Thomas twisted the pencil in his fingers. Was that possible? For two decades he’d believed that McIntyre was the killer. Had he and the rest of the force been so wrong?
If Marlie Robinson was dead, where the hell was her body? Had the search teams and dogs missed her trail and her remains decomposed in the forest, her bones and flesh carried off by wild animals? Or had she somehow survived?
He kept coming back to the same question that had nagged at him whenever he’d thought of the tragedy: Why had Marlie Robinson hidden her little sister away? Why didn’t she stay in the attic with Kara and save herself? How had Marlie been involved? Had Jonas McIntyre—or another killer—spared her? Why?
Had Jonas McIntyre been telling the truth all these years? Was he really innocent?
Thomas found it hard to believe and scanned Jonas’s statement again. His story had never changed, never once faltered: Yes, he’d been “messing around” with the sword earlier, and he had been in a fight with Donner earlier in the week, all over Lacey Higgins, but that night he had not killed his brothers or his parents. He’d been in the living room when an intruder had slipped into the house and attacked him first from behind. Injured, Jonas had lost consciousness. When he woke up, Kara was in the room; he told her to run, to get help, and then he passed out again. He could not ID the killer. Had not seen the murderer’s face. Jonas assumed the intruder had been wearing gloves, hence no fingerprints other than Jonas’s appeared on the sword. Jonas swore that he had no idea why anyone would slaughter most of his family, and he did not know what happened to Marlie Robinson, his stepsister. He figured Kara lived through the rampage because she was hidden away and he survived only because the killer thought he was dead already.
Thomas leaned back in his chair until it creaked in protest.
It just didn’t add up.
And now, after Jonas was finally released due to new testimony, his attorney is killed and the guy who changed his story about the evidence trail of the sword that night, Randall Isley, was barely holding on to life in a hospital fifteen hundred miles away in Nebraska.
How effing convenient.
He dropped the pencil back into its cup, walked to the lunch room, where the dregs of day-old coffee sat in the glass pot, and opted for a can of Diet Coke from the machine in the hallway. Thomas was missing something, something important. Lost in thought, he barely noticed that the day shift was arriving, more voices, more commotion. Sipping from the can, he sidestepped a couple of uniforms heading to the lockers, then settled down at his desk again.
What was it?
How was it connected to Merritt Margrove’s death?
Jonas McIntyre had been the obvious suspect. Not only was he convicted for the multiple homicides twenty years ago, but on the first day he’s let out of prison, he visits Margrove and the attorney who hadn’t been able to convince the jury of Jonas McIntyre’s innocence all those years ago ends up with his throat slit.
Just like Donner Robinson.
Revenge? Had Jonas spent half his life seething and blaming the attorney for not being able to keep him out of prison?
Or a setup?
Thomas took another long pull from the Diet Coke.
Was it possible they’d sent the wrong man up the river?
He pulled up photos from the scene of the homicides, noting the positions of the bodies and the wounds inflicted, all from the same antique sword. Zelda and Sam Senior’s throats had been slit, ear to ear, as had Donner Robinson’s. Sam Junior had suffered stab wounds to his torso and legs, bleeding out from the femoral artery of his right leg. Jonas’s wounds had been primarily superficial, though his left calf had been slashed to his shin bone and he’d hit his head, developed a concussion as he’d fallen. And then there was Marlie. Somehow she’d left a few drops of blood near the fireplace and on the Christmas tree.
But she hadn’t died.
Not there.
Not then.
Thomas searched the Internet, watched some of the news reports. He saw officers from the department, most retired, a younger Randall Isley and Archer Gleason, both deputies, both being caught on camera from a distance. Gleason, as tall as he was, stood out, but his hair had been thick then, his physique honed. In one shot he and Isley were talking, both their faces grim as they stood near a rescue vehicle parked near the gates of the McIntyres’ mountain home.
The next clip he watched was of Walter Robinson making a plea for the safe return of his daughter. He appeared to be about six feet tall, with square shoulders and a firm jaw, his lips compressed as he begged for the return of his daughter. “Please,” he said, staring straight into the camera’s lens. “If you know anything about Marlie’s whereabouts, call the police.” He swallowed visibly just before a picture of the missing girl appeared on the screen. In the shot, Marlie was posed, a school picture, it looked like. Blond hair falling to her shoulders, her eyes twinkling, her—