Page 51 of Holmes, Margaret and Poe

“Definitely not,” Jannie said.

Tina went on. “And, I don’t know, we all missed her jacket when we went one way down the trail, but you could see it in the creek near this culvert coming the other way. And then there was this dog barking and … ” She started crying again. “I went up there. Her head was, like, caved in, Coach.”

“Oh God, you poor thing,” Neely said, showing genuine pity as she took the girl in her arms again.

“Her mom doesn’t even know yet,” Tina said, sobbing.

“We’ll make sure she knows,” Coach Leclerc said. “I’ll track her down.”

“We’ve left messages already,” Bree said.

“Oh? And how exactly are you involved?”

“Jannie and Iliana became good friends at a training camp,” Bree said. “Good enough friends that when Iliana found herself in trouble, she reached out for my advice through Jannie.”

Neely’s brows knitted. “What kind of trouble?”

The men’s track coach said, “And why would she seek you out, Ms. Stone?”

Jannie said, “Iliana knew my stepmom used to be the chief of detectives with the Metropolitan Police Department.”

“I work privately now,” Bree said, studying the coaches.

Coach Leclerc cleared his throat. “What kind of trouble was she in?”

Bree said, “Did you know she’d rented an Airbnb rather than stay with the team?”

Coach Neely said, “Not before you mentioned it a few minutes ago.”

“She said she’d told a Coach Thayer about her plans.”

Leclerc nodded. “He’d be the one. Works in the Paxson athletics department. Sets up all road trips. Good guy.”

Neely said, “And you still haven’t told us what kind of trouble Iliana was in.”

Jannie’s voice sounded a little hoarse when she said, “She was being blackmailed over a sex video shot by her high-school coach of the two of them together.”

“What?” Coach Neely said, her hand going to her mouth.

“Steve Hawley?” Coach Leclerc said, sounding appalled. “That’s not right. No, that can’t be true. I know him. Hawley’s a stand-up guy.”

“Not this time.”

CHAPTER 48

Accokeek, Maryland

2:42 a.m.

PADRAIG FILSON DROVE HISmotorcycle, headlights off, onto a wooded farm lane near the entrance to Piscataway National Park, killed the engine, and removed his helmet. Earlier, he’d cut his hair short on top and tight across the sides. The goatee was down to a trim mustache. The dye job had turned his hair a dark ginger.

Filson waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He heard the breeze moving the leaves but nothing else for almost ten minutes. Then the distant hum of an engine came from the south.

That was a surprise. He’d figured the fish as a city type. Members of this species often were because it was easier to get lost in crowds.

But as Filson’s father used to say, “You catch fish where you find them feeding.”

The vehicle got closer and closer until it stopped roughly onehundred yards away, at the entrance to the park, which featured a working colonial farm. Filson waited until he heard a car door shut, then went to his saddlebags and retrieved thin leather gloves, a computer tablet, a white sheet still in the wrapper, a black ski mask, and the double-barreled pistol.

---