Before We Were Strangers

by Brenda Novak

  “I tried to make it as easy on her as I could,” he said as he backed out of the parking space. “She just won’t let go.”

  “I know. She expects us to do what she needs in spite of what we may want or feel.”

  “I’m not going to get back with her, regardless, so what does it matter if I’m seeing you or someone else?”

  “That’s the logical way to look at it, but emotion isn’t logical.”

  “She needs to let go. I’ve had it.”

  “I understand why you’re getting impatient. I hope she’ll understand that it’s not fair for her to ask me to stay away from you, not when you and I were together first. After all, I’ve overlooked the way she flirted with you way back then, pretended I didn’t see it. I did that to preserve the relationship, but now she’s acting as though she wasn’t the one who crossed the friendship line for the sake of a guy.”

  “Nothing you say will change her mind. She just wants what she wants, and I can’t deliver it.”

  “Still, I need to try to explain, try to get her to understand, for the sake of the friendship.”

  “Good luck. I hope she treats you okay—and doesn’t do anything to make things harder for me where Trevor’s concerned.”

  “She would never do that,” Sloane said and sent the text. “She loves Trevor.”

  He shot her a glance as he turned out of the school. “Question is...does she love him more than she’s about to hate me?”

  * * *

  There was a man Sloane didn’t recognize sitting in a nondescript sedan at the motel when she pulled in. He was off in the far corner of the lot and didn’t seem to have a room. He kept looking down as though he was writing or reading while waiting for someone, and she quickly figured out who he was looking for. As soon as he saw her park in front of her unit, he got out and hurried toward her.

  “Sloane McBride?”

  She felt her eyebrows shoot up. “Yes?”

  He showed her a badge. “I’m Detective Ramos from the Keller Police Department over in Fort Worth. I was hoping to have a word with you.”

  She should’ve guessed he was a detective. He had the average barber-type buzz, a small paunch that suggested he ate too many greasy burgers while working long hours, was wearing a dated tie with a sports coat that didn’t quite match—and Micah had mentioned that there was someone on the Keller force who wanted to speak with her. She’d figured Ramos would call, hadn’t expected him to drive all the way to Millcreek, not without speaking to her first.

  “Sure, I...” She glanced uncertainly at her door. It felt weird to meet with a stranger, especially a male stranger, in a motel room, but she figured she should be safe with a cop. She didn’t want to discuss her father out in the parking lot, where they could easily be overheard by a maid, the manager or another patron. “Let’s go inside.”

  He stood at a respectful distance while she dug around in her purse for her room key and let him in.

  Fortunately, the maid had tidied the bed, since she hadn’t bothered. “This is about my father and what happened to his family, right? Micah Evans, an officer on our own force here in town, told me you wanted to talk to me.”

  “Yes. I spoke with Officer Evans. He felt you wouldn’t be opposed to giving me a few minutes of your time.”

  She put her room key back in her purse. “I assumed you might call, but...”

  “Sorry if I’ve surprised you by just showing up. I find face-to-face interviews far more effective.”

  He didn’t seem sorry at all. She thought he’d appeared out of the blue on purpose, so she couldn’t compose her thoughts beforehand. “This could be a wasted trip. I know nothing about...about what happened before I was born.”

  “Your father never talked about the loss of his parents and brother?”

  “I knew they were gone, but he never went over the specifics.”

  “And you didn’t ask?”

  “He must’ve mentioned the most basic details at some point, because I knew my grandparents and uncle had been murdered when they came home to find it being burgled. But I can’t remember a specific conversation where he talked about where he was that night, how he found out, what the next few days were like or how he felt about the man who killed them. I would like to have heard the story from his perspective but have always hesitated to bring it up for fear it would be too painful for him.”

  “Did he grieve for his lost family, then? Act as though he missed them?”

  “If he did, he did so silently. Like I said, he never talked about them. It’s been a long time since that terrible crime, and the man who shot them is dead. Do you really think there should still be an investigation? Or that you’ll be able to find anything new even if my father had a hand in it?”

  “Maybe, with your help.”

  She motioned to the chair near the small desk in the corner. “Then have a seat. I’ll sit here on the bed.”

  He did as she suggested. “I’ll apologize to you right off the bat, Ms. McBride,” he said.

  This approach took her by surprise. “Because...”

  “The questions I have to ask might not be easy to answer. No one wants to believe their father could be capable of murder, especially this kind of murder.”

  She drew a shaky breath. It was one thing for her to doubt her father; it was quite another to have an outsider—a police officer, no less—suggest Ed might be guilty of such heinous crimes. “I’ll answer as honestly as I can. I’m not trying to hide anything. I want the truth, probably worse than you do. It’s terrible not knowing if I can trust my own father.”

  “Then you have your doubts.”

  Basic loyalty caused her to hesitate, but she reminded herself why she was in town and answered truthfully. “I do.”

  “Is there a particular reason?”

  “The disappearance of my mother. No one knows what happened to her, and I believe he could be responsible.”

  “I find that alarming myself.” He took out a pad and pen. “Your mother went missing twenty-three years ago, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you walk me through what you remember about that night?”

  Sloane told him everything—about the sounds she heard, the fact that someone had come to look in on her but she’d been too afraid to open her eyes, the way the house had gone silent, giving her the impression she’d been left alone, and her father’s haggard appearance the following morning, which suggested he’d been up all night. But she didn’t mention the information Vickie had provided about the boat, or Hadley’s statement that Sloane should keep pressing. Sloane knew Ramos was only interested in the case as it pertained to his own, that he wasn’t going to investigate it for her—it wasn’t in his jurisdiction—so she saw no reason to put Vickie or Hadley on his radar.

  “It’s my understanding the police here haven’t done a lot to look into what happened,” he said.

  “That’s true.”

  He frowned as he read over the notes he’d taken while she talked. “I’d offer to run your mother’s name through some databases, see if I get a hit, but I’ve already done that, and I came up empty-handed.”

  “You’re not the only one. When I was in New York, as soon as I’d made enough money, I hired a private investigator to look for her. I was twenty-four. He, too, tried every database available.”

  “Which makes me believe she’s no longer alive.”

  She frowned. “It makes me believe that, too. So does the fact that she never would’ve left me and my brother.”

  “Could you see your father...harming her?”

  She curved her nails into her palms. “I hate to say yes to that question, but she hasn’t come back, so I’m afraid whatever he did went well beyond ‘harming.’”

  “What about his parents and brother? Could you see him being involved in their deaths?”<
br />
  “No. I can’t imagine he could orchestrate the deaths of his whole family, especially at such a young age. Who would do that?”

  “A young man who didn’t want to disappoint his folks by telling them he was flunking out of college despite all the financial support he’d received. A young man who wanted to be sure he inherited their money. Patricide isn’t a new thing,” he said. “The Menendez brothers are a notable example. And there have been others.”

  She lifted her hands. “Then I guess I can believe it. I believe he might’ve murdered my mother, right? But who knows what the truth is? People are complex. They’re not all good or all bad. My father isn’t an obvious monster.”

  “Believe me, murderers rarely are, or they’d be a heck of a lot easier to catch.” He smiled in an effort to put her at ease, but she couldn’t relax. She was too torn. Was she doing the right thing opening up to him, or was she getting her father into a lot of trouble for nothing?

  No matter what she did, she kept coming back to the same question: Was she the hero or the villain of the story currently unfolding in Millcreek?

  “What we need is proof, real evidence, not my opinion,” she said. “Other than the fact that my father inherited his parents’ assets, which gave him a motive, and he probably didn’t want them to know he wasn’t graduating, what makes you suspect he was behind the whole thing? Micah—Officer Evans—said you don’t have any evidence that places him at the scene of the crime, and you can’t find a connection to the guy who actually pulled the trigger.”

  “Part of that’s true. Your father has an airtight alibi, wasn’t in the area that night. But I found a connection to the shooter. Just yesterday,” he added with a touch of self-satisfaction.

  Her face began to tingle as a surge of adrenaline caused her to sit taller. “What’s the connection?”

  “I have a picture that proves they were both at the Whiskey River Bar & Tavern a couple of months before the robbery and shooting took place.”

  “A picture?” After all the intervening years, finding something like that seemed so random it was almost unbelievable.

  “Yes. I spoke to Sammy Smoot’s family the day before yesterday, asked them about his activities, if he’d ever gone to Texas A&M and so forth. They told me he didn’t have the money to attend school but he was living and working in the area as a bartender. Larry Polanski—the detective who had this case before me—had been told the same thing, so it wasn’t new information, but I was making the rounds, seeing if anyone changed their story. Larry believed your father very likely met Sammy at the bar or at a party. He was certain they knew each other and yet they both denied it. In your father’s statement, he said flat out that he’d never been to Whiskey River, and Larry couldn’t prove otherwise, couldn’t find anyone who remembered seeing him there. This was before cell phones, of course, so it was much harder to track someone’s movements.”

  “So how’d you do it?”

  “I went to the bar.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s still open after thirty-five years!”

  “Believe it or not. Same guy owns it. His son runs it these days, but the son wouldn’t know anything. He’s too young. Anyway, I drove the three hours to College Station to talk to the owner—”

  “And he had a picture of my dad at the bar?”

  “Not exactly. He didn’t recall ever seeing your father’s face and didn’t know he had the picture. After we sat in a corner booth and talked, I had to walk down a long hall to get to the bathroom where I saw dozens and dozens of photographs taken through the years.”

  Sloane was hanging on every word, her heart racing. “What kind of photographs?”

  “I’m getting there. For a while after the bar opened, when it was still new and exciting and not the ho-hum average bar it is now, whenever a new band came to play, the owner would snap a picture of them at closing and hang it in the hall. He thought it would be fun to have if any of them ever became famous. He liked helping musicians get a start, so that hall filled up quickly, mostly with pictures coming from the early years.”

  “Don’t tell me my father was in one of those pictures! He’s never been involved with a band!”

  “He didn’t have to be. Whoever was left in the bar when the band took this pic often jumped in to do rabbit ears, stick out their tongues, act crazy. It often turned into a drunk, boisterous end-of-night kind of thing. After the owner got each picture developed, he’d put the name of the band and the date at the bottom—”

  “And hang it up,” she finished.

  “Yes. I saw two dozen pictures from that year and the year before, and I studied them all. Larry, the detective before me, might’ve seen them, too, but he must not have thought to look any closer. What were the chances, you know? I had to get a magnifying glass to be able to see some of the faces clearly. There were thirty, forty people in some shots. But I’m glad I made the effort, because there it was—a picture of your father and Sammy Smoot standing with a bunch of other patrons and a band named Nightshifter.”

  Goose bumps broke out on Sloane’s arms. “Can I see that picture?”

  “Sort of. I took a snapshot with my smartphone so I could send it to Larry. It’ll be clearer once I scan the original, which I’ll do when I get back to Keller, but this should work for now.” He found what he wanted on his phone and got up to cross the short distance between them.

  Sloane held her breath as he enlarged the photograph and pointed to a small, blurry face. “That’s your father right there, isn’t it?”

  She could hardly breathe. “It looks like him. Where’s Sammy Smoot?”

  He only had to move his finger an inch. “Right there.”

  * * *

  “Micah, I’m talking to you.”

  Micah blinked and looked up from the desk he’d been using to finish some paperwork before heading out on patrol. Colt Green, the officer who’d told him about the Keller Department’s interest in Mayor McBride, was standing over him, but he’d been so deep in thought, so consumed with reliving what’d happened with Sloane only a few hours earlier—both enjoying the memory and wondering if he’d live to regret taking things so far—that he hadn’t heard a word. “What’s up, man?”

  Cole glanced at the chief’s office—the door was closed—and lowered his voice. “Did you get hold of that detective from the Fort Worth area? John Something?”

  “Ramos? I did. Thanks for letting me know about him.”

  “No problem. Just don’t tell anyone I’m the one who mentioned him to you, okay?”

  “I won’t say anything.”

  “I appreciate that.” He seemed relieved as he started off, so relieved it made Micah slightly uncomfortable.

  “Colt!” he said, coming to his feet.

  Colt turned around and, when Micah waved him back, somewhat reluctantly retraced his steps. “Yeah?”

  “Would it be a big deal if I did mention it?”

  “It could be.”

  Micah gave him a searching look. “Why?”

  Colt gripped his own shoulder as if trying to ease some tension. “The mayor’s pissed off about it. I heard him shouting earlier, when Chief Adler was talking to him on speakerphone. Something about Keller PD and that son-of-a-bitch detective who’s trying to cause trouble for him. Adler said there was nothing he could do about that, and McBride told him he’d better make sure he didn’t run into similar bullshit from this department—”

  “But he doesn’t run this department,” Micah broke in.

  Colt lowered his voice even further. “Wanna bet?”

  Micah felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “He’d better not go after my job...”

  Colt sent another worried glance at the chief’s door before leaning in. “That’s the thing, bro. I heard your name. I’m pretty sure the mayor’s trying to get you kicked off the force.”

 
Micah clenched his jaw. “For what? He has to have a reason!”

  Colt motioned for Micah to keep his voice down. “Just know they’re looking for one and be careful, okay?” he whispered. “Stay away from Sloane. Don’t get involved with her.”

  “Okay,” he said, but that was just lip service, something to calm Colt’s fears. Micah couldn’t stay away. He was still in love with her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When he saw Sloane’s name come up on his caller ID, Micah was just heading out on patrol. He was still angry over what Colt had told him but he wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. He was tempted to confront Ed, ask him who the hell he thought he was, mayor or not. But he was beginning to view Ed a bit differently, could see what it might be like to get on his bad side and didn’t want to provoke him for fear any reaction would include some repercussion to Sloane.

  And to think she’d lived with that bully, had been raised by him.

  It was becoming easier and easier to understand why she left—and to admire her courage for returning.

  “Hey,” he said when he answered. “Have you talked to Paige?”

  “Not yet. I sent her that text, but she hasn’t responded, and I haven’t had a chance to follow up. Detective Ramos is in town. He caught me just as I reached the motel and asked to talk, so I haven’t even showered.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “It was disturbing. All I’ve ever wanted is to know what happened to my mother. I never intended to destroy my father in the process.”

  “If he’s committed murder, he has only himself to blame.”

  “I know. It’s just that familial loyalty can be such a strange thing. I’m afraid I’ll feel responsible for any negative ramifications he might face, even though I shouldn’t. And thinking about him going to prison, the person who raised me and has always acted as if he’d be in charge until the end of time, makes me feel as though the ground is giving way beneath my feet.”

  “Parent-child relationships are complicated, Sloane. Especially when they involve shit like this.”