“Have you seen the pictures yet?” Camila asked.
Hannah turned to her. “No. No, I haven’t seen them.”
Camila looked pale, her usual energy leached away. “Maybe don’t look,” she said. “I don’t know that anyone needs to see that, if they can avoid it.”
Hannah turned to look back at the apartments. “I see now what Professor Parekh meant about everything being so close together, about people overhearing.” The building looked cheap, poorly built.
The wal s were probably paper thin.
“It’s military housing,” Camila said. “You know, looking at this, it makes even less sense that Dandridge would have been the kil er. I mean, he’d never been on base, never had any interaction with Sarah Fitzhugh or any of her neighbors. Why would he choose her apartment?” Camila pointed at the building. “It’s the one right in the middle, by the way, that one on the first floor. Why would he choose that apartment to break into? How could he have known what he would find? I mean, there’s nothing about this building that even shouts families, in particular. He could have been breaking into an apartment fil ed with servicemen.”
“I don’t know, Camila. But there’s so much we don’t know. And to play devil’s advocate for a moment, the prosecution could easily argue that Dandridge saw Sarah somewhere. Maybe in a supermarket checkout. That he fol owed her home.” There were a hundred ways it could have happened.
“Yes, but how could he have known she would be alone that night?”
Hannah shrugged. “He could have done what we’re doing.
Parked outside. Watched her for a while.”
Camila looked around. The street was very quiet. The apartment building had off-street parking. There were no parked cars on the street other than theirs. “I think it’s a stretch,” she said. “I mean, this is military housing. If I were a murdering rapist, I think I would choose more obvious victims.”
Hannah started the car again, pul ed away, and drove back in the direction of Yorktown. “Maybe that’s something we should look at,”
Hannah said. “See if we can find other crimes where the perpetrator specifical y targeted military wives or girlfriends. It could be a thing.”
“That’s a good idea,” Camila said.
They drove to the B and B, pul ed in, and parked. “Are you nervous?” Camila asked.
“A bit,” Hannah said. “But you’ve done this before, right?”
“I’ve met witnesses,” Camila said. “Asked some questions. And inmates, of course. But this feels important, you know? I don’t want to screw it up.”
They walked side by side to the front door. The inn was a very pretty, Colonial-style, two-and-a-half story redbrick, with tal chimneys and dormer windows. There was a generous porch at the front of the building with tables and chairs and umbrel as set up, so that visitors could choose to eat breakfast or take tea outside perhaps, and look over the river. Hannah knocked on the door. It was opened a few minutes later by a dark-haired woman, in her forties, and dressed in slacks and a pristine white shirt. She had an open, welcoming smile.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Angie?” Camila said. “Angie Meyer?”
“Wel , I’m Angie McKenzie now, but yes.”
“I’m Camila Martinez, and this is my classmate Hannah Rokeby.”
Camila smiled. “We’re law students at the University of Virginia, and we volunteer for the Innocence Project. We were wondering if you’d be wil ing to talk to us about your relationship with Neil Prosper, and in particular, anything you might know about Neil’s movements on the night of the Fitzhugh murder.”
Angie seemed speechless for a long moment. But she didn’t walk away, didn’t close the door in their faces. She held on to the doorjamb and put one hand to her chest.
“I haven’t thought about or talked about Neil for years.”
“We understand if you’d prefer not to talk to us,” Hannah said.
She was conscious of Camila giving her a look, but she kept her eyes on Angie.
“Wel , I didn’t say that,” Angie said. She hesitated. “Look, why don’t you come in? Let’s have a sweet tea, and maybe we can talk a bit.” She led the way into the house, then stopped again. “I was going to bring you to the sitting room, but it feels a bit formal. Why don’t you join me in the kitchen?”
They fol owed her through a formal hal and sitting room furnished with antiques and overstuffed chairs to the kitchen, which was a much brighter, more inviting space. There was a generous kitchen table and a bright modern kitchen and large windows with sunlight streaming in. Angie gestured toward the table.