non-disclosure agreement,” she said.

Ray’s mouth tightened. “I can’t even confirm that.”

“You can now,” Jenna replied. “Boyd Calloway is dead.”

Ray’s expression shifted to genuine shock, his face paling slightly beneath his tan.

“What?” he said. “When? How?”

“Last night,” Jenna answered. “In his bedroom at Calloway House. It appears to be a heart attack, but I have reason to believe it was induced—that someone used the passageways to frighten him.”

Ray leaned back in his chair, processing this. “My God,” he muttered. “I just saw him yesterday.” Then he looked at her sharply, “What do the passageways have to do with it?”

“That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me,” Jenna said.