had no idea what had happened to her.’”
Rachel tossed her notebook on the bed. “That’s more or less everything Dan told me,” she told Pete, eyeing the alarm clock next to her bed. “I better get going. I have so much to do today. If there’s time, I want to find out more about Hannah’s sister’s death. Somebody must remember something.”
“You know that I don’t like this one bit,” said Pete. “The way she’s been leaving those letters for you crosses a line. You don’t know anything about her.”
“That’s exactly why I want to talk to Hannah.”
“Look, Rachel,” said Pete carefully. “The trial starts in, what, four days? Put this Hannah thing aside and focus on the podcast. We can always look into it later.”
“Don’t worry,” said Rachel. “The podcast is my first priority. I wrote the script when I returned from meeting Dan Moore last night and I’ve booked the studio to record this afternoon. It would really help if you would keep digging for information on Jenny Stills. Anything you can find.”
“I’m digging, believe me,” said Pete. “In fact, that reminds me of something interesting. Hannah Stills has no digital footprint. No birth certificate. No social media accounts. It’s almost as if she doesn’t exist.”
“She probably uses her adoptive parents’ name. I’m betting those records are sealed,” said Rachel. “What about the local newspapers? I ran a few searches but didn’t find anything. Were you able to check the regional newspaper databases? Did the local papers print any articles on Jenny’s death?”
“I couldn’t find a single thing online.”
“I’ll stop at the Neapolis library this morning. See if I can find old newspaper editions in the reference section.”
“Rach, I still don’t get why you’re so obsessed about this thing. Because Hannah stood you up at the jetty?”
“No,” said Rachel. “Because I let her down. She wrote to me, desperate for help, and I ignored her. Just like people ignored Kelly Moore when she stood outside that party waiting for help. I won’t be indifferent, Pete. I can tell Hannah is desperate. Otherwise she wouldn’t be trying so hard to get my attention.”
“You can’t save the world, Rachel,” said Pete quietly.
“Maybe not. But I can save one person at a time.”
15
Rachel
Neapolis’s central library was a light brick building with enormous windows overlooking a brick-paved plaza of cafes and specialty stores.
Rachel took her place fourth in line at the information counter. The librarian on duty was showing an elderly lady how to use the automatic book-borrowing machine. Eventually, the librarian gave up and scanned the books for the lady before returning to the counter to assist with the next query.
“Where can I find your newspaper archives?” Rachel asked.
“We’re now a lending library only. Not a research library,” the librarian explained. “All our archives and research materials have been moved to the City Hall archive. It’s open two mornings a week. Today until noon and Friday morning.” She looked at her watch. “If you want to go there now then you’d better hurry. It closes in an hour. Otherwise you’ll need to wait until Friday.”
Friday morning was out of the question for Rachel. The trial would have begun by then. Rachel hurried out of the library, determined to get to the archive before it closed for the day. The fastest way to get there was to run through the city park. It separated the new section of town from the graceful heritage area, where the nineteenth-century City Hall building, courthouse, and other administrative buildings were situated along a tree-lined boulevard. Rachel crossed the road and ran across the green lawns, past an ornamental pond filled with ducks and lily pads in the heart of the city park, and up a cycling track that came out at the top of the boulevard.
Rachel was sweating by the time she jogged up the stairs into the air-conditioned coolness of the white, classical City Hall building. It was the first real exercise she’d had since arriving in Neapolis. She saw an information map on the wall by the entrance and followed the directions down to the basement, where the archive office was located at the end of a long windowless corridor.
A slender man with gray hair looked up from his computer screen as Rachel entered the austere office. Beyond him were tables with old-fashioned equipment for viewing microfilm.
“I’m looking for old newspaper clippings from the Neapolis Gazette,” Rachel told him, still standing even though he motioned to her to sit down. She was in a rush