Chapter 22
Paso Robles greeted me with the same quiet charm it always had, with its rolling vineyards stretching toward the horizon and the afternoon sun settling over the landscape in long golden bands. It was the kind of place people came to slow down.
I pulled onto a residential street lined with modest homes, each one spaced far enough apart to give the illusion of privacy, even though there wasn’t much of one.
Christian Shepherd lived in a single-story house with a narrow driveway and a patch of dry grass that had seen better days. I parked along the curb, and my phone rang. I reached for it and saw Hunter was calling.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I just pulled up in front of Christian’s house.”
“I was digging into his background this morning, and I found something that makes him a lot less useful as a suspect.”
I waited, and what she said next shocked me.
“He’s dead.”
For a moment, I thought I’d misheard her. “What did you just say?”
“He died in a car accident two months ago on his way home from work.”
I turned toward his house, feeling a lot heavier than I had moments before.
“Two months ago,” I repeated.
“Yep.”
“All right,” I said. “That’s one more suspect we can cross off the list. I guess I’ll head back to Cambria, then. Anything else I should know?”
“Nothing useful. I’ll keep looking.”
“You do that, and I’ll check in with you later.”
We ended the call, and I sat there for a moment, disappointed.
Another suspect gone.
Another path closed.
I glanced at the house again.
It was quiet and still, and knowing what I did now, it had a bit of an abandoned feel to it.
I was about to start the car when I saw movement inside the house, a shadow passing across one of the front windows, and I froze.
Christian was dead, which meant someone else was inside that house. A roommate, perhaps? A new resident? For a second, I considered leaving, but then curiosity got the better of me.
Besides, I was already here.
Why not check things out?
I stepped out of the car, walked to the front door, and knocked.
A few seconds passed, and I heard footsteps.
The door opened and a woman stood before me.
She looked to be in her seventies, with long gray hair swept into a ponytail.
There was a tiredness in her eyes, shadowed by lingering melancholy.
“Yes?” she said.
“My name is Georgiana Germaine,” I said, “and I’m a private investigator.”
She took a step back, her expression becoming more guarded.
“If you came to speak with my son, he’s not here. I’m sorry to say he’s no longer with us.”