The subject line: Service Confirmation: S. Pierce.
“That’s his last name,” the officer noted quietly, leaning in. “Pierce. The ‘S. Pierce’ could be you—Claire Pierce—if you used a nickname. Or it could be…”
“My sister,” I said, pointing to Megan. “Sarah Megan Pierce. She goes by Megan.”
Megan swore under her breath, a harsh sound that made Mom flinch. “He told me… he told me two days ago that he hated how much time I spent with you. He said you were a bad influence.”
“He’s setting this up like it’s supposed to happen,” the officer said, his tone dropping. “If the brakes fail, and you die… and the funeral is already inquired about… he’s skipping the grief and going straight to the logistics.”
“It’s efficient,” I said, my voice sounding hollow to my own ears. “Logan loves efficiency.”
The officers exchanged a look. “We’re going to have a detective call you. We need to secure that vehicle. Where is it?”
“1402 Oakwood Lane,” I said. “His mother’s house. I’m calling her now.”
Carolyn answered on the third ring. Her voice was clipped, impatient. She had always tolerated me, treating me like a temporary fixture in her son’s magnificent life.
