“I don’t know. Yes? The similarities between her and Clem are too strange to be a coincidence.” Unless it was guilt, my mind whispered.
Jamie’s grip on the papers tightened. “Shay.” He said it urgently enough that I met his eyes. “Who would do this?”
My throat went dry. “I don’t know.”
He held my gaze, and an uncomfortable flush spread down my neck. His eyes were an arresting mix of green and brown. Worse, they were knowing.
“That man,” he said. “The one from that day in the city. This has nothing to do with him, does it?”
I was already shaking my head, all my instincts firing: Turn around. Run. Don’t let it in.
But I was here to do what Laurel and Clem needed. To be brave.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I need to find out.”
Jamie picked up his drink and stared into it. “That day, when I saw you—when I met Laurel and Clem—I didn’t know what to think. I was scared, Shay. That’s part of why I’ve been trying to track you down. I was tempted to use my guy, but I didn’t want to violate your privacy—”
“What does the file say?” I interrupted. “Are there any details you left out that could help us?”
For a second, all Jamie did was look at me. Then he slugged down his drink and dropped the empty glass on the table. “Yeah. Interviews.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I mentioned in the episode Laurel’s file is missing pictures—”
“And that’s unusual?”
“Very. Every police report I’ve ever seen with a body involved pictures. Photos of the crime scene, the body when it was found, possible evidence. But Laurel’s… Zilch.”
“What about Clem’s?”
His eyes softened. “It’s a slim file, but there is one picture. I’m sorry, Shay. I wish I could’ve been there for you back when—”
“Did it show the words carved into her arm?”
Jamie frowned. “What?”
“When they found Clem, she had ‘I’m sorry’ carved into her arm. Razor-thin cuts. They thought she’d done it herself because there were cuts on her fingers. It wasn’t in the police report?”
“No.” He hunched forward. “Razor-thin cuts. That’s another similarity.”
“I know.” I nodded at the file. “So who’d they interview in Laurel’s case?”
Jamie pushed the papers toward me. “Only four people. The girl who found her—a college kid, sophomore who was up early for swim practice. Then Laurel’s former employer.”
“Former?”
“Yeah. Apparently, she hadn’t held a job in five or six years.”
That didn’t sound a thing like Laurel, who’d been perpetually busy, always wrapped up in making costumes for one play or another. “How’s that even financially feasible?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “And the cops did zero digging. The employer’s a local caterer.”
“Caterer?” Laurel working at a theater, I could picture. Even…I don’t know, a tailor. But catering? Food had never been one of her interests.
“Then they interviewed her landlord, who’s also her neighbor…lives in the apartment above her. And her mom.”
“Oh.” I’d never met Laurel’s mother, though I’d heard plenty about her. “Is she in town?”
Jamie shook his head and pointed at the police report. “Nope. They talked to her by phone. She’s out in the Midwest, still in the same town where Laurel grew up.”