Chapter 15
Morning arrived with a bright softness that felt undeserved after what had occurred hours before. By the time I pulled into the small shopping plaza just off the main road, a steady stream of people was already moving in and out of the cafés and boutiques.
I parked and noticed my dinner date was already there.
Mia stood near the entrance to the coffee shop with a phone clutched in her hand.
At first glance, I didn’t see any signs of the shaken woman I’d left on the porch in the middle of the night.
Today she looked a lot more like the version of Mia I’d first met—composed, polished, and in control.
She was dressed in a fitted ivory blouse that she’d tucked into tailored black slacks, and her hair was styled with precision. If not for the faint signs of a lack of sleep around her eyes, no one would have guessed she’d almost been attacked in her own home the night before.
She saw me and offered a small smile.
“You look like you’ve had a lot more sleep than I have,” she said.
“Appearances can be deceiving,” I replied.
We went inside, ordered a couple of coffees, and took a seat at a small table near the window. For a moment, the low hum of conversation around us filled the silence, along with the clatter of cups and the hiss of the espresso machine.
“How are you doing this morning?” I asked.
“I keep replaying last night in my mind,” she said. “It’s hard not to, right? Waking up and seeing someone standing in my doorway. I didn’t want to believe the killer was after me. I convinced myself it wasn’t true.”
“And now?”
“The more I think about it, the harder it is to ignore. I still don’t understand why someone has it out for me. I don’t live a dangerous life. I go to work. I come home. I have dinner with work colleagues now and then, but I’m not involved in anything that would lead someone to …”
She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
“To want you dead,” I said.
She nodded.
“If someone wanted to harm you, who comes to mind?” I asked. “Is there anyone you’ve quarreled with in recent months, or perhaps someone who might be holding a grudge? A relationship that soured …?”
Mia hesitated. “I suppose when you put it that way, I can think of a few people, but being upset with me is far different than wanting to kill me. I can say their names, but I struggle to believe any of them would ever do me harm.”
I removed a notebook and pen from my handbag, ready to jot down any relevant information she might give me.
“Sometimes the line between anger and murder isn’t as clear as people think,” I said. “Don’t worry about whether the suspicion seems reasonable. I’d rather know who you’re thinking about.”
She took some time to gather her thoughts. “All right. The first person is someone who works for the same company I work for now. His name is Karl Holland.”
I wrote the name down. “Tell me about him.”
“He was supposed to get a position that ended up going to me,” she said. “From what I understand, he’d been told the job was his, but at the last minute, they offered it to me instead.”
“How did he take it?”
“Not well. He felt blindsided and said the decision to pass him up for someone new when he’d worked there for years didn’t make sense. He thought he’d earned it.”
“Did he confront you about it?”
“He confronted everyone, including me. He caused a scene at the office and raised his voice, accusing management of playing favorites. My boss, Harold, witnessed it, as did a few others. I didn’t even know the guy, so I tried going into one of the side offices and closing the door, but before anyone could stop him, he followed me. ”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t feel I deserved the position, and he said I’d taken something that belonged to him. To be honest, I felt sorry for the guy. He looked like he was doing everything in his power not to burst into tears.”
“Did the incident ever go beyond words?”
“No, but the way he looked at me … it was like he wanted to push me out a window.”
“Have you had any contact with him since or seen him outside of work?”
She shook her head.
“Does he still work for the company?” I asked.
“He does, but after he blew up, he was transferred to our other office.”
“All right,” I said. “Who else might be considered a suspect?”
She took a sip of her coffee and set the cup down, drumming her fingers against the side. “My ex-boyfriend.”
“Sounds promising.”
“His name is Christian Shepherd.”
“What happened there?” I asked.
“We dated for about six months. At first, everything was fine. He was attentive, charming, and the kind of person who made me feel like I was the only one in the room.”
“And then?”
“I started seeing him in a different way, and I realized he was almost too attentive.”
“How so?”
“He needed to know where I was all the time, and who I was spending my time around. If I didn’t respond to a text right away, he’d send three more. Then five more. Then he’d call.”
“Sounds like he was a bit on the needy side.”
“He was more than needy. I ended things about nine months ago, and he didn’t take it well. He started showing up at my gym, the parking lot outside my work. He even waited outside my house for me to return home.”
“What did you do?”
“I took out a restraining order, which worked, but there were times when I wasn’t sure it would be enough.”
“When did you see him last?”
“I haven’t seen him since I took out the restraining order. But I … I …”
“Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
“I will, but I know what you’re going to say. You’ll ask why I didn’t bring him up before.”
“No, I won’t. At the start of this investigation, we were focusing on Wren. You had no reason to tell me about the people in your life.”
“Even now that the investigation is centered around me, I still can’t believe Christian would hurt me. Is he obsessive? Yes. A murderer? No. I just don’t see him as the kind of man who’d kill me rather than accept we can’t be together.”
“Sometimes we overlook things because accepting them would be too painful.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She blew out a long breath. “About a week after I started my new job and moved into the house, he sent me a card in the mail, congratulating me on my new position.”
“Which means he somehow learned about the job, knew you’d moved, tracked down your new address, and he wanted you to know he’d done it. Have you had any contact from him since?”
“None. I hope he’s finally moved on.”
“I’ll see what I can find out. Anyone else?”
She bit down on her lip, her gaze drifting toward the window, watching people pass by the coffee shop.
“This last one feels different, almost wrong to mention,” she said.
“Different how?”
“It’s a bit more complicated.”
In my line of work, I often found the more complicated the person, the stronger the suspect.
“My grandfather passed away about a year ago,” she said. “His name was Joseph. He owned a beachfront house in Santa Monica. In his will, he left the house to Wren and me, which was unexpected.”
“Why?”
“He never mentioned he was going to leave it to us before he died.”
“Why do you think he did?”
“We were in his life the most, but he always talked about selling the house and donating the proceeds to charity. After he died, I learned he’d made a lot of money in the stock market.
Much of that was left to charity, and the house was left to us.
In his will he talked about it being his happy place.
He said he’d understand if we wanted to sell it, but his wish was for us to keep it in the family. ”
“What did you plan to do with it?” I asked.
“When Wren told me she’d split from Cooper, we decided she should move into that house.
We also talked about using it as a vacation rental in the future, but that requires a license from the city, and Wren would need to live on-site.
We planned to rent it out from time to time and split the profits. ”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“It would have been. The house holds so many memories, and it brought us all so much joy over the years. We wanted to share that joy with others.”
“Sounds wonderful. I don’t see the problem.”
“When the will was read, our cousin Renee was devastated. She said our grandfather told her the house would go to her after he died.”
“What’s Renee’s last name?”
“Parker.”
I wrote it down.
“Is there any truth to her claim?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll admit she spent a lot more time with our grandfather than we did in the last year of his life. After he died and the will was read, she tried to contest it in court. She even produced a letter she said he had written assuring her the house would be left to her.”
“What happened in court?”
“A handwriting analyst determined the letter was forged, and her claims didn’t hold up. The judge sided with us.”
“How did Renee take it?”
Mia took a few sips of coffee. “Renee’s always been a little strange.
Ever since we were kids, she would go out of her way to be close to us.
I’ll admit, I was never good about making the effort.
Wren was a lot better at making time for her.
After the court case, Renee accused us of influencing our grandfather before he died, convincing him to leave the house to us instead of her. ”
“That’s a serious accusation,” I said. “How did you react?”
“I didn’t. I ignored it because it wasn’t true. According to our grandfather’s attorney, no changes had been made to the will for years.”
“What happened after she lost in court?”
“She tried reaching out to us a few times to apologize. She said she regretted what she’d done. Wren talked to her, but I didn’t. Not until I called her to let her know Wren had died.”
“Where does Renee live?” I asked.
“In Bakersfield.”
Bakersfield was a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Cambria, close enough for me to make a day trip out of it.
“I know I’ve just given you a short list of possible suspects,” Mia said. “But it’s like I said before, I just can’t picture any of them committing murder.”
I’d be the judge of that.
She wrapped her hands around her coffee cup like she was trying to warm them. “I keep thinking about what you said last night about the key. Someone knew where I kept it.”
Her phone buzzed on the table, and when she glanced at the screen, her face lit up.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s umm … when I was at the conference in Las Vegas, I met someone. We planned to get together once it was over, and then Wren died, and everything changed.”
“Is he the guy you texted your sister about?”
She nodded. “His name is Simon Sullivan. We hit it off right away, but given what’s going on, I’m not sure when I’ll see him again.”
“Seems like the two of you are still communicating with each other. That’s something.”
“We text every day, and we’ve spent hours talking on the phone. The more I get to know him, the more I find myself wanting to see him again. It’s just hard to focus on anything beyond this investigation right now.”
When Simon’s text message came through, she smiled, which was nice to see.
After all the grief, fear, and uncertainty, she deserved a glimpse of something brighter.
“Thank you for being so open with me today,” I said. “I know it wasn’t easy.”
“I just want it to be over.”
“So do I.”
We stood, tossed our empty cups in the trash, and walked outside.
“I’m going to talk to my team, the two ladies I work with, and I’ll be in touch,” I said. “In the meantime, please be careful, okay?”
As I walked to my car, I considered my list of suspects. Any one of them could have killed Wren. Any one of them could have returned to Mia’s house last night.
The problem wasn’t figuring out whether the killer would strike again.
It was figuring out who they were before they did.