Page 93 of The Wedding Party

“There’s nothing about her in the file Agent Castle gave me.”

“Good news. That must mean there’s nothing to tell. And whoever compiled the data on you and your father did so maliciously. Fight back. Remember what happened that night. Remember, Carrie.”

She’s right. My God. She is right. I don’t know who did this, but I have to pull myself together and help Agent Castle find them. “Yes. Help me. Help me remember. Now, please.”

Chapter Eighty-Three

ANDI

The morning after the Tennessee revelation, Hazel has found at least thirty people in the hotel who have a Nashville connection, out of the three hundred who were present the night Oliver died. Over coffee, not wine, I spend hours going over the details with her. As for the search for a connection between Carrie’s father and Oliver’s murder, it’s a complete bust.

I’m halfway through a pot of coffee when I start calling the cigar club, starting with Brody.

“Agent Castle. Good morning.”

“You’re way too cheery for a man who just lost a close friend.”

“I handle things my way,” he says, his voice noticeably tighter.

“Why were you in Nashville last year?”

“Holy hell, do you want to know my underwear color, too? I thought I was cleared?”

“I haven’t cleared anyone. Why were you—”

“It was a guys’ trip. We saw Jason Aldean perform, then went over to Kid Rock’s place. Why?”

“Did you see Carrie there?”

“No. Hell no.”

“Did anyone see her?”

“She was at home in Denver. Oliver was with us. It was a guys’ trip.”

“Did anyone act funny?”

“We were wasted. We all acted like idiots. That’s the joy of walking around Broadway and not being worried about getting in a car and driving drunk.”

“Did anyone disappear?”

“I mean, not really. Cade scored with some hot chick and went home with her.”

Cade the doctor, I think. I type a message to Hazel: Look for connections to Cade.

She replies back: Done. There are none.

“Agent? You done with me?”

“Probably not. I’ll be in touch.”

I disconnect and curl my fingers in my palm. What am I missing?

By Friday, late afternoon, two days after my interview with Carrie, I’ve read her journal entries, and as I suspect she knew, nothing in them helps us. I’m also officially in need of rest. I have started to believe lack of sleep is affecting how I process information. By midmorning, I head home and sleep two full, wondrous hours. After which I slide into my favorite baggy jeans and a sweater and ignore my growling stomach. I’m eager to put my fresh, rested eyes on the file.

I’m only about an hour into my work when my cellphone rings and I glance down to find my father, who’s been surprisingly quiet for a few days, calling. He doesn’t even know about the new serial killer in the mix. “Hi, Dad,” I answer. “What trouble are you in?”

“I’m here with your pal York.”