and imagery. Of her husband’s casket and her daughter’s tiny coffin being lowered into the ground… She stopped on the sidewalk in front of the makeshift altar, Trent beside her.
Before she’d lost Kevin and Lindsey, Amanda had found it strange how people liked to commemorate the location of a tragedy. In the months following the accident, she’d found herself returning to where it had happened, as if by being there she could find out why they had to leave her. But she’d come to realize how ridiculous that was, how foolish. They weren’t there, and their spirits weren’t there—even if they had survived death in some form. She still wasn’t sure where she stood on the matter of the big man—or woman—upstairs, and the concept of an afterlife was wrapped up with it.
Trent was taking photos of the items. He was quiet and solemn, likely feeling the impact of loss himself. It would be impossible not to.
She looked up at the house, thinking of the girl, intending to find her justice while being plagued by uncertainties. They didn’t even know who she was. How could they ascertain suspects or pin down a motive for murder?
Her phone pinged with a text message. She read it and shared the gist with Trent. “Rideout’s conducting the autopsy at six thirty.” That gave them less than two hours. It would have been nice to have a little more notice, but they had time to make another stop first. “We’ll swing by and have a talk with the former homeowner, Glenn Burke, and then we’ll head up.”
As she spoke, Trent hadn’t made eye contact with her. He was staring at a bouquet of daisies like he was locked in a memory. She’d ask, but they weren’t that close, or at least she didn’t want to be. There was an advantage to maintaining a distinction between the personal and professional worlds. Blur that line and trouble followed. People got comfortable, too comfortable.
She returned her attention to the memorial, and her gaze landed on a card without an envelope. It was simple with a dragonfly on the front. She gloved up and cracked it open. All that was inside was a drawn heart, followed by “Always,” signed off by C and a doodle. “Trent, what does that look like to you?”
He put his phone away and studied the drawing. It took him less than a second to make a conclusion. “A dragonfly.”
“Looks like that to me too.” She flipped it closed and pointed out the image on the front. “Our Jane Doe had a dragonfly pin. Seems a little too coincidental to me. Whoever left this card, I’d bet they knew our victim well.”
“Killer or friend?”
“Too soon to know, but we’re taking this with us.”
Nine
The next stop was Glenn Burke. While Trent drove, Amanda called Prince William Medical Center and confirmed Shannon’s shift. They should probably check with the coffee shop to verify that part of her story, but Amanda doubted Shannon was really behind the fire or the murder.
Glenn Burke, on the other hand, may have more motive than she’d originally thought. He’d managed to downgrade from the rundown Bill Drive—and that was saying something. He kept his apartment tidy, but an air diffuser pumped a floral perfume into the room periodically, and it battled with a musty smell. He was in his early forties and in good shape, about six foot on the mark, with black hair and thick eyebrows.
Amanda and Trent were at his kitchen table, a round pine number with enough seating for four. The introductions behind them, she went for the meat.
“Your old house on Bill Drive was set on fire. Would you happen to know anything about that?”
“No.” Glenn looked from her to Trent and back to her, his brow furrowed up. “Why should I know something? I haven’t lived there in months.” He got up and went into the kitchen, which was right next to the dining area and visible from where Amanda and Trent sat. Glenn stuck a pod in a coffee machine and set it to brewing.
To Amanda, it felt like a strange time to get up and start a coffee, like he wanted to avoid the conversation. Was it because he was uncomfortable and embarrassed over losing his house, or something more sinister?
“We understand that you lost the property to the bank,” she laid out, exploring the first option.
“Yep.” He paused as the machine gurgled. “I lost my job of ten years, and I was already in hock with credit card bills. The bank worked with me for as long as they could, but they probably told you that.”
“We still need to speak with your banker, Mr. Burke. When did the bank reclaim the property?” She liked to hear things straight from the source when possible.
“Six months ago.”
She counted back in her head. August was closer to eight months ago, but Glenn could have lost track of time. He also could be trying to make them think losing his home hadn’t been a big deal. She’d poke and see if there was a scab to pull. “That must have been hard, losing your home.”
“Yes and no, but in the end it was just a house, ya know.” He opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of cream, dolloped some in his cup, and stirred in two teaspoons of sugar. He returned to the table and sat down. “It was much harder on Susan. That’s my soon-to-be ex-wife. She’s filed for divorce.”
Amanda was planning to bring up Susan, but Glenn had beaten her to it. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Nah, don’t be. It was a long time coming even before we lost the house. But things have a way of working out. It took me a bit to realize it, but I’m better off without her.”
His admission seemed sincere, but Amanda was still interested in getting a better feel for the couple. “She lives in Madison, Wisconsin. Has been there since September, right?”
“That’s right. It’s where her folks are, but she nested up with some dentist out there. Apparently, they used to be high-school sweethearts. He’s got lots of family money too. She’s not looking back. Trust me.”
It would seem Susan Burke was off the suspect list, but Glenn Burke remained, even if not at the top. He was holed up in some horrible apartment, in debt, with a marriage about to be dissolved. It was time for Amanda to be a little more direct. “There was a young woman found in the house. She had been murdered.” She watched him for a reaction but didn’t get any. She wished she had a picture of Jane Doe to show him, but typically it was frowned upon to show photos taken at a crime scene to civilians—even if they were suspects. “Could you tell us anything about her?”
“No, how could I— Oooh.” His eyes widened as the implication sank in. “You think that I… that I—” He rubbed his jaw.