At the bottom of the page was the name of its executive director.
Marian Vale.
I stared at it.
“Vale?”
The detective nodded.
“Agnes's daughter.”
I remembered my mother speaking warmly of Marian.
She'd organized fundraisers.
Delivered holiday meals.
Hosted seminars about elder fraud.
Last Christmas, she'd even received a civic-service award.
The woman celebrated for protecting vulnerable seniors was now connected to the organization that had approached nearly every member of the Seven Oaks Circle.
I felt cold.
“Does Marian know Alex?”
“We're examining that relationship.”
That afternoon, I returned to Mrs. Wilson's house with police permission to retrieve clothing and personal belongings she needed at the hospital.
An officer accompanied me.
The house felt different now.
The spotless kitchen.
The perfectly aligned furniture.
The fresh flowers Alex had placed on the dining table.
Everything looked peaceful.
Yet I knew a frightened woman had been locked beneath those floors, tapping desperately in the hope that someone would hear.
