“Did you drive your wife’s Toyota Corolla the night she went missing?”
“No.”
“Are you involved in your wife’s disappearance?”
“No.”
“Do you think Brooke Bollman is involved?”
“No.”
“Do you think anyone in your family is involved?”
“No.”
“Do you think anyone in your wife’s social circles is involved?”
“No.”
“If you know someone was involved in your wife’s disappearance, would you tell police?”
“Yes.”
“You were seen arguing with a searcher. Do you suspect anyone is involved in your wife’s disappearance?”
Sellwin. Porter Sellwin. Shout out his name. Sellwin with his phony smile, his arrogance, his hands on Jenn. But I have zero evidence. No proof. If I accuse him, I’m accusing Jenn of adultery, of cheating, something I know in my heart she would never, ever do, because it would be a betrayal of who she is, to Jake, to her moral fiber. No, I have no proof. But she’s been so cold, so distant—and I’m the one. I’m the one considering Brooke’s offer, and every aspect of it—yet—I just don’t—
“Greg, your response please: Do you suspect anyone is involved in your wife’s disappearance?”
“No.”
For nearly an hour, Vera’s questions were relentless. Again and again, framing them in different ways, she hammered away on the same areas until she wound it all down.
“Greg, are you concealing any information from investigators that may have a bearing on your wife’s disappearance?”
“No.”
“Have you been truthful during this process?”
Truthful?
Staring into the lamp with its hypnotic floating goop, Greg traveled back years to the time he was driving with Jenn through the Florida Keys, the road rushing under them, surrounded by celestial turquoise water, windows down, Jenn’s arm extended, her hand playing in the breeze, her smile under her sunglasses in a moment of pure happiness.
Now, here in Clarence Barracks, wired to a polygraph, he’d been emotionally eviscerated.
Life was not simple. The truth was elusive.
He’d had lust in his heart and blood on his hands that night.
“Greg?” Vera said. “Have you been truthful during this process?”
He didn’t answer.
Forty-One
Williamsville, New York
PEACE THROUGH PERSEVERANCE.
Kozak nodded to the motto under the sign for Sunlit Way Yoga.
“Maybe you should give it a try, Ned,” she said as she parked their Taurus and approached the studio. “Connect with your spiritual core.”
Carillo shot her a look. “I’d rather get a puppy, Claire.”
Kozak smiled and reflected.
“Well, I could use some spiritual mending. I signed the papers the other day, making it official with Wade.”
“What?” Carillo’s face softened. “Hey, partner, you knew it was coming. Signing was a formality.”
“Sadly, yes.”
“Remember, when one door closes, another one opens.” He held the door to Sunlit Way open for her and winked.
“Appreciate that, Ned.”
The studio, on the west side of Williamsville in a strip mall, was where Jennifer Griffin took weekly yoga classes. The investigators had come here after Greg’s polygraph because Valerie Vera needed several hours to analyze Greg’s responses before the next case status meeting. Meantime, Kozak and Carillo resumed following up every thread of Jennifer Griffin’s life and routine, looking for anything out of the ordinary that might yield a lead. In doing the legwork by checking things off, they ruled things out. Kozak had called ahead to Sunlit Way.
Lori Monroe, Jennifer’s yoga teacher, met them when they entered. She was wearing yoga pants, a T-shirt under a light yoga sweater. She was barefoot, guiding them along the edge of the studio while a class of mostly women stretched and arched on mats. The glass-walled office was small, and Monroe closed the door.
“We’re all shocked about Jennifer,” Monroe said. “Some of our people helped in the searches. Our hearts go out to her family.”
“How long has she been taking classes with you?” Kozak asked.
“About a year and a half. I looked it up before you came. I also looked up Brooke Bollman, as you’d requested. She was never a student with us.”
“In the time leading up to Jennifer’s disappearance, did you notice anything different about her?” Carillo asked. “Were there any changes in her demeanor, appearance, conversations, anything?”
Monroe started shaking her head.
“Not really.”
“What about her routine, anything at all?” Kozak asked.
“Well, she was taking the sixty-minute class up until several weeks ago, when she switched to an express class, which is thirty minutes.”
“Can you get the date of the change?” Kozak asked.
Monroe turned to her computer, typed on her keyboard, clicked her mouse, then pointed to a date on the screen and said: “There.”
Kozak made a note. “Did she give you a reason for the change?”
“No, I suspected she was busy, or maybe to save money.”
“Is there anything else you can think of?”
Monroe crossed her arms in front of her and thought.
“No, that’s it,” she said. “We’re all praying you find her.”
After thanking her, Kozak and Carillo walked through the studio and were at the door when they heard the soft padding of bare feet on the floor.
They turned to Monroe, who took them into the hallway.
“One thing I remember,” she said. “But it’s so small, likely nothing.”
“Go ahead,” Kozak said.
“Well...” Monroe nodded outside, looking across the street. “Around the time Jennifer shortened her classes, I sometimes noticed her coming out of that building.”
The investigators turned, following her gaze.
“Alone, or with someone?” Kozak asked.
“Alone.”
“And each time around class time?”