Chapter 5: Hidden in Plain Sight

5

Mr. Jensen’s threat wasn’t empty. I soon felt the pressure.

The team leader asked me every day when the case would close, and the police chief personally urged me to hand it over to the DA’s office as soon as possible.

But the more pressure Mr. Jensen put on me, the less willing I was to let go. I was convinced Frank Watson must have suffered some injustice, which led him to kill Natalie out of resentment.

I copied the surveillance footage of my conversation with Natalie’s parents and replayed her gesture again and again.

She seemed to be gripping something with both hands and suddenly swinging it forward, as if hitting something.

I consulted a few tennis enthusiasts on an online forum, but after watching the video, they all said it didn’t look like fishing.

“Tennis rackets are swung with both hands for a backhand. Her motion is much larger—more like hitting something.”

The word “hit” sparked a thought. I immediately rushed to the nearby tennis court to observe the players’ swings.

I found that—Mrs. Jensen’s gesture was a textbook backhand stroke. I watched the video again—her hands gripped like she was about to smack a serve down the line.

Could it be that the grudge between Frank Watson and the Jensen couple was related to tennis?

But there was nothing tennis-related among Frank Watson’s belongings, and to be honest, he was burly and didn’t look like a tennis player at all.

I had no choice but to visit the Jensen home in search of clues.

I bought some flowers at the grocery store and, under the pretense of offering condolences, was let in by Mrs. Jensen.

Unlike Frank Watson, the Jensen couple were typical tennis enthusiasts. Their living room was all Pottery Barn and framed tennis magazine covers. The fridge was covered in college magnets and honor roll stickers. Their rackets hung prominently in the living room, and trophies and photos filled the entryway by the door.

I asked if I could see Natalie’s room, but Mrs. Jensen told me—Natalie didn’t have her own room.

“She usually studied in the office, and at night she slept with me. My husband sleeps in another bedroom.”

I was shocked. Didn’t this mean Natalie had absolutely no privacy?

I paused by the staircase, trying to picture what that would feel like for a sixteen-year-old girl. My own daughter, just a year younger, begged for a lock on her bedroom door, desperate for a sliver of space to herself. I remembered how Mrs. Jensen ducked her head, like she could sense my judgment, but plowed on anyway.

Mrs. Jensen seemed evasive. “That child always sneaks novels to read at night. Her nearsightedness is terrible now. We have no choice.”

I grew more certain that Natalie’s parents were indeed strange. Their desire to control their daughter bordered on pathological.

Living in such a family, no wonder the girl wanted to run away.

But the question remained: how did she just happen to run into Frank Watson on her way out? Could it really be such a coincidence?

Suddenly, a possibility occurred to me—

Could Natalie have gone to find Frank Watson on purpose?

A prickling sense of dread crawled up my spine. If she did, it meant this case was tangled deeper than any of us realized.