Fic: Thirteen at Dinner (8/15)
Masterpost
Chapter VI: Bernard Elliott
Chapter VII: Agnes Winn
“First it was ghosts. Now we’re believing junkies?”
“Why would he lie?”
“To get attention, maybe.” Dean gripped the back of his chair hard. “You know what the problem is, Sam? The problem is that you’re so desperate for Frances to be innocent that you’re willing to believe absolutely anything that’ll make that true. Well, I’ve got news for you. Perfect little Frances wasn’t as perfect as she pretended.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mathieson said the woman from Connors reviewed the tapes. There was only one person other than the auction house employees who handled the book. Your friend Avery.”
“What?”
“Yeah. And I’m thinking, what motive could Avery possibly have to cut out those pages? She’s Mathieson’s daughter, so we know she can’t be Isabelle Beaudreau. So it’s obvious, isn’t it? It must’ve been Frances possessing Avery.”
“What are the odds William Winn wrote about Frances years after she died? And if he thought she was guilty, why wait that long?”
“We’ll never find out, will we? Those pages are probably ash in an incinerator by now. As far as I’m concerned, it’s case closed, Sam. Frances killed her husband, she was coming up with all this crap to keep us from ganking her. We’ve burnt her bones. She’s gone. It’s over.”
“Steve said he thinks his father did it. He said Bernard Elliott got secretive in his old age - and apparently Ralph Ashby wasn’t just abusive to his wife. He got violent with his daughter and -”
“Sam -”
“If Bernard loved her, he might have killed Ralph Elliott to keep her safe.”
“Sam!” Dean grabbed Sam’s shoulders. “I don’t care. I don’t care who killed Ralph Elliott. I don’t care if he committed suicide. Frances is gone -”
“We don’t know if she was the one haunting the area. And even if it was, we owe it to her to find out the truth about her husband.”
“No, we don’t. Most of the people who were convicted of witchcraft in the sixteen hundreds were probably innocent, Sam. It’s not our problem to vindicate all of them. We’re done here. We need to go.”
“I’m not going until we’ve solved the case.”
“How exactly do you think we’re going to do that? Interview witnesses? News flash, Sam. They’re dead. Even if Isabelle was a witch, we have no idea if she’s still alive or where she is. We have nothing. We’re not wasting more time on this. Pack your stuff. We’re going.”
“I’m not going.”
“Then you’re staying here alone, because I’m going.”
Dean was halfway through his packing when his phone rang. He answered.
“Yeah?”
“Dean?” Mathieson’s anxious voice said. “It’s not over.”
“What? What happened?”
“A young couple saw a ghost. They couldn’t describe it in detail but they said it was definitely male, looked vaguely colonial. I wouldn’t rely on historical accuracy, but…”
“Crap. OK, we’ll meet you at your office.”
Dean ended the call, took a deep breath, and turned. Sam was sitting in a chair by the window, arms crossed, watching Dean coolly.
“So you’ll believe a guy we’ve known for less than a week, but you won’t believe me.”
“Don’t be a bitch about this Sam. We don’t have time to waste.”
“You’re right.” Sam got to his feet, checking that his gun was loaded. “Let’s go. We need to figure this out once and for all.”
Dean felt a pang of something as Sam brushed past him to go to the door. This wasn’t how they worked cases.
But it wasn’t like they’d never fought before, and they were both professional enough not to let it get in the way of the job. So Sam was being a prissy little bitch about Mathieson. He’d get over it. In the meantime, they could gank the ghost and put Andover behind them.
The drive to Mathieson’s office was silent. Sam was tense and brooding, and Dean decided it was best to let him be.
Mathieson was waiting outside when they got there.
“Here,” he said, thrusting a sheet of paper into Dean’s hand. “Vince Anderson and Gillian Tan, their address is on that. They’ll be able to give you details.”
“We came all the way here for this?” Sam asked. “What, you couldn’t just send a text?”
“What can I say, Sam? I’m an old-fashioned guy. I like things on paper.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do,” Sam muttered.
“Sam,” Dean hissed. “Don’t be stupid. Get in the car.”
“No, that’s all right, Dean,” Mathieson said easily. “Your brother isn’t the first person to have a problem with the way I do business. I’m not running for the Nobel Peace Prize, Sam, but everything I do is aboveboard.” He smiled. “Everything’s in writing. It’s not my responsibility if people don’t read the documents they sign.”
“Thank you,” Dean said, before Sam could react. “That’s helpful. We’ll get going now.”
“We’ll need the necklace,” Sam said, not moving when Dean tugged at his arm.
Mathieson frowned. “What?”
“The necklace you took from Frances Ashby’s grave. We’ll need to burn it.”
“But - this ghost is a male. It can’t be Frances. There’s absolutely no call to destroy a priceless historical artefact.”
“I suppose that’s why you’re keeping it?” Sam demanded. “To donate to the museum?”
“I’m a businessman, and I’m not committing any crimes. I own the land it was found on - or, well, I did. I donated it to the town for the rec centre, even though the trustees sometimes forget that. You see? I’m not all evil. I’m doing my bit to keep kids away from drugs.” Mathieson shrugged. “Some kids you just can’t help.”
“Sam.” Dean pulled harder, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. “Sam, I swear, if you don’t get your ass in gear…”
“Fine,” Sam said. “I’m coming.”
Vince and Gillian lived in one of the nicer prefabs, not far from the rec centre. They drove past it on their way. It was open, though the basketball court was surrounded by plywood screens and signs proclaiming that it was being renovated.
They were shaken, but willing to answer questions. Yes, they’d seen a ghost. It had appeared in the mirror behind Gillian when she’d been getting dressed. At first she had thought it had been an intruder - you heard so much about burglars - but she had thrown her hairbrush at it and it had gone right through.
Vince had come up, drawn by her scream. He’d seen the ghost and tried to rush it but had crashed into the bed.
Their descriptions matched up with Steve’s. Dean bit his lip. So maybe the junkie had been telling the truth about that. Didn’t mean he’d told the truth about anything else.
“So what now?” Dean asked, when they left.
“We need to speak to Amanda Velour.”
“The auction house woman?”
“I think the missing pages from the book might be important, Dean. And related to what’s happening now. Why else would anyone care? Even if William Winn accused someone of witchcraft - or murder, anything - there’s no way it could go to trial. Nobody would bother to get rid of those pages thinking they might be punished for a more than three-hundred-year-old murder. She might’ve missed something, or not known what to look for. We can ask to see the tapes.”
Dean sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s talk to her.”
When they got to Connor and Connor, they were told that Ms. Velour was out handling an assessment, but she’d be back any minute if they cared to wait. They did care to wait, and, as promised, in a very short time they were ushered into her office.
“Agents,” she said, getting to her feet to shake their hands. “Or should I call you Mr. and Mr. Winchester? You should have told me you were working with Mr. Mathieson.”
“Would you have been nicer to us?”
“I would have understood the importance of your request. I trust you didn’t have too much difficulty breaking in?” She smiled at Sam. “I was watching you on the CCTV feed. I think, with better equipment, you might actually have managed to get past our security system. If you’re interested in a short-term contract, I’m looking for someone to help us upgrade -”
“Hey,” Dean interrupted. “Can we see the video? Mathieson said you told him you saw his daughter handling the book.”
“I can give you screen caps.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry, but our security policy doesn’t allow me to share the video.”
“Ms. Velour,” Sam said, “did you - I’m sure you must have been curious - did you read the diary when it was brought in, before you had it scanned?”
“I did.”
“Then maybe you could help us. Do you know what was in the missing pages?”
“I do. After Mr. Mathieson called me about the missing pages, I went through it to see if I could figure out what had been taken. Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on your point of view - it was a passage sensational enough to stick in my memory. It was an accusation of murder and witchcraft - or, specifically, murder by witchcraft - against William Winn’s sister-in-law, Agnes.”
“Agnes?” Sam asked in astonishment. “Agnes Winn?”
“You sound like you know her.” Ms. Velour smiled. It made her look even snootier. “According to William, she was a regular Lady Macbeth. She had expensive tastes, and although Walter Winn made a good income, it wasn’t nearly enough to meet her demands. She had her eye on a neighbour’s farm, I think his name was Ralph Ashby. She poisoned him, so that Walter could embezzle his son, who was young and, according to William, a gibbering idiot.”
“Ms. Velour,” Dean said, leaning forward, “you seem to have a really good memory.”
“Old documents are my area of specialization.”
“That’s awesome. So, since your memory’s so good, who else handled the diary, other than Avery?”
She shrugged. “A couple of our restorers.”
“And you,” Dean said. “You just said you read it, so you’ve handled it, right?”
“Of course. And me.”
“Can we have pictures of all of them, too?” Dean grinned brightly at her. “And you.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“Definitely Avery,” Dean said, peering at the grainy photograph. “But do you really think this is the best they could get off the cameras?”
“Probably not.” Sam was leaning over his shoulder to see. “I think you pissed her off.”
“Yeah, because you being polite was going to make her give us the pictures.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “Don’t get mad at me. I’m not the one who obviously blurred all these shots before printing them out… You know, maybe it wasn’t your attitude -”
“Thank you.”
“Maybe Mathieson told her to blur them. She seems to listen to him.”
“We’re back here again? He’s not a bad guy, Sam. He wants this solved as much as we do. Maybe not for the same reasons, maybe not for reasons you like, but he does want it solved.”
“You’re not thinking straight about Mathieson, Dean! He’s as shady as they come -”
“He’s a businessman!”
“He’s a liar! Dean, please, just - let’s just go check out his office tonight.”
“No. I trust the guy, Sam, I’m not going to spy on him.”
“But -”
“You’re being unreasonable. You think I’m not thinking straight? What about you? You’ve not been thinking straight since this began! You need to get your head in the game, Sam, or more people are going to get hurt.”
A knock interrupted the argument.
Sam opened the door to see Avery standing outside.
“Awesome,” Dean snarled. “Have you come to bitch at me some more?”
“Don’t be a jerk,” Sam said over his shoulder. “Avery, come in.”
Avery glanced at the salt line across the threshold and then up at Sam. “I’m Frances.”
“Then whatever you have to say, you can say it from right there.” Dean came up next to Sam, crossing his arms and glaring. “And how do we know you’re even Frances? You should be gone.”
“I told you it wouldn’t work. I can leave Avery’s body, but… not outdoors. Someone might see.”
“Have you looked around? This is the most deserted motel in the state of Massachusetts. Nobody’s going to see you. Get out of her.”
With a glance around, Frances slid out of Avery’s body, leaving her clutching Sam’s arm for support.
“I told you burning my bones wouldn’t work,” Frances said.
Sam shrugged. “Either that or the necklace -”
“Enough about the damn necklace, Sam!” Dean snapped. “If Frances is telling the truth, nobody gives a damn about the necklace, and we have to solve the case.”
“Necklace?” Frances asked. “What necklace?”
“Some trinket Mathieson found in your grave that Sam’s being a judgmental bitch about.”
“What? Oh - no! No, I don’t know the one you mean, I don’t know what Joyce chose to have me buried in - if she even chose anything. That’s - I’m not tied to any necklace, though. I know I’m not.”
“I’m sure you’re not,” Dean affirmed. “My know-it-all brother just couldn’t resist the chance to say he told me so.”
“Dean, I’m just saying -”
“Dean,” Frances interrupted. “What are those?” She gestured at the photos still clutched in Dean’s hands.
“Yeah, about that. It turns out you,” he pointed at Avery, “may have seriously damaged a valuable old book. Was it you or was it Frances?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Avery said.
“Frances, then.” Dean plucked the first picture from the bunch and waved it at the ghost. “Hey. This look familiar? What the hell were you doing? And why didn’t you tell us you knew about this book?”
“Because it was useless,” Frances said. “I did go through it, but there was nothing about who might have killed Ralph.” She started to say something else and then stopped, her attention caught by the next picture in the stack. “What… What’s that?”
Dean glanced at it. “This is the woman who thinks I don’t look like I can afford a first edition of The Lord of the Rings.”
“That does sound like her,” Frances murmured, almost to herself.
“Like - who? You know the Velour woman?”
“Velour?” Frances glanced at Dean and shook her head. “Is that what she calls herself now? That’s Isabelle.”
“What?”
“Philip Ashby’s girlfriend? Isabelle Beaudreau?”
“Philip’s girlfriend. It’s not a great photo, but I can recognize her. I’m telling you, that’s Isabelle.”
Chapter VIII: Father Maynard
Chapter VI: Bernard Elliott
Chapter VII: Agnes Winn
“First it was ghosts. Now we’re believing junkies?”
“Why would he lie?”
“To get attention, maybe.” Dean gripped the back of his chair hard. “You know what the problem is, Sam? The problem is that you’re so desperate for Frances to be innocent that you’re willing to believe absolutely anything that’ll make that true. Well, I’ve got news for you. Perfect little Frances wasn’t as perfect as she pretended.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mathieson said the woman from Connors reviewed the tapes. There was only one person other than the auction house employees who handled the book. Your friend Avery.”
“What?”
“Yeah. And I’m thinking, what motive could Avery possibly have to cut out those pages? She’s Mathieson’s daughter, so we know she can’t be Isabelle Beaudreau. So it’s obvious, isn’t it? It must’ve been Frances possessing Avery.”
“What are the odds William Winn wrote about Frances years after she died? And if he thought she was guilty, why wait that long?”
“We’ll never find out, will we? Those pages are probably ash in an incinerator by now. As far as I’m concerned, it’s case closed, Sam. Frances killed her husband, she was coming up with all this crap to keep us from ganking her. We’ve burnt her bones. She’s gone. It’s over.”
“Steve said he thinks his father did it. He said Bernard Elliott got secretive in his old age - and apparently Ralph Ashby wasn’t just abusive to his wife. He got violent with his daughter and -”
“Sam -”
“If Bernard loved her, he might have killed Ralph Elliott to keep her safe.”
“Sam!” Dean grabbed Sam’s shoulders. “I don’t care. I don’t care who killed Ralph Elliott. I don’t care if he committed suicide. Frances is gone -”
“We don’t know if she was the one haunting the area. And even if it was, we owe it to her to find out the truth about her husband.”
“No, we don’t. Most of the people who were convicted of witchcraft in the sixteen hundreds were probably innocent, Sam. It’s not our problem to vindicate all of them. We’re done here. We need to go.”
“I’m not going until we’ve solved the case.”
“How exactly do you think we’re going to do that? Interview witnesses? News flash, Sam. They’re dead. Even if Isabelle was a witch, we have no idea if she’s still alive or where she is. We have nothing. We’re not wasting more time on this. Pack your stuff. We’re going.”
“I’m not going.”
“Then you’re staying here alone, because I’m going.”
Dean was halfway through his packing when his phone rang. He answered.
“Yeah?”
“Dean?” Mathieson’s anxious voice said. “It’s not over.”
“What? What happened?”
“A young couple saw a ghost. They couldn’t describe it in detail but they said it was definitely male, looked vaguely colonial. I wouldn’t rely on historical accuracy, but…”
“Crap. OK, we’ll meet you at your office.”
Dean ended the call, took a deep breath, and turned. Sam was sitting in a chair by the window, arms crossed, watching Dean coolly.
“So you’ll believe a guy we’ve known for less than a week, but you won’t believe me.”
“Don’t be a bitch about this Sam. We don’t have time to waste.”
“You’re right.” Sam got to his feet, checking that his gun was loaded. “Let’s go. We need to figure this out once and for all.”
Dean felt a pang of something as Sam brushed past him to go to the door. This wasn’t how they worked cases.
But it wasn’t like they’d never fought before, and they were both professional enough not to let it get in the way of the job. So Sam was being a prissy little bitch about Mathieson. He’d get over it. In the meantime, they could gank the ghost and put Andover behind them.
The drive to Mathieson’s office was silent. Sam was tense and brooding, and Dean decided it was best to let him be.
Mathieson was waiting outside when they got there.
“Here,” he said, thrusting a sheet of paper into Dean’s hand. “Vince Anderson and Gillian Tan, their address is on that. They’ll be able to give you details.”
“We came all the way here for this?” Sam asked. “What, you couldn’t just send a text?”
“What can I say, Sam? I’m an old-fashioned guy. I like things on paper.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do,” Sam muttered.
“Sam,” Dean hissed. “Don’t be stupid. Get in the car.”
“No, that’s all right, Dean,” Mathieson said easily. “Your brother isn’t the first person to have a problem with the way I do business. I’m not running for the Nobel Peace Prize, Sam, but everything I do is aboveboard.” He smiled. “Everything’s in writing. It’s not my responsibility if people don’t read the documents they sign.”
“Thank you,” Dean said, before Sam could react. “That’s helpful. We’ll get going now.”
“We’ll need the necklace,” Sam said, not moving when Dean tugged at his arm.
Mathieson frowned. “What?”
“The necklace you took from Frances Ashby’s grave. We’ll need to burn it.”
“But - this ghost is a male. It can’t be Frances. There’s absolutely no call to destroy a priceless historical artefact.”
“I suppose that’s why you’re keeping it?” Sam demanded. “To donate to the museum?”
“I’m a businessman, and I’m not committing any crimes. I own the land it was found on - or, well, I did. I donated it to the town for the rec centre, even though the trustees sometimes forget that. You see? I’m not all evil. I’m doing my bit to keep kids away from drugs.” Mathieson shrugged. “Some kids you just can’t help.”
“Sam.” Dean pulled harder, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. “Sam, I swear, if you don’t get your ass in gear…”
“Fine,” Sam said. “I’m coming.”
Vince and Gillian lived in one of the nicer prefabs, not far from the rec centre. They drove past it on their way. It was open, though the basketball court was surrounded by plywood screens and signs proclaiming that it was being renovated.
They were shaken, but willing to answer questions. Yes, they’d seen a ghost. It had appeared in the mirror behind Gillian when she’d been getting dressed. At first she had thought it had been an intruder - you heard so much about burglars - but she had thrown her hairbrush at it and it had gone right through.
Vince had come up, drawn by her scream. He’d seen the ghost and tried to rush it but had crashed into the bed.
Their descriptions matched up with Steve’s. Dean bit his lip. So maybe the junkie had been telling the truth about that. Didn’t mean he’d told the truth about anything else.
“So what now?” Dean asked, when they left.
“We need to speak to Amanda Velour.”
“The auction house woman?”
“I think the missing pages from the book might be important, Dean. And related to what’s happening now. Why else would anyone care? Even if William Winn accused someone of witchcraft - or murder, anything - there’s no way it could go to trial. Nobody would bother to get rid of those pages thinking they might be punished for a more than three-hundred-year-old murder. She might’ve missed something, or not known what to look for. We can ask to see the tapes.”
Dean sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s talk to her.”
When they got to Connor and Connor, they were told that Ms. Velour was out handling an assessment, but she’d be back any minute if they cared to wait. They did care to wait, and, as promised, in a very short time they were ushered into her office.
“Agents,” she said, getting to her feet to shake their hands. “Or should I call you Mr. and Mr. Winchester? You should have told me you were working with Mr. Mathieson.”
“Would you have been nicer to us?”
“I would have understood the importance of your request. I trust you didn’t have too much difficulty breaking in?” She smiled at Sam. “I was watching you on the CCTV feed. I think, with better equipment, you might actually have managed to get past our security system. If you’re interested in a short-term contract, I’m looking for someone to help us upgrade -”
“Hey,” Dean interrupted. “Can we see the video? Mathieson said you told him you saw his daughter handling the book.”
“I can give you screen caps.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry, but our security policy doesn’t allow me to share the video.”
“Ms. Velour,” Sam said, “did you - I’m sure you must have been curious - did you read the diary when it was brought in, before you had it scanned?”
“I did.”
“Then maybe you could help us. Do you know what was in the missing pages?”
“I do. After Mr. Mathieson called me about the missing pages, I went through it to see if I could figure out what had been taken. Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on your point of view - it was a passage sensational enough to stick in my memory. It was an accusation of murder and witchcraft - or, specifically, murder by witchcraft - against William Winn’s sister-in-law, Agnes.”
“Agnes?” Sam asked in astonishment. “Agnes Winn?”
“You sound like you know her.” Ms. Velour smiled. It made her look even snootier. “According to William, she was a regular Lady Macbeth. She had expensive tastes, and although Walter Winn made a good income, it wasn’t nearly enough to meet her demands. She had her eye on a neighbour’s farm, I think his name was Ralph Ashby. She poisoned him, so that Walter could embezzle his son, who was young and, according to William, a gibbering idiot.”
“Ms. Velour,” Dean said, leaning forward, “you seem to have a really good memory.”
“Old documents are my area of specialization.”
“That’s awesome. So, since your memory’s so good, who else handled the diary, other than Avery?”
She shrugged. “A couple of our restorers.”
“And you,” Dean said. “You just said you read it, so you’ve handled it, right?”
“Of course. And me.”
“Can we have pictures of all of them, too?” Dean grinned brightly at her. “And you.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“Definitely Avery,” Dean said, peering at the grainy photograph. “But do you really think this is the best they could get off the cameras?”
“Probably not.” Sam was leaning over his shoulder to see. “I think you pissed her off.”
“Yeah, because you being polite was going to make her give us the pictures.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “Don’t get mad at me. I’m not the one who obviously blurred all these shots before printing them out… You know, maybe it wasn’t your attitude -”
“Thank you.”
“Maybe Mathieson told her to blur them. She seems to listen to him.”
“We’re back here again? He’s not a bad guy, Sam. He wants this solved as much as we do. Maybe not for the same reasons, maybe not for reasons you like, but he does want it solved.”
“You’re not thinking straight about Mathieson, Dean! He’s as shady as they come -”
“He’s a businessman!”
“He’s a liar! Dean, please, just - let’s just go check out his office tonight.”
“No. I trust the guy, Sam, I’m not going to spy on him.”
“But -”
“You’re being unreasonable. You think I’m not thinking straight? What about you? You’ve not been thinking straight since this began! You need to get your head in the game, Sam, or more people are going to get hurt.”
A knock interrupted the argument.
Sam opened the door to see Avery standing outside.
“Awesome,” Dean snarled. “Have you come to bitch at me some more?”
“Don’t be a jerk,” Sam said over his shoulder. “Avery, come in.”
Avery glanced at the salt line across the threshold and then up at Sam. “I’m Frances.”
“Then whatever you have to say, you can say it from right there.” Dean came up next to Sam, crossing his arms and glaring. “And how do we know you’re even Frances? You should be gone.”
“I told you it wouldn’t work. I can leave Avery’s body, but… not outdoors. Someone might see.”
“Have you looked around? This is the most deserted motel in the state of Massachusetts. Nobody’s going to see you. Get out of her.”
With a glance around, Frances slid out of Avery’s body, leaving her clutching Sam’s arm for support.
“I told you burning my bones wouldn’t work,” Frances said.
Sam shrugged. “Either that or the necklace -”
“Enough about the damn necklace, Sam!” Dean snapped. “If Frances is telling the truth, nobody gives a damn about the necklace, and we have to solve the case.”
“Necklace?” Frances asked. “What necklace?”
“Some trinket Mathieson found in your grave that Sam’s being a judgmental bitch about.”
“What? Oh - no! No, I don’t know the one you mean, I don’t know what Joyce chose to have me buried in - if she even chose anything. That’s - I’m not tied to any necklace, though. I know I’m not.”
“I’m sure you’re not,” Dean affirmed. “My know-it-all brother just couldn’t resist the chance to say he told me so.”
“Dean, I’m just saying -”
“Dean,” Frances interrupted. “What are those?” She gestured at the photos still clutched in Dean’s hands.
“Yeah, about that. It turns out you,” he pointed at Avery, “may have seriously damaged a valuable old book. Was it you or was it Frances?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Avery said.
“Frances, then.” Dean plucked the first picture from the bunch and waved it at the ghost. “Hey. This look familiar? What the hell were you doing? And why didn’t you tell us you knew about this book?”
“Because it was useless,” Frances said. “I did go through it, but there was nothing about who might have killed Ralph.” She started to say something else and then stopped, her attention caught by the next picture in the stack. “What… What’s that?”
Dean glanced at it. “This is the woman who thinks I don’t look like I can afford a first edition of The Lord of the Rings.”
“That does sound like her,” Frances murmured, almost to herself.
“Like - who? You know the Velour woman?”
“Velour?” Frances glanced at Dean and shook her head. “Is that what she calls herself now? That’s Isabelle.”
“What?”
“Philip Ashby’s girlfriend? Isabelle Beaudreau?”
“Philip’s girlfriend. It’s not a great photo, but I can recognize her. I’m telling you, that’s Isabelle.”
Chapter VIII: Father Maynard