Page 104 of The Wedding Party

“Do you know why she stabbed him?”

“No. Tell me.”

“Because every time the knife goes in, you’re killing them all over again.” He gurgles out more laughter and his head tilts back. I don’t stay to look into those eyes again. I leave.

And I leave knowing that the same cold, hard, flat stare I saw in Norman’s eyes I’d seen in Carrie’s eyes when she’d spoken of Lana. Evil lives in father and daughter.

Chapter Ninety-One

I exit the prison to find my own father leaning on his muscle car, legs in front of him, ankles crossed.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Aiden told me about his conversation with you. You believe Carrie is a killer, just like her father. You went to the same place I’d go. What’d you find out?”

“You know what I found.”

“She’s a cold-blooded killer.”

“Yes, but I can’t prove it.”

“You know what you need to do.”

He means break the rules to break her.

“I’m an FBI agent, Dad. You know how I feel about my job.”

“Sworn to protect and serve. How is letting a criminal walk free to kill again doing either of those things?”

He’s pushing me, and not in a good way. “I need to go home and think.”

“Whit caught his killer. He said he thought the person killing people and faking suicides was a serial killer, the guy he thought was a Spider Man protégé, but you said no. You said it sounded like revenge killings. You were right. Trust yourself. You’re good at what you do.”

I let that sink in with appreciation for his words. “Thank you.”

“Go think.”

I nod, turn away from him, and walk to my car, climbing inside and grabbing the steering wheel, shaking my head with the reality of my situation. I have nothing on Carrie now. Unless I find the weapon with her prints, she’ll go free.

I start my engine and my dad pulls up next to me, driver’s side to driver’s side, his window down. “She’ll sleep easy tonight. Will you? One day you’ll figure out that you’re a Castle, honey. Some people say. Castles do.” He winks. “Love you, kiddo.” He revs his engine and drives away.

Chapter Ninety-Two

I tell myself to go home. I don’t go home. I end up in front of Carrie Reynolds’s home. The home she once shared with Oliver Phoenix. A man who believed her to be the best thing that ever happened to him. Instead, she ended him. I turn on the recorder on my phone. Anything I capture may or may not be admissible in court, but it might be enough to shift the narrative of Lana killing Oliver.

One last thought has me latching my phone to my waistband and sliding out of my coat, not wanting the bulkiness to muffle the recording. Drawing a steeling breath, I exit into the bitter cold evening, but I’m hot. I’m angry. I’m ready to make this visit with Carrie count. And yet, my steps are slowed, measured. My actions calculated.

Once on the porch, I ring the bell. Carrie answers. She’s in jeans and a pink sweater, her dark hair soft around her shoulders. She looks sweet, innocent, angelic. The devil in sheep’s clothing. Her greeting is far from welcoming. “What are you doing here, Agent Castle?” she asks.

Undeterred I ask, “Can we talk?”

“No. No, I don’t think I want to talk. I need to breathe a little. You have your killer. Lana killed Oliver.”

“Part of our investigation includes wrapping up all loose ends. Can I please just come in for a minute?”

“Another time. Call Ms. Littleton. I’m sorry.” Her eyes tear up. “I can’t do this.” She shuts the door and the lock slides into place.

My head lowers, chin to my chest. “Damn it,” I whisper, hesitating before I walk back to my car and climb inside. I’m about to start the engine again when my father’s words play in my head: She’ll sleep easy tonight. Will you?