Free The Wrong Girl by Hank Phillippi Ryan

Tuck’s—file. I can’t give them to her, of course, but I wanted to show her at least a few of them. So she could understand how carefully her history is documented. It’s not paperwork. It’s reality. Lillian Finch—I explained who she is, right, Miss Cameron?”
    Tuck nodded. “Go on.”
    “Ms. Finch puts together the files, confirms with the History and Records department, of course, and then, when Mr. Munson from H and R says go, she makes the Call.” Ella made finger quotes around the words. “That’s what we call it. The Call.”
    Jane could almost hear the capital letter. She risked a look at Tuck. The Call?
    Tuck raised an eyebrow, so quickly Jane almost missed it.
    “If you get the Call from Ms. Finch,” Ella continued, “there’s no question about it. It’s—a big step. Sometimes people aren’t ready to hear it. But Miss Cameron? Tucker? Trust me. You’re Audrey Rose Beerman.”
    Ella paused, as if waiting for a response from Tuck.
    Jane couldn’t read Tuck’s face. Posture perfect, arms folded on the table, Tuck was staring at Ella, silent.
    “What I guess I wonder,” Ella finally said, “is—why don’t you think so?”

17
    The entire place was going to hell. Niall Brannigan tapped one finger on the mahogany expanse of his desk. This Monday morning certainly seemed to prove it. Something would have to be done.
    He leaned across his paperwork and punched his phone to speaker, almost knocking into his ceramic mug of Irish Breakfast. Grace had delivered it with exactly the right amount of cream and sugar, accompanied by a chocolate cruller served on his mother’s favorite fluted crystal plate. Monday mornings were supposed to begin another week of Brannigan success. But not this Monday. Nine forty-five, and already—
    “Miss O’Connor? Have we heard from her yet?”
    “No, Mr. Brannigan.” At least Grace had picked up the phone.
    “Or the girl, Ella?”
    “No, sir.”
    Brannigan’s fingers drummed on the desk, the only sound in the room. Outside he could hear the snowblower, about time, and down the hall, phones ringing. Unanswered. Things were about to change. He’d see to that.
    “Sir?”
    “That’s all, Miss O’Connor. Ring me when you hear from either of them.”
    “Sir?”
    What was wrong with this girl? Could she not hear?
    “Sir?”
    He paused, calculating. “Is it Lillian Finch?”
    “Sir? They say—it’s the police.”
    *

    “Come. Freaking. On. ” Kellianne Sessions could not believe it. Could. Not. Believe it. Kev and Keefer were lolled on the couch of the dead woman’s apartment, watching the freaking Simpsons on a junky TV. Was that show always on? Her moron brothers had assigned her to the back of the place as soon as they’d arrived this morning, told her to pack up the bedrooms and check for any residue or externals, vac the rugs and bag the contents. Now it was pretty darn obvious they were trying to get rid of her while they goofed off.
    “You guys billing for this? That’s pretty freakin’ bold.”
    “You hear that?” Kev didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Miss Priss here is worried about bill ing.”
    “Who’s Bill Ling?” Keefer jabbed his brother with an elbow. “Good one, huh?”
    Kellianne saw they’d at least baffled up the kitchen with plastic, rolling out clear sheets of it, overlapped and tacked them from ceiling to floor, so the solvents from the kitchen area didn’t contaminate the rest of the place. It was strong stuff. She’d had her first whiff in the hazmat class practicums, now she was kinda used to it. Which was disgusting. She didn’t want to be used to it.
    Someone had died in this very place. Well, not died, been murdered. Creepy. She’d seen it all on the news, every channel. The reporters, the cops, and the freaky onlookers. She never watched cop shows on TV, or any of that serial killer stuff, but all her friends geeked out on it. “Did you see the dead person?” they always asked. “What’s it