Free Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) by J. Mark Bertrand

outside. He goes on ignoring our presence, scribbling hard with his crayon. On her way out, she turns up the volume on the cartoons.
    The apartment’s on the second floor. Lorenz and I descend the stairs a little ways, letting her sit on the top step. I show her the photo I took from the house.
    “Can you identify this man?” I ask, tapping Ford’s face.
    “It’s Brandon,” she says. “My ex.”
    “And when was the last time you talked to him?”
    She stops to think. “Maybe a week ago? I’m not sure. I can find out, though.” She digs a phone out of her pocket and thumbs through the menu. “No, it was more like two weeks ago. He was doing a show and called from the road.”
    “A gun show?”
    She nods. “Down in Corpus Christi. He wanted me to go pick up the house keys from his mother, in case the Realtor did any showings. We’ve been trying to sell our house. When there’s a showing I go over and bake some cookies so the house smells good.”
    “Was he planning to be out of town long, then?”
    “He travels a lot.”
    “And you haven’t heard from him since that call?”
    “If you’re trying to find him,” she says, “I’m not really the person to ask. You should check with his mother—that’s her in the picture.” She takes the photo and holds it toward me, her finger on the older woman with the red eyes. “Hilda. That’s where I drop the kids when he’s supposed to take them. The two of us don’t really keep tabs on each other. We have our own lives. It’s better that way.”
    Lorenz crouches down and takes his sunglasses off. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we have some bad news.”
    As he goes on to break the news, Miranda’s lip starts to tremble. A thick tear slides down her cheek and she wipes it away. I watch her, convinced the reaction is genuine. He explains when the body was found and where, but doesn’t go into detail about the mutilation or torture. He doesn’t need to. The shock of her ex-husband’s death is enough.
    Lorenz glances my way, gives me a questioning shrug. I nod for him to continue with his questions. Like a trouper, she endures them, answering in as much detail as she can. After a while, I tune them both out. I’m back in Bea Kuykendahl’s office, reviewing everything the FBI agent said and left unsaid. None of it really makes sense. There’s no way Brandon Ford isn’t real, no way this shaken, bereaved girl isn’t really his ex-wife.
    I need to get out of here. I need to think. I need another talk with Agent Kuykendahl, too, and I want real answers this time around.
    Miranda clears her throat, wipes her eyes one last time. “Am I—? I mean, is it me that’s responsible for the arrangements? I don’t know how it’s supposed to work, but if we’re not married anymore . . .”
    “You mentioned his mother?” Lorenz says. “Hilda . . . was that her name?”
    She nods and gives him an address and phone number, looking very relieved. But then her face clouds again. “What am I going to do? I rely on him to make ends meet.”
    “How long were you married?” I ask.
    She stops to think. “He proposed after Tate was born. It lasted three years almost. We weren’t happy, though. Brandon saw other women.”
    As we start to go, she watches us from the top step, her entwined hands pressing down against her stomach. She’s looking at us, but I don’t think she sees us. Her eyes are focused on the past. She seems to have forgotten us entirely, so I’m surprised when she calls down.
    “Other women,” she says, like she’s finishing her thought from before. “There was somebody with him the last time. Somebody new. She waited in the car while he dropped off the kids. This was at Hilda’s, and I’d been waiting inside for almost an hour. When he showed up, he didn’t say anything about her , but I knew she’d been with my kids.”
    I climb the steps again, pausing beside her.
    “This was a new girlfriend?” I ask.
    She