Chapter 7: Vermont Was Never About the View
Patricia called at eight-fifty the next morning, while Christopher was in the shower.
"Warren's contact executed a records request this morning," she said.
"The Akron case on Diane Marsh has been flagged for review by the county prosecutor's office.
That's the first domino."
"How long does that take?"
"Days, not weeks.
They move quickly when there's a pattern." A brief pause.
"But that's not why I'm calling.
Warren found something last night.
He pulled Renata Solís's financial records — she consented as part of a separate inquiry he was able to attach to.
Gwen, she is listed as co-applicant on a mortgage taken out eight months ago."
"On what property?"
"A house in Vermont.
Stowe."
The room went very quiet.
"The place Christopher wants to take me," I said.
"Yes."
I sat down.
"It's her house," Patricia said.
"They bought it together.
He's been planning this for at least eight months."
I thought about the way he'd said it over dinner.
*Very private.
No phone signal to speak of.*
"He wasn't going to bring me back," I said.
"No," Patricia said.
"I don't believe he was."
I pressed my hand flat against the kitchen counter and kept my voice low and even.
"What do we do?"
"Warren's contact is ready to move.
But they need one more thing — they need you to confirm the trip.
Accept it formally.
Let Christopher make the reservation.
That gives them a documented timeline and a clear statement of intent."
"You want me to say yes to Vermont."
"Yes.
And then Warren's contact will be waiting."
Christopher came downstairs twenty minutes later, freshly dressed, smelling like the same cologne he'd worn on our first date.
He poured himself coffee and leaned against the counter.
"I looked at the Stowe place this morning," he said.
"It's available Friday through Sunday.
I thought we could drive up Thursday night."
"Let's do it," I said.
He looked at me for just a moment — something passing across his face too quickly to name.
Then the smile settled back in.
"Perfect," he said.
"I'll confirm the booking today."
He left for work at nine-fifteen.
I watched his car from the kitchen window until it disappeared.
Then I called Toby.
"He's booking it," I said.
"I know.
Patricia just texted me." Toby's voice was tight.
"Mom, I want to be there.
When it happens — I want to be there."
"You will be," I said.
"But right now I need you to do something for me."
"Anything."
"I need you to find out if Diane Marsh had any family.
A sister.
A parent.
Anyone still living."
A pause.
"Why?"
"Because if she does," I said, "they deserve to know what happened to her."
Toby was quiet for a moment.
"I'll find them."
I hung up and stood in the kitchen where Christopher had poured wine two nights ago, where he had remembered my curry order, where he had covered my hand with his and said *fourteen years, Gwen* as though it meant something.
I thought about Diane Marsh.
Twenty-nine years old in Cincinnati.
Fourteen months of marriage in Akron.
A staircase.
A phone call to emergency services.
Eight hundred thousand dollars.
I thought about the woman in Cincinnati whose name I didn't know yet.
I thought about what my father had written at the bottom of his letter.
*Please don't face it alone.*
I hadn't.
I wasn't going to.
May you like
But there was one more thing I needed to do before Thursday — something Patricia hadn't asked for, something Warren hadn't planned.
I needed to speak to Renata Solís myself.
