“If I could use a phone, I’d like to call an attorney. Just want to make sure I’m not doing anything wrong.”

  He pursed his lips. “Sure, of course.” He unclipped a cell phone from his belt. “Use mine.” He unlocked the screen and passed it to me.

  Paul Reachen. Bill’s recommendation was imprinted in my mind, and I googled his name, pleased to see an emergency contact number on his website. I glanced at the sky, which was just starting to gain light, dawn still at least an hour out, and initiated the call. I didn’t have time to wait. I needed someone here, to act as a barrier between me and a confession.

  They had already shown me the evidence on Paige’s phone. Dozens and dozens of text messages I had never seen and certainly had not created. Nothing horrible, but a lot of back-and-forth communication I’d never been aware of, all with a flirty tone I abhorred.

  Most damning, there was a call from my phone to Paige’s at 1:14 a.m. She had answered it, but the line had been dead. “I” had immediately followed up the calls with a series of incriminating texts.

  Everything is going wrong. I need you to come to the house.

  Did you get this?

  Come A.S.A.P.

  The front door may be unlocked, if not, use your code.

  Please be quiet and meet me in Sophie’s room. Perla is asleep. Hurry.

  My stomach had dropped at the precise A.S.A.P., which was exactly how I always typed it, with spaces and periods in place. Someone—a forensic expert on the stand—would point that out. Use it to prove that I was the one who had sent the communication.

  What had Perla planned for when Paige got here? To kill her? Or to frame me and Paige for the crime?

  The call to Paul Reachen rang, and whatever part of me had felt guilty retreated a little farther into my chest.

  CHAPTER 86

  GRANT

  I was working the scene with Shirley Priest, and she was the one who noticed that something was strange about the scene. I mean, more strange than just dead bodies and a creepy setup. She picked up on the twelfth-birthday cake, which I guess was identical to the one that was at the Folcrum Party crime scene. And I shrugged it off because lots of twelve-year-olds have chocolate cakes. But she kept finding things that she thought were the same, so we called into the office and had them pull the file, and sure enough, they were like twins of each other. A rich twin and a poor twin, but yeah. Twins in terms of setting, at least. The bodies didn’t match up.

  —Ethan Way, crime scene technician

  It had been hours, and the detectives were still here. Once the house had been cleared and the EMTs had verified Perla was already deceased, a large number of them had left, but the forensic teams were still working, and her body was still inside.

  Now the sun was beginning to peek over the tips of the oaks, bathing the house in a warm golden light. The rays shone off the copper porch railings, and I thought of Perla’s insistence on the material even though the price had been exorbitant.

  We’d have to sell the house. I wasn’t sure I could even sleep in it again, not with the awareness of what could have and did happen. I closed my eyes and ticked through where we could go tonight. A hotel seemed cold, but maybe there was a vacation rental somewhere close, somewhere we could stay for a few weeks until we sorted things out.

  “Mr. Wultz?” I turned to see Detective Heinwright approaching, his face tight. My chest instantly seized at what it could be.

  “Yes?”

  “We need to talk to you about your sister and her connection to all of this.”

  Well, that hadn’t taken them long. I rubbed my fingers across my lips, then spoke. “I’d like to wait for my attorney to arrive first. He’s on his way.”

  Detective Heinwright regarded me for a long moment, and it was in that moment when we crossed to opposite sides of the line. He held the stare long enough to make sure I felt it, then nodded. “Yeah, I thought you might say that.”

  It sounded like a challenge of my innocence, but I didn’t refute it.

  CHAPTER 87

  At the prison, we didn’t have any idea what had happened at the Wultz house. I was on my rounds and passed Leewood’s cell at 4:42 a.m., and spotted him on the floor of his cell, struggling to breathe. At that time, his skin had turned blue, and he had defecated himself. I immediately called it in, and we moved him into the med bay, who then transferred him to hospice.

  —Lawrence Booth, Lancaster Prison corrections officer

  The word spread through the neighborhood like a virus, one initiated and fed by Julie Scott, who didn’t wait until dawn to start calling her friends. By the time the sun cleared the tree line, there was a crowd of neighbors huddled in our cul-de-sac, their invasion held at bay by a line of officers and sawhorse barricades.

  It was the most excitement Brighton Estates had ever seen, and the rumors were swirling, with everything from a heart attack to a sex party gone wrong to a cannibalistic ritual. The preteens were still asleep, their slumber at risk of interruption by Julie Scott, who had opened the door to their room, peered in, then loudly shut it at regular intervals over the last three hours.

  Bridget’s parents were now in the Scotts’ living room, their attorneys on speakerphone, possible legal strategies being discussed and initial filings being prepared. Everyone was a possible defendant, including the Scotts, though they had held off that discussion until the couple had gone outside to mingle with the growing crowd.

  Bill was outlining the entire thing in his mind as a novel and envisioning this as the launchpad for his writing career. This had big book deal written all over it, especially if he could dress up the facts a little bit. Sophie, for example, should be pregnant, and maybe the nanny and Perla had been engaged in a salacious affair, one that Sophie had discovered. Grant was the guilty party, clearly, and had probably been embezzling funds from his employer while hiding a gambling problem and a growing debt with some unforgiving Italians. It would come out in hardback, and a book tour would be needed, along with a snazzy headshot for the back cover. Maybe he should wear the fedora that he’d bought at that Panama hat store in Key West, a purchase Julie had protested over but would finally see the value of now.

  If any neighbors had been unaware of Grant Wultz’s tragic family history prior to this morning, they had since been briefed in full, and theories spread among the early-morning dog walkers and lookie-loos. Phones were pulled out and Wikipedia articles read aloud as facts about the Folcrum Party murder were shared and then hypothesized about. It didn’t take long for connections to be made between last night’s event and Jenny Folcrum’s twelfth-birthday party, and the excitement rose to a new fervor.

  This was almost better than a cannibal ritual or sex party. A tie to one of the most famous murders in history, happening right here inside their jeweled enclave.

  Another hour passed, and the first of the media trucks arrived at the neighborhood’s guard gate, where their access was blocked. They parked on the road’s shoulder, one stacking beside another, until the entire entrance road was paved in them. Like a sea of locusts, drones popped into the air above the news vans and then buzzed over the gates and toward the Wultz home.

  CHAPTER 88

  Detective Heinwright stood on the second floor of the Wultz home and tried to understand what was going on.

  The coroner’s stretcher was in the hall, Perla’s body on top of it, her body bag half-unzipped. He stood a few feet from the bag and looked at her face, thinking.

  The coroner, a woman with bushy eyebrows and a southern accent he had always found irresistible, came out of the bedroom, a blue-and-white-plaid face mask on. “Good morning,” Hazel Grooms said cheerfully.

  “Not the best I’ve had,” he said, watching as she zipped up the body bag, then pulled her face mask down to her chin. “What time’d you get the call?”

  “Around three thirty. Nature of the beast. People don’t like to die during business hours. Especially like this.” She patted the bag with something akin to affection.

  “What’s your gut tell you about the scene?”

  Hazel laughed. “Oh, it’s a mess of one. I don’t envy you your job, that’s for damn sure. But in terms of the vic, this one’s an exciting one.”

  “You mean the cut throat?” He shrugged. “Not the first I’ve seen.”

  “No, not that.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “Put a pair of gloves on; you’re going to want to see this.”

  Intrigued, he reached into the pocket at the top of the gurney and withdrew a set, then pulled them on his wide hands. Nodding at her, he gestured for her to continue.

  Unzipping the bag, she parted it so that he could clearly see Perla Wultz’s face. The brunette was pretty, but in an unconventional way. Her nose was perfect and straight, her mouth full, skin smooth—but her jawline was a bit too square, her angles a bit too harsh. The image was also marred by the blood, which was all over her lips and chin, the wound of her neck slash gaping open in a way that made her look practically decapitated.

  He grimaced, but Hazel’s smile grew even wider. She crooked her finger, beckoning him closer. “Feel this.” She reached into the open cut and probed the incision. “Here.” Grabbing his hand in hers, she pressed it against the inside of the wound.

  “I don’t know if—” He stopped, understanding what she was trying to show him. “Right here?” he asked, running his fingers back and forth over the thick ridge.

  “Yeah. You know what that is?”

  “No.” He pulled his hand free as soon as she released it, slightly nauseous by the sight, much less the feel of it.

  “It’s scar tissue. Same angle, same area. Old, old scar tissue, probably from a decade ago, maybe longer.”

  “Meaning what?” She couldn’t be saying that . . . But her brow raised in a knowing way that made him second-guess his doubt.

  “Meaning that this isn’t the first time she’d had her throat cut.” Her mouth curved in a cocky smile. “Seen that before, big boy?”

  CHAPTER 89

  GRANT

  Attorney Paul Reachen was on the property within fifteen minutes of my call. He was in a 49ers jersey and jeans, two coffees in hand, and started lecturing me the minute he got me off to one side. We took a seat on the left side of the front porch, and I sipped the coffee and wondered when, if ever, I would get a chance to sleep.

  “Okay, I got too much shit that doesn’t make sense, so I’m going to need you to start talking.” Detective Heinwright strode up the steps of the porch.

  Paul stopped midsentence and turned to glare at him. “We’re in the middle of something here, Hal.”

  “Yeah, and while I respect your process, I got just a few quick questions for Grant, and then I’ll be out of your hair. It’s up to you if you want him to answer them, but just let me spitball them over before we waste any more time licking our own assholes.”

  Paul smiled despite himself. “Okay . . .” he said slowly. “Grant, don’t answer any question until I approve it, understand?”

  I nodded and the effort of just moving my head felt herculean at this point.

  “Do you know how Perla’s throat got cut? I don’t mean tonight—I mean in the past?”

  Whatever Paul was expecting Heinwright to ask, that wasn’t it. He recoiled, then looked sharply at me. “You don’t need to answer that, Grant.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Wait,” Paul commanded. “Hal, let me talk to my client—”

  “It’s okay.” I spoke over him. “Perla’s real name is Jenny Folcrum. She had her name changed when she was a teenager, after the—”

  “Holy shit,” Heinwright swore. “You married Jenny Folcrum? You’re telling me that you married little Jenny fucking Folcrum? Lucy Wultz’s brother? And no one knows about this? This stayed out of the press?”

  Paul himself seemed speechless, and they both stared at me as if I had grown a third arm and won the Olympics. It was the first time anyone had reacted to the news—the first time anyone knew the truth other than Perla’s adoptive parents and, more recently, Leewood Folcrum. Even my parents hadn’t known Perla’s true origins, and they would have certainly detested the connection if they had discovered it.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Holy shit,” Heinwright repeated. “This is going to be a media shitstorm.”

  “I think she—Perla, Jenny—was trying to recreate the murders. I think that’s why she freaked out when she got back into the room and discovered they weren’t there. And that’s what she meant when she said that she was finishing what had been started. That if she couldn’t kill them, that she’d at least kill herself and finish what had been . . . left open last time.” I grimaced.

  “Stop talking, Grant,” Paul ordered, though I don’t see how it hurt me to tie the strings together, just in case the detective missed them. “Just stop.” He turned to Heinwright. “You got what you need, right? I need to get this guy to bed. He’s got a funeral to plan and a young girl to break this news to.”

  “Sure—just one last thing.” Heinwright lifted his chin at me, catching my attention.

  “Nope,” Paul said. “That’s it.”

  “Are you keeping anything from me, Grant? Any other giant tidbits of information that could be holding up our investigation?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Paul said sharply. “Come on, Hal. I’m getting him out of here.” He stood between us and waved his arms like he was trying to flag down a plane.

  I met Heinwright’s eyes but didn’t answer the question. I held his gaze for a long moment, then looked away, letting Paul push me off the porch and toward his SUV.

  CHAPTER 90

  SOPHIE WULTZ

  The true-crime community exploded that morning. It went beyond the podcasts and the vloggers and the Reddit threads. We were getting calls from Good Morning America and the New York Times. Before, we had been pretty much shunned by so-called ‘real press’—but since we’d been the contact for the TFK emailer—that stands for ‘the Folcrum Killer,’ by the way—we were suddenly on everyone’s wish list. Gabrielle and I were flying first-class to New York to interview with The View, but then her phone rang, and it was little Sophie Wultz. And that, honestly, is what took us to another hemisphere of fame.

  —Rachel, Murder Unplugged

  They’d arrested my dad that morning. Paul said it wouldn’t happen, that he’d take care of it, but now he was behind bars and I was at Mandolin’s house, and everyone was having whispered conversations they didn’t think I could hear about where I’d end up living now that I was basically an orphan.

  I was in Mandolin’s backyard, kicking a soccer ball against their racquetball-court wall, when Paige showed up. She didn’t even go through their house; she slipped around the edge, and I liked that immediately. It was like she knew where I’d be.

  Paige didn’t say anything at the beginning. She just walked up next to me and put in a cross kick, sending the ball toward the wall. I jogged forward, using the edge of my foot to punt it back, and we worked in silent tandem for several minutes.

  She had been under investigation, but unlike my dad, she had been cleared. I tried not to hold it against her but my irritation simmered, and I kicked out harder than necessary.

  “Did you pour sugar in my gas tank?”

  The question caught me so off guard that I missed the ball altogether. “What?” I turned to her, my chest heaving a little from the exertion.

  “Did you pour sugar in my car’s gas tank?”

  “Why would I do that?” I was so confused, especially because of the way she was staring at me. It wasn’t an angry look; it was like I was a puzzle she was trying to solve.

  “What about the tacks in the kitchen?”

  I swiped some of my hair away from my face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She looked toward Mandolin’s house, which was like twice the size of ours. If they did adopt me, there’d be plenty of room, but I didn’t want to live here. I wanted to be back home with my dad.

  “I think your mom was fucking with us.”

  Despite myself, I grinned at the curse word, which she didn’t apologize for or wince at. “That sounds about right. Mom liked to fuck with people.” I didn’t feel guilty saying it. It was the truth, and I had never minded it, given that her actions typically benefited us.

  “The evidence against your dad . . . it’s mostly electronic. Text messages . . . emails. That sort of thing. Mostly at night. Just like a few texts I once got from you. Weird texts.” She was still staring at me, like I knew something she didn’t. I kept my mouth shut, waiting to see where she was going with this.

  Then she asked something I really didn’t expect, something that made me stand stick straight with interest. “How do you feel about talking to your grandfather?”

  CHAPTER 91

  LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

  INMATE 82145

  My daughter doesn’t ask for much, so when Paige wanted to get cleared for her and the Wultz kid to get a visitation with Leewood, I did it. Yeah, I got some kickback for it, but you gotta do what you can do for your kids. I haven’t given her shit else in this life.

  —William Smith, Lancaster Prison corrections officer

  The two girls came to my hospital room. I knew something was up when officers brought handcuffs in and cinched me to the bed. I could barely roll over to shit, so the security measures were unneeded.

  I studied the officer latching the cuffs. “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Got a visitor. Two. Behave with them, or I’ll come back in here and pull the plug on you myself,” he said gruffly, and I didn’t bother telling him I wasn’t on life support.

  “Cops?” I asked, moving my wrist in a position to give him better access.

  “Nope.” He pointed to a camera in the corner of the room. “This isn’t your attorney, and you aren’t in a visitation room, so be aware that this won’t be private. You got ears and eyes on you.” He checked the lock, then opened the door, waving someone through. I tried to straighten up in the bed and failed. Looking for the controls, I saw the incline button, but it was just out of reach. Fuck.