“That is a comment from Cora Day on Michelle Young’s Facebook wall,” Zoe said triumphantly. “It looks like they were friends until this moment. Michelle tells her to screw herself and then Cora never replies. I imagine that’s the point where they blocked one another.”
“How long ago was that?” Shelley asked, thoughtfully.
Zoe consulted the timestamp. “Just over a month ago.”
“So, to recap,” Shelley said, a smile slowly forming on her face, “Cora Day falls out with Michelle Young, and around a month later she ends up dead. Then Cora cancels on meeting up with Lorna Troye for a pre-planned hiking trip, leaving her alone, and Lorna also ends up dead by the same method.”
“And the coroner says that it is altogether possible the suspect we are looking for could be a woman, especially given the extra boost of adrenaline that might allow them to strike with more strength than expected.”
“Plus the fact that the killer was confident enough to approach both women in daylight when they were alone, without having them running in fear, quite likely because they already knew them.”
“Looks like we have a suspect,” Zoe said, catching the excitement that Shelley obviously felt. And why not, after all? This could be it—the lead that was going to blow the whole case open.
“I’ll talk to the sheriff about a current address for Cora Day,” Shelley said, jumping out of her chair and rushing along the corridor with newfound enthusiasm.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Zoe eyed the building from the driver’s seat of their rental car, looking up to the third floor and the rooms where Cora Day was registered as living. It wasn’t a bad area, and the apartment building was actually an older converted home, split into three floors with each one serving as a self-contained unit.
“So far, so suburbia,” Zoe said, glancing up and down the street. There were short manicured patches of lawn here and there, trees growing out of the sidewalk at measured junctures, and even a bona fide white fence across the street. Still, it wasn’t as though murders only happened in rough and ready poor communities. They were quite capable of popping up anywhere at any time—if she had learned anything in her years with the FBI, it had to be that.
“Well, appearances can be deceptive,” Shelley said, echoing her own thoughts as she got out of the car. “What are we expecting here?”
Zoe shrugged, joining her on the sidewalk and fastening up the button on her suit jacket. “I find it safest not to expect anything. If Cora is a psychotic killer, there is no telling how she might react to our request for a conversation. She may try to run. To lie to us. She may even threaten violence. And on top of that there is still always the possibility that she will go quietly, admit to everything, and allow us to get on a plane home before dinnertime.”
“That might be wishful thinking,” Shelley said, giving her a lopsided grin.
“It well might,” Zoe said, sighing and taking the first step toward the building. It never got easier, the feeling of going in to approach a suspect for the first time. The tension and nerves, the hope that you were right and the case was solved, often coupled with a dismay that someone so normal-seeming could really be a cold-blooded killer. Above all of that was the kind of fear that usually lurked around every case: that any stop you might make along the way could put you into contact with a violent criminal, one who would not think twice about shooting down or bludgeoning an agent of the law.
A fear that, Zoe noticed, had been growing proportionately the closer she got to John and Shelley and the further away she got from the numbers.
On the third floor of the building, against a stairwell that had been awkwardly converted to include lockable front doors for each apartment, Zoe knocked and waited. Her hand strayed to her gun, resting in a holster. Just the touch of the handle was reassurance enough. There was no sense in drawing it when all you intended to do was interview a potential suspect. There was such a thing as inviting conflict, after all.
The door opened onto a sight that Zoe had not expected: a woman, clearly Cora from the photographs yet some tired, faded, pale version of her, wrapped in a large fluffy robe and with red and patchy skin around her nose and cheeks. “Yes?” she asked, her voice nasal and stiff.
“Cora Day?” Zoe asked. Her hand moved, going to the inside pocket where she kept her badge.
“Yes? Who are you?”
Zoe drew out the badge, sensing more than seeing Shelley do the same by her side. “Special Agent Zoe Prime with the FBI. This is my colleague, Special Agent Shelley Rose. We would like to have a word with you, if we may.”
“Is this about Michelle?” Cora asked, not sounding surprised at all. She stepped back to allow them inside. “I heard about it from a friend. It’s horrible. We were arguing, but I would never have wished for something like this to happen.”
“We did hear about the issues between you two,” Shelley said, following Zoe and Cora through into a cramped but well-decorated living area. “Could you talk us through what happened?”
“Oh, god, it was so stupid,” Cora said, sniffing and settling down into an overstuffed armchair as she indicated for them to take the sofa. “It seems really childish now. It was just about a stupid Facebook game we were playing.”
Zoe, settling down onto the comfortable sofa, raised an eyebrow. “A game?”
“Yeah. After she added me it turned out we both play this game, where you run a food stall and sell food to your customers. You can decorate your stall and serve lots of different types of cuisine, and—well, anyway, your friends can send you items if you request them. I had this rare item that Michelle needed in order to complete her event set, which you can only do when the event is on, but I gave it to one of my other friends instead. Then she put up this catty status about playing favorites and I called her on it, and she blocked me. Just like that.” Cora shrugged and reached for a tissue from a box in the middle of the table. “Not that it was a huge loss—we barely knew each other. But it was a shock to hear she’s dead.”
Zoe’s ears pricked, catching the words that Cora had used. “You barely knew one another?” she asked.
“We’re just friends of friends,” Cora said. “I met her once—sorry, excuse me.” She broke off to sneeze, catching it in the tissue in her hand and then blinking.
“Are you unwell, Ms. Day?” Shelley asked. It wasn’t a difficult assumption to come to: on top of the robe, the red nose, and the sneeze, the coffee table was littered with discarded tissues, and there was a store-brand packet of flu remedy left empty amongst them.
“I’ve got this blasted cold,” she said, breaking off to blow her nose gently. She winced as she did it, the raw, red skin getting another scraping. “It’s kept me home all weekend. I was supposed to go out with a friend, and I’ve just been laying here on the couch.”
Zoe and Shelley exchanged a look.
“Yesterday, was it?” Zoe asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“You were supposed to go on a hike with Lorna Troye. Is that not correct?” Zoe said, ignoring the question.
“Yes. I—wait, have you been tracking me or something? I didn’t do anything to Michelle, really I didn’t—”