Uncle Raymond's house always smelled like old leather. The walls were lined with books, every shelf filled to capacity, and a faint ticking came from the vintage grandfather clock in the corner.
Loretta sat across from him, her hands curled around a mug of untouched tea that had gone cold.
The photographs were spread on the desk between them, the images a crime scene, though no one had officially called it that.
Raymond's face was calm, but Loretta could see the stress settling into the lines around his mouth.
He tapped a finger against the photo with Martin's car.
"The P.I. tracked the dash cam back to a tow truck that happened to be passing through that area. It was luck, mostly. But I had a gut feeling, Loretta. And I was right."
She couldn’t look at the pictures anymore. Her
