Chapter 26
In the days that followed, Andrew and I did our best to maintain a semblance of normalcy.
We went about our daily routines, exchanging pleasantries and sharing friendly meals.
There was an unspoken agreement to ignore the elephant in the room.
Andrew never brought up the incident from that night, nor did I.
But there was something different, something more profound in our interactions.
The air seemed charged whenever we were in the same room, as if there was an invisible thread tying us together, taunting us with a connection we were too afraid to acknowledge.
As promised, Andrew arranged for Judy and me to see Rosie at the jail.
On the drive over, Judy was unusually quiet.
She sat rigidly against the seat, her hands clenched tightly in her lap as she watched the world go by.
I could see the tension etched in the lines of her face, in the set of her mouth.
“Do you still want to do this?” I asked as I turned the car onto the island.
She didn’t respond at first, staring blankly at the building and trees that passed our field of vision. “Yes,” she finally said, her voice steady despite the tension tightening every muscle in her body. “I need to know that she’s all right.”
The jail was a run-down building with peeling paint and rusted old bars.
Rosie was sitting on the cold, hard bed when we walked in.
Her face lit up slightly as she saw us, a warm smile cutting through the fear in her eyes.
Her hair, once lustrous and vibrant, was now dull and tangled, and there was a pallor to her skin that suggested weeks of confinement.
But it was the bruised innocence in her eyes that struck me the most.
“How are you holding up?” I asked as I took a seat on the cold stool. “Are they treating you all right?”
She shrugged, her smile feeble. “As well as can be expected,” she said, her voice softer than I remembered. “I’m trying to stay hopeful. It’s not easy, but I’m trying.”
My heart ached for her.
“I can only imagine,” said Judy. “It’s a mess out there.” She gestured vaguely toward the small window. “The town is split right down the middle.”
Rosie nodded, her fingers grazing over the cold bars of her cell. “I can hear them sometimes… At night when it’s quiet, I can hear them shouting and arguing. It feels like the town is tearing itself apart because of me.”
There was an unbearable sadness in her voice that made me want to reach out and comfort her. But I was hesitant, uncertain of what my touch would mean in this place where every action had a consequence.
“It's not your fault, Rosie,” said Judy. “Whoever did this to Peter is responsible.”
The mention of his name brought tears to Rosie’s eyes, reflecting a sorrow that words could hardly express. “Peter.” Her fingers curled tighter around the bars, knuckles white from the pressure. “I’m not even sure how to feel about him anymore, given everything I’ve learned.”
“I know,” I said. “This isn’t fair to you. It’s not fair to anyone.” I wanted to keep things friendly, but there was a question I’d been dying to ask Rosie ever since I agreed to help Andrew. “Rosie, they say Peter was cheating on you. Is that true? And if so, did you know about it?”
Her hand slid from the bars, and she looked at me. “Yes, but I didn't do it, Sara. I would never hurt Peter.”
I searched her eyes for even an ounce of deceit but found none. “I know. This other woman Peter was seeing… Do you know who she was?”
Rosie hesitated, her gaze dropping to her lap as she traced the faded lines on her chipped nail polish. “I… I have my suspicions,” she said finally. “But I've no proof. And honestly, if I tell you and I'm wrong…”
Judy placed her hand gently on Rosie’s. “You don’t have to say anything more if you’re not ready.”
I shot Judy a look of impatience, but she returned it with one of understanding and care. I knew how hard this was for her, seeing her friend in such a vulnerable state. But I had a job to do, and no matter how difficult, I had to push forward.
“Judy’s right, Rosie,” I said. “But we’re here to help. If you have any idea who this woman might be, it could be the key to proving your innocence.”
Rosie looked back at me, her eyes reflecting her internal struggle.
It was the rawest version of her I had ever seen.
“There’s a woman at Peter’s office,” she began, her voice shaky.
“Her name is Linda. A couple of months ago, they worked on a project together. Not long after, he started coming home late. He said it was because of the workload, but there were nights he didn’t come home at all.
At first, I thought nothing of it. But then…
Peter started changing. He became distant, preoccupied.
Whenever I asked him about his work, he’d brush me off.
He started wearing cologne, something he never cared for before.
It was the little things, Sara, the little changes that tipped me off. ”
A shiver ran down my spine as I listened to Rosie describe the subtle shifts in Peter's behavior. “And this Linda… Can you tell me more about her… what she looked like, what kind of car she drives?”
Rosie chewed her lower lip, a distant expression in her eyes. “I only saw her once,” she explained. “She was petite. I remember because she was so much smaller than Peter. Auburn hair, dark eyes… I don't remember much else about her, but she drove this fancy car. A Cadillac, I think.”
Alarm bells went off in my head. “Did you say Cadillac?”
Rosie nodded. “A light blue one with a chrome grille.”
“Did you tell the police about this?” Judy asked.
Rosie shook her head. “No. They never asked me. Why?”
I glanced at Judy, then shifted my gaze back to Rosie. “Because that car matches the description of a vehicle seen frequenting Peter’s house,” I said, a growing sense of unease settling over me.
Rosie paled, looking as though she might be sick. “What do you mean? You think Linda had something to do with Peter’s death?”
“I don’t know,” I said as the pieces started to come together in my head. “But one thing’s for sure—I need to find her, and quick.”
After telling Andrew what Rosie had shared about Linda, we decided to further our investigation.
From my pocket, I pulled out the photograph of Peter's office staff that I had managed to secure earlier from his company’s Human Resources department.
Among the cheerful faces was a petite woman with auburn hair and dark eyes.
I tapped the photo with my finger, staring at the woman’s image. “This must be her, don’t you think?” I asked, showing it to Andrew.
He leaned over to take a closer look, his brow furrowing in thought. “She certainly matches Rosie's description.”
“And that of Peter’s neighbor. Is there any way we can get her address?”
Andrew made a couple of phone calls and within an hour we had our answer.
“She lives on Highland Drive in Manns Harbor,” he said, looking from the address he’d written down to me. “You up for a drive?”
The journey to Manns Harbor was silent and tense, every passing mile marker bringing us closer to a potentially pivotal confrontation. As we pulled onto Highland Drive, a sense of dread washed over me. As we turned the bend, Andrew slowed the car, and there it was.
The house was modest, standing alone with a shroud of vines creeping up its brick facade. It was the kind of place that could hide secrets, and the light blue Cadillac parked in the driveway seemed to beckon us toward it.
Andrew shot me a glance, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “Ready?”
I nodded, pulling at the door handle before I could change my mind.
We approached the house, climbing the steps to the front door with careful, calculated movements.
I glanced at Andrew, my heart pounding against my ribcage.
He gave a curt nod before knocking on the worn wooden door.
For a moment, the only sound was the distant chirping of birds.
And then footsteps—soft, hesitant. The door creaked open to reveal a petite woman with auburn hair and dark eyes.
Her expression was wary, the creases around her eyes perhaps evidence of worry and sleepless nights.
“Can I help you?”
Andrew introduced us and asked if we could speak with her for a few minutes.
Linda hesitated, then stepped aside to let us in.
As we crossed the threshold, I took in the simple adornments of the home—faded family photos and an abundance of books.
The reality of Linda's life felt far removed from the image I had painted in my mind.
“Please, have a seat.” She gestured toward the worn-out couch as she shuffled into the living room.
I exchanged a glance with Andrew. We both sat down, our eyes unconsciously scanning the room.
It was a domestic scene that was almost too normal to be noteworthy.
The coffee table held a scattering of magazines and a teacup, its contents long cold.
A half-finished crossword lay atop a stack of newspapers on the end table.
“Linda, we’re here on behalf of Rosalie Flores,” said Andrew, his voice cutting through the stillness of the room. “She’s the woman accused of killing Peter Sullivan. I believe you knew him, didn’t you?”
Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she looked like a frightened deer caught in headlights. “Peter, yes,” she stammered. “He and I were…well, we were lovers.” She looked away, her hands twisting the hem of her faded blouse.
“We know,” Andrew said, his tone soft but firm. “And we believe you might have something to tell us that could help clear Rosalie's name.”
Linda’s gaze flicked toward us and then away again. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
Andrew leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he studied Linda. “We are not here to accuse or judge you, Linda,” he reassured her. “Our only goal is to help Rosalie get a fair trial.”
A silent battle waged in her eyes, a tug of war between fear and the flames of some buried truth she'd been holding on to for too long. She clenched her hands into fists, nails digging into her palms as if the pain could somehow distract her from the reality of our presence.
“All right,” Linda finally said. “I’ll tell you what I know. But I’m not sure how much help I can be.”
Over the next few minutes, Linda told us about her relationship with Peter Sullivan, about the late nights they spent together at his house in Nags Head, and their plans for the future.
“We were in love,” she said. “I didn’t even know about Rosalie until a couple of days before Peter died.
I found a letter in the pocket of his coat from her.
She was begging him to leave me, to go back to her.
I confronted him and we fought. He told me he was going to end things with her, that he loved me and only me.
” Her voice shook as she recounted the heated exchange, her knuckles white as she wrung her hands together.
“And then two days later, he was dead. I woke up to the news that he had been killed, and Rosalie was the prime suspect. I’ve been here… hiding, ever since.”
Andrew leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “Did Peter ever mention being afraid of Rosalie? Or anyone else for that matter?”
Linda shook her head, her hair dancing around her face like a swirl of autumn leaves.
“No. Peter wasn’t afraid of anyone, certainly not someone like Rosalie, or even me for that matter.
The only thing that scared him was losing his wealth.
He was constantly paranoid about his financial standing, always checking stocks and making shady deals to keep his money rolling. ”
“Shady deals?” Andrew raised an eyebrow, seemingly intrigued by this new piece of information.
“Yes. He was involved in some sort of illicit trade. I’m not sure what exactly, but he always had these strange people coming over to the house… Men with cold eyes and briefcases full of cash. Peter told me it was nothing, just business. But after a while, I knew something was amiss.”
Andrew sat up, interest flashing in his eyes, a predator catching scent of its prey. “Did you ever meet these men? Do you remember names, faces?”
Linda frowned. “I…I don't know. I mean, there were so many of them, and they all looked kinda alike. But you should probably talk to Graham Walden, he was Peter’s business associate. He came by a few times when these men were there…seemed to know them.”
Andrew jotted down the name on his notepad. “Graham Walden. Got it. And where would we find this Graham Walden?”
“I don’t know. He lives in Charleston, I’m not sure exactly where. But I’d be careful if I were you,” Linda warned. “These men, they’re…dangerous. They were never violent toward me, but there was something about them, the way they moved. It was like walking among sleeping lions.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.” Andrew stood, signaling the end of the conversation.
“Thanks for your time, Linda. I’m going to alert the sheriff about everything you’ve told me.
We’ll look into Graham Walden and his associates.
In the meantime, keep a low profile, at least until we can get an officer out here to watch your house. ”
Linda nodded, letting out a sigh that seemed to drain the life from her. “Thank you,” she said. “Both of you. You don’t know the toll this has taken on me.”
“What do you think?” Andrew asked as we made our way back to the car. “Do you think she’s telling the truth or lying to us?”
I recalled Linda’s words, that look of genuine fear in her eyes. “I think she’s being truthful. Which means this is much bigger than a simple small town love triangle.”
“Agreed,” said Andrew, opening the door for me. “If Peter was involved in some shady dealings, his murder could have been a hit. And if that’s the case, we all need to watch our backs.”