“What gave it away?”
Trent pointed to her phone. “She hung up on you?”
“She’s a charmer,” Amanda lamented. “But she did confirm—or at least seemed confident—that there was no silver bracelet recovered from the scene.”
“That’s interesting,” Trent said. “There’s no sign of the bag or the cash, and now the bracelet is missing. Was it of value too?”
“A regular silver bracelet, probably not too much, maybe a couple of hundred dollars.” She had to admit, though, it was “interesting” just as Trent had said.
She returned to her email app to glance over the visitor list. It was organized in reverse chronological order and the oldest visits on record had her full attention. “Courtney Barrett and Jackson Webb.”
“Yep. I noticed. Barrett about a week after sentencing and Webb a couple of days afterward, one day before his murder.”
“And when were you going to tell me?”
“I thought that you’d— I figured you’d see it yourself, and you did,” he added at a softer volume. He cleared his throat and added, “Courtney Barrett also returned to visit Palmer a couple of weeks ago.”
“And that’s all? Just the two visits?”
“All I could see running down.”
“Huh. Doesn’t sound like a warm relationship to me. Makes me wonder though if she showed up at the start of Palmer’s sentence looking for the money. Webb, too, possibly if his and Palmer’s murders are connected.”
“Thought the same. To Courtney?”
“Yep.” It was certainly too late to talk to Webb…
Eighteen
Courtney Barrett’s house still looked dark and asleep and it was going on mid-afternoon. Amanda knocked for the third time, stubbornly refusing to accept no one was home. Perseverance paid off and footsteps padded toward the door, and shortly thereafter it was swung open.
“What is it?” a woman barked. All wild eyes, wild hair, wild energy.
Amanda held up her badge. “Prince William County Police Department.” She added, “We’re looking to speak with Courtney Barrett,” though she was quite sure she was looking right at her, and she was the woman with Palmer in that photo from his wallet.
Courtney sighed. “That’s me, but I don’t have time for this right now. I—”
“Mom!” A young boy of about five came running toward the door—the image of Palmer. Same nose, lips, shape of face.
Amanda’s legs buckled. Trent reached out to her, but she waved him off.
“Get your shoes on. Now!” Courtney barked at her kid.
“I don’t wanna go.” The boy dropped to the entry floor and crossed his arms and sulked.
Amanda had a hard time taking her eyes off the kid. Hurt was swelling in her chest. The unfairness of it all that Palmer had a living, breathing child while hers were—
“This really isn’t a good time.” Courtney started to run a hand through her hair but stopped at the crown and dropped her hand. Just a guess but it was probably too full of knots to get her fingers through.
“Ah,” Trent started, and Amanda saw him glancing at her in her peripheral. “We won’t take much of your time,” Trent eventually pushed out.
Courtney scowled. “What’s this about?”
“We have something important to tell you,” Trent said. “Could we come in?”
Courtney eyeballed him, appearing somber for the first time since she’d answered the door. “I don’t have long, but if you keep it quick.” She shooed the boy, and he inched across the floor.
“You’ll have to excuse him,” Courtney said. “He’s not good with company.”