Page 65 of Holmes, Margaret and Poe

“I was,” Tina said. “Definitely.”

But again, it was half-hearted.

Bree and Jannie congratulated them all once more and then started back to the car. They were just exiting the campus when Jannie pointed across the street at a blond woman, walking away, head down, shoulders heaving.

“Bree, that’s her, Nancy,” Jannie said. “Iliana’s mother.”

They ran across the street, dodging a few cars, and down the block to a parking lot. They caught up to the dead girl’s mom as she was opening the door to her car.

“Hi, Mrs. Meadows,” Jannie said. “It’s me, Jannie Cross.”

The woman stared at her in some bewilderment before nodding. “I remember you. Always kind to Iliana. She liked you very much.”

“And I liked her. She was such a good person. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“I am too,” Iliana’s mother said and started to blubber. “I only just got back from Italy. I talked with her on the phone, and now she’s gone. Just gone.”

Bree caught a whiff of alcohol on the woman’s breath. “Mrs. Meadows? I’m Jannie’s stepmother. Are you all right to drive?”

“Not really,” she said. “I plan on sleeping in the car awhile before I drive home. I haven’t slept in … I can’t remember.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am,” she said, sliding into the front seat. “I just want to take a nap and then try to find the strength to arrange the funeral of my only child.”

Bree didn’t have it in her to ask about Iliana’s high-school coach, the alleged sex tape, and who might have had access to it. Instead, she said, “Jannie mentioned that Iliana had good coaches in high school. Shouldn’t they be notified?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Meadows said, nodding and yawning.“Steven Hawley and Lily Christopher. I’m sure they’ll be crushed. And now, I do have to sleep.”

She shut the door, put her sunglasses back on, and lowered the seat.

“Steven Hawley and Lily Christopher,” Jannie said as she and Bree walked away. “I know them. They were coaches at that training camp where Iliana and I met.”

CHAPTER 58

Albemarle, North Carolina

NED MAHONEY WATCHED ASthe first crew of forensics experts prepared to enter the late Leslie Parks’s fortress around three that afternoon. They were all wearing hazmat suits to prevent further evidence contamination inside.

“I want you to focus on the suicide area and the empty crates in the subbasement,” Mahoney told the criminalists. “That’s where I think we’re most likely to pick up Ibrahim’s fingerprints or DNA, but I want the entire place dusted and examined while we continue the search.”

“Who’s been inside already?” the head forensics tech said.

“The four of us,” Detective Toof said. “And the county medical examiner and the two guys from the funeral home. Otherwise, it’s been sealed.”

Mahoney said, “You were the one who found Parks, correct?”

Toof nodded. “I went up to look for machine-gun casings on thecliff and knocked when I came back down. There was no answer. I tried the door. It opened. Parks was sitting right there. Been dead for days. I called the ME, who saw the shotgun and the note and immediately ruled it a suicide. But here, check the writing.”

She went to her phone and pulled up a picture of the suicide note. “See? It looks shaky, forced.”

I studied the six-word explanation for Parks’s death:I hate who I have become.

The writingwasshaky. “Then again,” I said, “he was about to kill himself.”

“He didn’t,” Toof insisted. “Ibrahim killed him. I mean, we know he stole the machine gun and the missiles, right?”

Agent Beaufort said, “Unless Parks was so upset about giving Ibrahim the weapons that he blew his own head off.”

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