Later that day, sitting across from June Comstock, McGrew rubbed his eyes.
She asked, “Think you’ve got something significant here?”
“I definitely do. Read it. You’ll see.” He wished he didn’t have to show anyone the journal, wished, in fact, he wasn’t even involved in this case. Not for the first time, it left him feeling soiled. If Beth Walsh wasn’t as she appeared, who else hid behind a façade of wholesomeness? Who else could you trust?
June opened the diary. The snow outside had turned to sleet and the icy needles tapped against the window behind her. It was already getting dark.
He recalled Kate Donner’s entreaties, the way her eyes brimmed with tears she didn’t want to show, the cake crumbs in the corners of her mouth. “Please, please, Mr. McGrew, use this information, but keep i
