Page 94 of The Wedding Party

I blink and sit up straighter. “What? In Estes Park?”

“That’s right. Imagine me standing right here in Estes at a bar with my big, muscled arm around York’s shoulders. He’s loving having me here. Aren’t you, York?”

“Help,” York pleads. “Andi, help.”

I swear I laugh. I can’t help it. York deserves this.

“I’ll be right back, Yorkie baby,” my father declares, and I can hear shuffling about in the background before he returns and says, “All right. I let York breathe a little. He’s got concrete retirement shoes on. You better be glad I was feeling guilty about not finding you that locker key and decided to try to find your weapon. York doesn’t do heavy lifting.”

Nail on head. And obviously, Whit has been talking to the team and my father, because I didn’t tell him about the missing weapon. “And?” I urge, eager to know what he found, praying he found our knife.

“No luck on the knife,” he says, “but I got something.”

“Meaning what?”

“There was a ghost-hunting operation that sneaked cameras into the hotel. They had them all over the place. They didn’t come forward because they were afraid of being connected to the murder.”

“But they did now?”

“After I got one of them drunk and introduced him to Mandy, the waitress I got friendly with—I’ll spare you the details—but bottom line. I have the tapes.”

“Have you looked at them?”

“Nope. But I’m going to get out of here before Mandy leaves and he starts thinking about the videotapes in my hand again. I’m on my way to you. You at your place?”

“I am.”

“Good. Order me that burger I like. I’ll call you when I’m a half hour out.”

I stand up and start to pace. This could be our big break.

I have a good feeling about this.

Maybe, just maybe, I’m about to figure out what I’m missing and solve this case.

Chapter Eighty-Four

It’s one o’clock when the burgers arrive—and just in time. My father explodes into my house with all the fierce energy that is Eddie Castle five minutes later.

Ten minutes after that, we’re both on the floor in front of my coffee table stuffing our faces. These times alone with my father are the ones where he’s gentler, quieter, more analytical. He doesn’t perform for me. He’s just with me.

“Holy mother of insanity,” he says, of Carrie’s father’s identity. “Is she as crazy as him?”

“I’m on the fence,” I say, stabbing my fry into the ketchup. “At the least someone wanted Oliver to believe she is. I mean, the info on her father was sent to Oliver.”

“Assume that’s true, because we’re presuming everything—with what endgame?” he asks. “To have him leave her? Who wanted them broken up?”

“His family,” I say. “The friend, Brody. Maybe others. Believe me, I’ve been considering the options. But wanting them split up and wanting Oliver dead are two different things.”

“Well, if he decided to leave her, she could have lost her shit.”

“Why tell her at a party to celebrate their wedding?”

“Maybe he just found out about the father,” he offers.

I sip my soda. “He got the box weeks before.”

“What if he figured out who sent the box while he was at the party? He confronted that person. That person came to the room, and it got bloody.”