Page 90 of The Wedding Party

“Agent Castle,” Ms. Littleton warns.

“We found the box,” I say.

Carrie sits up on the edge of her chair, her energy eager, not fearful. “You found it?”

“We did,” I confirm.

“It was a gift Oliver received before he died,” Carrie explains. “I told Agent Castle about it. He was upset about the contents. He said it was a gag gift gone wrong. He wouldn’t tell me who sent it. He was afraid I’d hold it against him.”

“Him?” Dr. Thompson asks.

“One of his groomsmen,” Carrie explains, and then her attention returns to me. “Where was it?” she asks, her voice lifting. “What was inside? I know it’s silly, but it just feels relevant. It was something that upset him before . . . you know.” She swallows hard and adds, “Before.”

“It was in his locker at the cigar club,” I reply, and give her a minute to let that sink in.

“Oh.” Her expression transitions from momentary confusion to realization. “Well, I guess that does make sense. He said it was a gift from one of his groomsmen. He must have taken it back to him. As I said, he was pretty upset over whatever was in that box.”

I reach into my bag and hold up a folder. “Your father’s identity was inside that box, Carrie.”

“What is this?” Ms. Littleton demands.

“I think this would be better handled a different way,” Dr. Thompson interjects. “Can we talk outside, Agent Castle?”

“I don’t understand why he would have that,” Carrie says, her eyes on me. “How would he have that? Oh God. Did his parents have me investigated? Did they hate me that much?”

It’s a question I’d asked them as soon as I left the club last night. The answer had been no, which doesn’t mean they didn’t, but I believe I would have heard from them about this information right away had they known. “Oliver’s parents didn’t investigate you. Someone else did.”

“Oliver?” she asks.

“I don’t know, Carrie.” I hold out the folder containing the documents we believe were in that white box with the red ribbon sent to Oliver. “But you have a right to know what others now know.”

“Let’s wait on this,” Dr. Thompson states, clearly seeing something in Carrie that worries her.

“What stunt are you pulling, Agent Castle?” Ms. Littleton demands.

Carrie snatches the folder from me and rounds the chair to stand by the door, opening the folder and reading. And then just staring down at the page. Seconds tick by, and she starts to tremble. “No. No.” Her gaze rockets to mine, and her voice is low, taut. “This is a lie. This is a lie. Why are you doing this? Why? He is not my father.” She throws the folder away, papers fluttering about. “This is not who I am,” she declares. “This is not who I am!” If I expected an explosion—and I did—that’s not what follows. She sinks to the ground and begins to sob.

Chapter Eighty-One

I agree to keep Carrie’s father’s identity a secret, at least for now. I also agree to allow Carrie to stay at the facility for another three weeks. At the end of that three weeks, we’ll see where we stand.

Once I leave the facility, I text Aiden an update, decline his offer to come over, and head home. I need some alone time to process what just happened and to decide where I stand on Carrie Reynolds. I’m leaning toward believing she’s more victim than killer.

And then I head to the office with a theory in mind.

What if someone at that party is related to one of her father’s victims?

A few hours later, I’m at my kitchen table, with my laptop open and a steaming cup of coffee next to me. There’s also a doodle mess on my notepad, my unproductive method of expelling excess energy and frustration.

I toss down my pen and sigh. So far I’ve made no connections between the hotel guests or staff and Carrie’s father, but it’s a tedious research process. It takes time we don’t have. While those who kill in the heat of the moment rarely kill again, at this stage of an investigation, nothing is certain, and the threat of another murder has to be considered. Since Carrie’s father killed across three states—Colorado, New Mexico, and Texas—we’ve blasted a special alert and request for information to those states and beyond. We hit the NCIC, which will cover the entire US, with additional information, on top of our initial submission.

But I’m missing something that’s staring me in the face. I feel it in my bones, and it’s driving me crazy. My cellphone rings with a 615 number, and I’m hoping for a lead. I answer with, “Special Agent Castle.”

“This is Detective Boone out of Franklin, Tennessee.” His twang says “country boy” all the way.

“Tell me you have something good for me.”

“I have something for you,” he replies, “but I’m not sure if you’ll think it’s good.”