Page 70 of Fallen

How much you got saved?

How much is your marriage worth?

How much is your job worth?

No reply from Fletcher.

Tomasetti backs out of the file and goes to the next. It looks like a listing of phone numbers. “I pulled these numbers from their devices. I compared time of day with the numbers. Fletcher called her the day after those texts were sent. They talked for six minutes.”

He angles the phone so I can see the next item. I find myself looking at what appears to be some kind of financial statement.

Tomasetti continues, “Two days later, Fletcher withdrew three thousand dollars from his savings account. He withdrew another two thousand from an investment account.”

He thumbs through a few more screens. “The following day, Rachael Schwartz deposited five thousand bucks into her checking account.”

He flicks off the phone and returns to the chair. When he looks at me his expression is sober. “There’s more, Kate. Over the last six months, she’s called his house a dozen times. Calls last only a minute, so they’re probably hang-ups. She hounded him, posted things on Jennifer Fletcher’s social media pages. I spent half the night reading some really raw and disturbing text and email exchanges. She threatened him dozens of times. She wanted money for her silence. He’d paid her up to about twelve thousand. He threatened to kill her twice.”

The information settles into my gut with the power of a stomach virus. “We have motive,” I say.

“The CCTV footage at the bar in Wooster?” he says. “Expert says the car that pulled in belongs to Fletcher’s wife. We enlarged it, got the plate number as it was pulling into the lot. We had an expert look at the video. He says the silhouette of the male is likely Fletcher.”

“They met at the bar the day she was murdered,” I say.

He nods. “A few hours later, she was dead.”

We stare at each other for the span of a few heartbeats and then I reach for the phone on my desk. “Let’s get the arrest warrant.”

CHAPTER 31

As police chief of a small town, I deal with the occasional sticky situation that requires some degree of discretion. My department is good at maintaining confidentiality when necessary, especially when it comes to protecting someone’s safety. But secrets are tough to keep in a small town. When a neighbor sees a police car pull up to someone’s house—even with the overhead lights off—they want to know what’s going on.

I don’t expect any trouble from Fletcher. He’s a stable guy with four kids at home and a wife who’s expecting their fifth. Still, I’ve dealt with enough high-stress situations to know that when Mr. Even Keel realizes his life is about to unravel, he can come unhinged.

In my rearview mirror, I see Tomasetti pull up behind me, a Holmes County deputy behind him. I get out and we meet on our way to the front door.

“You talk to Rasmussen?” he asks.

I nod. “He’s on his way.”

We reach the front porch. I’ve just pressed the doorbell when the door opens. Jennifer Fletcher appears. She’s wearing a yellow and white maternity dress. Huge belly. House shoes. Hair pinned atop her head. Her smile falters at the sight of us.

“What’s going on?” Her voice rises a pitch with each word. “Is it Dane? What’s—”

It takes me a second to realize she thinks we’re here to inform her that her husband has been hurt on the job. It’s a normal reaction. It’s sad because he didn’t fill her in on what’s going on or warn her that he’s in serious trouble.

“He’s not hurt,” I say quickly. “We need to talk to him. Is he home?”

“Oh.” She sags, presses a hand against her chest. “Whew! You guys scared me for a second.” Still, she knows there’s something wrong. She pauses, cocks her head. “Is everything all right?”

I hear kids playing in the background. Splashing in the pool out back. A dog yapping. Laughter. The smell of popcorn wafting out. And I feel a wave of anger toward Fletcher because he had it all—and squandered it.

“We need to talk to Dane,” I tell her. “Is he here?”

She blinks, worried now. Confused because she’s realized this isn’t a friendly visit and we’re not going to go away until we get what we want. “He took Scotty to the Little League game, down at the elementary school.” She glances at her watch. “They should be back any minute. Want to come in and wait?” She laughs. “Fill me in?”

Neither of us responds as we follow her into the house. Glossy wood floors. Open concept. Crisp gray paint on the walls. The kitchen is large and well used, with newish appliances. A plastic truck tossed haphazardly on the dining room floor.

Jennifer pauses at the island that separates the kitchen from the living room and turns to us. “I wish you’d tell me what’s going on. You guys are starting to worry me.”