The Night Swim(5)

“Well, I’m hardly a bird expert, but even I can tell that’s one unhappy bird,” Rachel said.

“Maybe,” the waiter said, shrugging helplessly as if to tell her that he had no influence when it came to the bird’s welfare. “You’re here for the trial, aren’t you?” he asked, changing the subject.

“What makes you think that?” Rachel responded, suddenly on guard.

“You don’t have a vacation vibe. The manager said we’d be getting some guests staying here for the trial. Media types. Lawyers too.”

Rachel could tell he was fishing to find out which category she fell into, but she had no intention of satisfying his curiosity. She’d booked into the hotel using Pete’s family name for a reason. She didn’t want anyone at the hotel to know her true identity.

“I gather the trial is an emotional topic around here,” she said.

“It can get heated,” he agreed. “Everyone knows the boy involved. Some personally and some by reputation. He’s pretty famous around here. And this town is small enough that people can pretty much guess who the girl is, even though her name has been kept out of the newspapers.”

“If everyone knows everyone, I’m surprised the trial wasn’t moved to a different jurisdiction.”

“I heard the judge refused to allow it to be moved. Said he had faith in the jurors. I think he’s right. They’ll be fair. I don’t think it’s true that everyone knows everyone here. Maybe once. Neapolis isn’t a small town anymore.”

“Have you lived here long?” Rachel asked.

“My parents moved here when I left for college. I visit them in the summer and work at the hotel during the tourist season.” He wiped the table next to Rachel’s as he spoke.

“You must like the place if you come every summer?”

“It’s great for kids and old people. Not much to do here if you’re my age. Nothing in the way of jobs, that’s for sure,” he said. “My dad says this town never got a break. The factories are struggling. Fishing and tourism are the big money earners. Neither are reliable. The fishing used to be good. Not so much anymore. The tourism, well, that depends on the hurricane season.”

Rachel’s phone rang. The call was from Pete. The waiter inched away, straightening chairs that didn’t need to be straightened. Rachel could tell that he was listening in to her conversation. He had a perplexed expression that suggested he was trying to figure out why her voice sounded so familiar.

It was a common reaction. Rachel’s soft, breathless broadcast voice was instantly recognizable. It was her signature. That and her tendency to break the fourth wall with reflections on the miscarriages of justice that she investigated for the podcast. The combination made the podcast addictive.

“Rachel Krall has sexualized true crime in the same way that Nigella Lawson has given sex appeal to frying eggs,” one newspaper columnist wrote. “Krall’s seductive voice and out-loud musings give her true-crime podcasts the intimacy of pillow talk. It’s no wonder that it’s the most successful podcast in the country. I suspect Ms. Krall could record a podcast on paint drying and people would be hooked on her every intonation and the silky cadence of her bedroom voice.”

“I couldn’t hear your voice mails properly, Rach. The connection was horrible. I did hear you mention finding something on your car? What was it?” Pete asked.

“Someone left a letter on my car while I went for breakfast at a truck stop. It was addressed to me. By name,” Rachel said, cupping the receiver of her phone so the waiter wouldn’t overhear.

“Were there any threats?” Pete asked.

“It wasn’t the content of the letter so much as the way it was left for me under my windshield wiper,” she said. “Someone recognized me, Pete.”

“It was bound to happen,” sighed Pete. “You are a household name.”

“I’m not a household face. People don’t recognize me so easily, and this place was truly in the middle of nowhere. I don’t think anyone here has ever heard of the podcast. It’s so remote.”

“What was in the letter?” Pete asked.

“Something about a girl called Jenny who was murdered here in Neapolis decades ago,” Rachel told him. “The writer claims to have emailed us in the past asking me to investigate. We must have sent back one of those rote letters I hate so much. We should stop sending them, Pete. They’re soul destroying. Better to not respond than brush people off.”

“Let me get this right,” said Pete. “After writing to you several times and getting a rejection letter, this person just by chance happens to see you at a truck stop in the middle of nowhere, recognizes you, and leaves you a letter on your car while you’re eating breakfast.” A note of worry inflected Pete’s voice. “That seems awfully coincidental.”

“Yes. That’s exactly my point,” Rachel said. “I didn’t even know myself that I was going to stop until I saw the restaurant sign on the highway. What’s the probability that someone who sent me fan mail months ago and received your very polite ‘thanks but no thanks’ letter happened to be at an isolated rest stop area at the exact time that I made an unplanned stop?”

“Whoever left the letter must have followed you,” answered Pete. “Did you notice being tailed on the drive down?”