“CSI Blair told me to just bag it for processing at the lab.”
Emma Blair was the senior CSI and held the transgressions of Amanda’s father against her. He’d had an affair with Blair twenty-some years ago that resulted in a child. Amanda had a half-brother who was a firefighter for the Dumfries-Triangle Volunteer Fire Department. But all this was just exposed about four months ago, and Amanda was still reeling from the bombshell.
“All right. Keep us posted on that.” Some battles weren’t worth waging. The three of them left the bedroom. Amanda poked her head into the living room. “Anything else we should know before we head out? Any signs she may have died by suicide?” She opened that question to everyone in the room.
“No note or letter to loved ones,” CSI Donnelly said.
“She have a laptop or tablet with her?” Trent asked.
Donnelly shook her head.
The absence of a letter meant nothing—not everyone left a note for loved ones. But didn’t a woman like Alicia Gordon have everything to live for? Though outward appearances could be deceiving. “Keep us posted on the time for the autopsy,” she told Rideout.
“Will do.”
“Thanks.” She stepped outside with Trent and took a deep inhale of the cool afternoon air. Was it too much to ask that it clear her mind? That photograph. His face. Chills wormed through her coat and seeped into her bones.
“So what was Ms. Gordon doing up here in a cabin—all alone? Looking at a photograph of her family?” Trent screwed up his forehead. “Reminiscing? Trouble in her marriage? Maybe we are looking at suicide. And what was up with your reaction to the picture? It was like you saw a ghost.”
I kind of did…
“Amanda,” he pressed.
“It was nothing. Just not looking forward to the notification. That’s all.” Only it wasn’t just that, which Trent would find out soon enough.
“Never fun when there are kids left behind.”
The portrait had been found at Alicia’s feet, so it would seem she’d been looking at it before she died. Maybe it was as Trent had suggested and Alicia was depressed, possibly missing better days.
“We’ll need to ask the husband about the marriage.” Trent pulled out his notepad, flipped its pages. “Guy’s name is Tony—”
“Bishop,” she punched out, cursing her impulsiveness.
“Do you know him?”
Her answer was carried on a sigh. “You could say that.”