“Sorry about the mess!” India called over the distance between them.
Juniper clicked the locks on Barry’s car and jogged down the curved sidewalk toward the place where India waited, rubbing her arms against the cold. She was wearing a plush oversized sweater that fell off one shoulder and a pair of gray camo leggings. Clutching a delicate wineglass and sporting a perky grin, she made Juniper feel instantly frumpy and older than she was.
“It’s fine,” Juniper said, conscious of the snow and dirt that had accumulated in the tread of her hiking shoes. She couldn’t possibly wear them inside India’s new house.
But India already had an arm around her and was ushering her through the door.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” India said, pulling Juniper’s coat off her shoulders and hanging it with a flourish on a fleur de lis hook. “I mean, I’ve imagined it a dozen times. The chance to interview you, to hear what you have to say about what happened that night… The insight no one but you could provide into the case that was never solved.”
“Wait.” Juniper froze in the entryway, unwilling to take another step until she knew the truth. “I’m not here for an interview. And before we go any further I need to know: Are you working on a podcast about the Murphy murders?”
The question was abrupt, but it achieved the desired result: India’s reaction seemed genuine. “What?” she asked, eyebrows arching. “Someone’s doing a podcast about the Murphy murders?” Envy flashed across her features, and then she sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not me. But it’s a great idea—kinda wish I would have thought of it.”
The look in India’s eyes was too raw to be faked; Juniper believed her. She toed off her shoes and forced herself to smile. “How about that wine?”
India laughed. “I’ll make it a very generous pour. I’m a lot to take.”
The house was quiet and softly lit, and when Juniper followed India through to the kitchen and a cozy hearth room just beyond, she saw that a large-screen TV was on. But instead of HGTV or a charming Hallmark Channel romance, there was footage of a scruffy-looking man with dark hair and a quirky half smile staring straight into the camera.
“Is that Ted Bundy?” Juniper couldn’t stop herself.
“Oh my gosh. Yes! I’m watching Conversations with a Killer. The man was a total psychopath, but there was so much more to it, you know? No doubt that he was a narcissist, but I’d bet the farm we’re also dealing with some borderline personality disorder, possibly some schizoaffective disorder or bipolar. Where did that come from? I mean, what happened in his past to fracture his psyche to the point where he could hardly even be considered human?” Catching sight of Juniper’s expression, India trailed off, then grabbed the remote control from the arm of an artfully distressed leather sectional and clicked off the TV. “Sorry. Weird stuff. I know.”
“It’s why I’m here,” Juniper admitted. “Cora says you’re finishing up your master’s in psychology.”
“Abnormal psychology with an emphasis on behavioral neuroscience,” India said, pouring Juniper a glass of wine. “I’d love to be a psychological profiler for the FBI, but…” She shrugged, gesturing to the trappings of her domestic, small-town life and the wicker basket of toys in one corner of the hearth room.
“Life gets in the way?” Juniper suggested, taking the glass India offered and swallowing a mouthful of what tasted like cherries and cloves.
“Exactly. I’m not complaining. And we’ll see what the future holds. Besides, I have to finish my coursework first.”
Juniper felt quite sure that the capstone project wouldn’t be a problem for India. There was clearly much more to India Abbot than her pixie cut and casual demeanor suggested. Her chic nail polish and the impressive collection of braided bracelets on her left wrist almost seemed like decoys.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” Juniper said. “Cora speaks so highly of you.”
“And you. She adores you, you know that, right? You’re like a daughter to her.”
Juniper wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she took another sip of her wine and followed India to the couch. They sat on opposite ends, and India pulled her legs up beneath her.
“So…” she said, drawing out the word. “What exactly can I do for you?”
“I need help.” It practically burst out of Juniper. “I’m sorry, India, but I read your blog—”