sometimes they were sorry to let go of that feeling. Unless they were guilty or holding something back. Then they usually felt so glad to be done they couldn’t hide their relief.
When I took the earbuds out and closed the files, I knew Jen had aced the interview. Honestly, she did much better than I likely would have.
I also came away convinced that Lucinda didn’t have anything to do with her father’s death. That gave me some comfort, until I remembered I was off the case and what I thought didn’t really matter at all anymore.
The stack of files and the notes I’d made about them before were waiting for me, but I tried to ignore them while I logged on to Motortrend and started shopping for a new car.
I’ve never really cared that much about cars. Megan helped me choose the Camry and I hadn’t really considered another car since then. For most people, a new car is a big deal, a major change. Maybe even a fresh start. This is a big deal, I told myself, it matters. I decided to treat it like what mattered most to me—an investigation. By the time Lauren came to pick me up at five thirty, I’d pretty much narrowed it down to three choices.
One, just get another Camry. It was the easy choice, even if it was lazy. My old Camry had served me well, if not very excitingly. Aside from a single flat tire and a one-time-only dead battery, I’d never had a problem with it. I just got in and started it up, and it took me anyplace I wanted to go for well over a decade. Also, Jen’s dad had spent his entire career working for Toyota and I wasn’t sure I could face him at the anniversary party if I bought another brand. Still, I also wasn’t sure loyalty to the model and a desire to avoid a bit of social awkwardness were enough to overcome my desire to try something new and different.
Two, opt for the equivalent model from Honda, which every car writer and their mother said was the far superior choice. It had been on Car and Driver’s ten-best list for like a hundred years. But that equivalent was the Accord, and I was fairly certain that all the white Accords I had imagined were following me in the last week had caused me to develop a conditioned stress response to the model. I might be okay with it, though, if I never looked at it over my shoulder or in a mirror.
Three, the Subaru Legacy. It wasn’t quite as popular with the auto-magazine staffers as the Honda, but the customer-loyalty numbers were through the roof. And while it didn’t impress the Road & Track crowd very much, the Consumer Reports guys were keen enough on it to make it their midsized sedan “Top Pick.” I was also pretty sure it came with granola and a kayak, both of which would probably be good for me. And Julia had a Subaru. Hers was a Forester, though, and I’ve never been much of an SUV guy. But I couldn’t buy the same model as her anyway because that would just be weird.
When I explained the situation to Lauren in the car on the way home and asked what she thought I should do, she looked at me like I’d just asked for advice about which knitting needles would be best to use to make some booties for my grandbabies. “I don’t know,” she said. “But I’m glad there won’t be another Camaro in the parking garage.”
When we got back to Jen’s house, I was surprised to see a Sheriff’s Department Yukon parked in front. There was a K-9 insignia on the side.
Lauren went first up the driveway, calling out “Hello, anyone here?” loudly enough for anyone in the backyard to hear. As I followed her up the driveway, my foot slipped off the edge of the concrete and I nearly stumbled onto the lawn.
Around the corner came Steven Gonzales, the bomb-squad deputy who’d swept my duplex for explosives last week, with a dog at his heel. God, had it really only been a week?
“Beckett?” he said, spotting me behind Lauren. “Heard you might show up while I was here.”
Patrick must have told him. And asked him to check the house, too. I introduced him to Lauren. He held her hand too long and said, “Call me Steve.”