Page 58 of You'll Be Sorry

Now she shook her head in response. “Though, given that we just discovered something that doesn’t appear on any of our maps, I’m beginning to question the maps themselves.”

“Other ideas?” Theo asked her.

She paused, pondered. “I’ll have to do some more research.”

“That’s the spirit. Looking ahead, I’ll handle the media. Hopefully that’ll buy you more time.”

Raquel nodded. Mason and Betty were probably already at the historical society, studying the photos of the ledger. She’d spent enough time poring over colonial America documents to be of genuine assistance, and oh, the clues those pages might hold…

She’d come here looking for purpose. Drawn by a nineteenth-century woman’s grief, further compelled by a thirty-year-old mystery she was somehow convinced she could solve. And now another historic tragedy. And yet another impossibly small victim, with bones as thin and delicate as crepe paper.

Raquel knew things no one should have to know. And had for a very long time. Mostly, she fell back on her innate ability to identify what must be done regardless of the consequences.

Her little brother’s wan face as he grew steadily weaker.

I’ll keep you safe, I promise.

Things a reporter could conceivably figure out.

But also things she never wanted to think about again.

Now Theo leaned forward and gave her a light kiss. She held it a little longer than necessary. Lingering on the feel of him, the comfort of his lips upon her own.

Then they both rose from the table and, with the dog that wasn’t their dog, got to it.

20

Mandy sat before her computer and did her best to choose wisely.

Start by investigating Theo Collins or Raquel? Definitely Raquel.

Next up, pulling together the personal information required, including Raquel Collins’s DOB. Usually, Mandy would have the individual’s driver’s license in hand, making this part easy. Now she utilized a tidy little workaround she’d learned several years ago—call up the relevant state’s DMV, mutter about issues with her MDT—mobile display terminal—and pretty please, could they send her the info for one Raquel Collins?

As expected, they had multiple people with that name. She requested they shoot her images of all four licenses, with number three proving to be the winner. She plugged that info into the system and promptly learned:

Raquel Collins, no arrests, convictions, or outstanding warrants. And that was that. One pristine taxpayer and new community member coming up.

Mandy sat back, blew out a puff of air.

“All right then,” she muttered. “Let’s do this.”

She hit social media, because hell, who needed sophisticated government databases in this day and age of self-reporting? She found a LinkedIn page identifying Raquel’s business. Used that name to identify an Instagram page. Bull’s-eye, she thought.

Except, five minutes later…another bust of sorts. Raquel’s official bio consisted of three words—Boston interior decorator. The posts, images of gorgeous rooms, fabrics, furniture, were pretty much exactly what one would expect. Beautiful high-end shots, from Back Bay chic to country club exclusive to yacht club dazzling.

If Mandy ever had a few million in spare change to spend on her ten million in miscellaneous real estate, she’d absolutely engage Raquel Collins’s services.

She searched a few more platforms, came up empty. Returned to Insta. Sat back.

The basic investigative principle she’d heard from her father most often: First you look for what’s there, next you look for what’s not.

Case in point, Raquel’s three-word bio. The woman had provided a job description, but no high school or college affiliations. Also no local connections, organizations, or interests. Not even the obligatory photo of her with a pet, which was pretty funny given the recent addition to Theo and Raquel’s life.

The entire theme of Raquel’s online presence seemed to be a carefully curated suggestion of the woman more so than the reality.

Next possibility: If she could identify Raquel’s hometown, she could ring the local PD and strike up a conversation officer to officer. What can you share, remember, volunteer. Oh, really? And then…?

She was back to Google-stalking when her phone rang. She looked at the number and smiled. Then greeted her favorite cold case detective/Boston lager/founding father who was finally calling her back.