Page 75 of The Truth You Told

“Not really,” Max said, calling her on the hyperbole. “Youcouldsay a lot of people who work at the hospital also live close to it.”

Shay randomly thought of Nathaniel Conrad. He’d said he lived only a few minutes away from their house. And while he might not work at the hospital exclusively, he was there enough to have been recognized by security that one time they’d gone in together. The thought itself was foolish, but it just went to show how many people could fall within the two circles.

“This isn’t exactly going to convince a jury,” Shay said. There had to be thousands upon thousands of employees. It wasn’t just hospital staff who used the campus. It was cafeteria workers, gift shop employees, janitorial staff, anyone with admitting rights.

“Right,” Max said. “That’s why I don’t think you can dismiss the Dallas victim.”

“The Dallas victim?” Shay asked. She should know all this stuff. She was sure she had at one point. But tuning out the details had kept her sane.

“The first woman, chronologically. She wasn’t found first,” Max clarified.

Something changed in Max’s demeanor, and Shay felt her own body tense in response. Whatever Max was going to say next was the reason she’d hopped on a bus and crossed half a country to see Shay. Some part of Shay knew it must be serious, and she fought the urge to slap her hand over Max’s mouth. Why couldn’t she just swallow back whatever words were about to change their lives?

Max licked her lips, suddenly looking so nervous and so young. “Sidney Stewart. Her body had deteriorated because of the elements and the time it took to find her. But they were able to give a seventy-two-hour time window for when she died.”

“Okay.”

“Shay,” Max said, her name so soft. “That window? Was only a week after Beau went up to Dallas to meet with that doctor. Remember that? To talk to that specialist who thought he might be able to help Billy.”

“No,” Shay said, though she must have known this was what Max was leading up to. She’d known and hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it. “Beau is not the Alphabet Man.”

“You’ve heard him talk about his grandfather, right?” Max asked. “He was in the war—he taught Beau about ciphers and codes. And Beau used to always be obsessed with those puzzles in the paper.”

“Max, no, hon.” Shay was actually feeling calm about this. There was no way Beau was the Alphabet Man. “Lots of people like word puzzles. Lots of people have relatives who fought in the war.” She tried to remember the rest of the profile Callum had put together. “Lots of people look professional and are employed in positions that garner trust. That doesn’t mean they’re serial killers.”

“He was abused,” Max continued, her certainty growing stronger in the face of Shay’s denial. “He had major trauma in his childhood. That’s one of the hallmarks of Callum’s profile.”

“Again, as sad as that is, it covers a lot of people,” Shay said, trying desperately not to sound condescending. How many people had hadthese conversations with families over the past few years? Sending each other sideways glances as each new detail was delivered from the task force.That sounds like Uncle Bob.Or,You know, if you squint, our dad fits that mold.And then they would all laugh and call themselves crazy, and some tiny part of them would think,Well, maybe.

Someone had to be right. Someone had to recognize their loved one when enough information had been gathered about them.

This was like horoscopes, though. She respected Callum and what he did, but his profiles could always fit a large swath of people. It was a design feature, not a bug.

Shay took Max’s hands in her own and held tight as her sister tried to yank them back. She looked Max in the eyes and said, “I don’t think you’re crazy for thinking this. I just can’t believe Beau is a serial killer. And if you look inside yourself, if you actually think through all the implications, you’ll realize that, too. This isn’t a book orUnsolved Mysteries. This is our brother, who is caring and loving and kind and generous.” Shay drew in a breath but squeezed Max’s wrist to keep her silent. Where the emotional appeal might fail, the logical one might actually change her mind. “And beyond all that, he doesn’t have a basement to hold the girls in for three days. He’s not renting one, either. We barely ever had enough money to pay the electricity bill.”

Max stared down at their locked hands.

“Why did you get so worried about my serial-killer box?” Max finally asked.

That was one of the last questions Shay had been expecting. The surprise had her blinking at Max, a little dumb. “You know why.”

“I need you to say it.”

She didn’t want to. They hadn’t ever acknowledged the fact out loud, had only ever danced around it. But if Max could drop a bomb, so could Shay.

“Because you killed your father,” Shay finally said.

And Max? Max smiled. “I didn’t shoot him, Shay. Beau did.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Raisa

Now

The hotel sheets were scratchy against Raisa’s back. It was late, past midnight. Less than twenty-four hours until Conrad “rode the lightning,” as Kate Tashibi so eloquently put it—as wrong as she’d been about the method.

Raisa couldn’t sleep despite the fact that she also hadn’t slept the night before.

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