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“It matters to my client a great deal,” I said. “Let’s say one of the victims’ loved ones doesn’t buy the official story of what happened. They think somebody else had to have been there.”

Dan rubbed his chin. Did he trust me? Were my intentions as straightforward as I said they were?

“I never had any hard evidence that Derrek Sidney had an accomplice. He had the motive and opportunity. He was seen in the area. His DNA was found at the scene. Transfer DNA on the belt he used to kill Maisy Adams. A black knit cap left in Geneva Bell’s room had his hair in it.”

“But he was never tried or convicted,” I said. “Did that bother you? All your hard work and nothing came of it.”

“It wasn’t nothing. The case was solved. I don’t think closure is ever possible in a thing like that. But Sidney got the needle. Not for those killings, but you can only kill a man once. Believe me, if there were a way to make that man die all over again, I’d have asked for a front-row seat.”

Geneva Bell had a front-row seat. It had only made things that much more difficult for her to leave in the past.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” I said. “Did you ever believe Derrek Sidney had an accomplice that night?”

“What do you believe?”

“That isn’t relevant.”

“I think it is. You have an agenda. A point of view. What is it?”

Before I could answer, Holland stood. He gestured for me to follow him into a back bedroom down the hall.

The room was filled with file cabinets and a dusty desk against the wall littered with papers. Holland opened the center desk drawer and pulled out a small key. He walked over to the top drawer of one of the file cabinets then turned to me.

“What makes one of the families believe there was more to it that night?”

I knew a challenge when I heard one. This was some circle of trust Dan Holland might offer to let me enter. Only if I had answered correctly.

“My client now has reason to believe Derrek Sidney either had an accomplice that night or after the fact. Someone who knew intimate details about the crime that weren’t made available publicly. Because of it, they think somebody else might be in danger now.”

“Who is your client?”

“I can’t tell you that,” I said. “Just know it’s someone closely connected to one of the victims.”

“Rick Oleson?” he said, surprising me. I stayed mute. He tossed the key into the air and caught it in his palm, then hid it in his fist.

“I’m not suggesting you did anything wrong, Mr. Holland,” I said. “In fact, I know you didn’t. But your attitude today leads me to think you believe what my client believes. That there’s still someone out there who knows the truth.”

He chuffed. “Oh, I know there is. The answer is yes. I’ve always had a theory Sidney wasn’t working alone that night. Only I couldn’t prove it. And I couldn’t go to the prosecutor, let alone the families, with a gut feeling.”

He opened the top drawer of his file cabinet and pulled out a worn, thick, bright-yellow file folder.

“But you know you’re right,” I said. “We’re not talking about some layperson’s gut feeling. I’m guessing the feds, maybe even the sheriff, wanted this wrapped up. No loose ends. No mess. A satisfying ending to the story. The stakes would have been too high if you were wrong. I get that. But I think we can’t keep this secret anymore. Neither of us. Somebody might get hurt. I couldn’t live with myself if that happened. Could you?”

“Tell me what your client thinks they know,” he said, his lips tightening. “I am not opening old wounds on your gut feeling or your client’s.”

“Is that your personal murder book in that file?” I asked. “Are you offering to let me look at it?”

“What does your client think they know?” he repeated.

The message was clear. He wasn’t going to tell me a thing unless I showed him all my cards.

“Geneva Bell,” I said, praying it was the right answer. “My client is Geneva Bell. Some things have come to her attention recently. Things that jogged her memory of what happened that night and made her strongly suspicious that Derrek Sidney had an accomplice. She believes that person is out there looking to finish the job.”

Dan Holland’s face turned gray. His bottom lip quivered, then contorted. I couldn’t read his facial expressions. Was it fear? Rage? Utter confusion?

Slowly, he put the yellow folder back in the drawer, slammed it closed, pocketed his key, squared his shoulders, and stared at me with white heat.

“Get out,” he said.