It took two tries before she was able to unlock the door.
Inside, the scent of the Christmas tree assaulted her. Without stopping to remove her jacket, she strode forward, drawn by the star that no one else knew about, and parted the boughs. Behind yards of antique lace and sparkling crystal icicles hung an ornament Derek had made in kindergarten. It was hideous. Crafted of plaster and paints, the star’s points were unbalanced and he’d chosen a confusing array of colors to surround a sticker of a Tyrannosaurus rex, but his eyes had shone when he’d presented it to her. She’d displayed it for a few years and then quietly set it aside, thinking it too juvenile to mingle with Waterford.
She withdrew her hand, and the boughs fell back into place. Last year they’d ignored Christmas. This year she’d overcome her family’s protestations and insisted on the tree. Some normalcy.
It mocked her with every pine-scented breath she drew.
Her keys clattered into the silver dish on the sideboard, and she peeled off her jacket.
Some mornings, while sipping coffee, she imagined Olivia’s chilling scream. Even as a memory, the anguish in that cry was almost unbearable. She hadn’t needed to read the clock. She had known it was 7:52.
She’d never much thought about the dynamics involved in hanging oneself before that day. Derek didn’t dangle. The fronts of his bare feet rested on the floorboards of the closet. He could have stood if he’d wanted. Even as life slipped away from him, he chose to die rather than rejoin his family.
And in that moment of realization, she’d hated her son.
It was natural to suffer a setback on anniversaries, especially ones best forgotten. Following Derek’s death, visiting the gardens had become her daily ritual. Anything to avoid the suffocation of the house. It didn’t matter how many good memories she had of her son. Only one played out in her mind. Since the anniversary of her son’s death on Sunday, she’d reverted to old habits, haunting the gardens, trying to find peace under the pine.
Tye’s name didn’t ring a bell with your husband.
There had to be a reason to justify this untruth. Her husband was an honorable man. She’d been at his side when he was sworn into office. His voice had rung true when he vowed to uphold the public trust. In all their years of marriage, she’d never once doubted his word. They shared everything.
No. Pain shortened her breath. They’d once shared everything. Their intimacy had changed one year and three days ago. Now they no longer shared a bedroom, let alone a bed.
On the threshold of his home office, she pretended this hadn’t been her destination all along. That the detective’s words hadn’t propelled her to this spot from the moment she’d heard them.
Her husband had been retreating to his sanctuary more frequently since Derek’s death. Only one other time had she entered his study uninvited. That day, four months after Derek’s death, she’d torn through the house, searching every room, every drawer, every last crevice and closet, desperate for answers. Answers she never expected to find.
Certainly not in her husband’s file cabinet.
Her heartbeat pulsed in her ears. He lied, he lied, he lied.
Zachary kept both keys to the cabinet in his desk drawer on the same cheap ring they’d hung from when she bought the furniture for him. Today, they clattered against each other as her hand shook.
What else had he lied about?
She unlocked the drawer.
When she’d chanced upon the phone bill that first horrific morning, she hadn’t initially realized the magnitude of what she’d found. Her son’s cell number jumped out, highlighted in bright yellow. Her husband’s handwritten notes marked the margins. Then there were the names. Relationships.
Today the drawer squeaked open, overloud in the empty house.
The files were still there. The same place where she’d carefully replaced them after reading them the first time.
Zachary was careful with his work. He rarely brought it home. He always tried to protect Olivia and her from the rigors and depravity of his job. The malevolence in the world. He would slay dragons for them. Even still. She clutched the proof in her hands.
In a move reminiscent of that day, she sat on the carpet and spread the files. Surrounded by paper, she reread the timeline her husband had created of Derek’s death. He’d added a police report sometime in the ensuing months, but everything else was still there. Addresses, licenses, criminal histories—all the secrets law enforcement databases kept. Complete dossiers that included credit reports, social media accounts, school transcripts, schedules, and email addresses.
Tye’s name didn’t ring a bell with your husband.
But there they were. Three files. One each for Tye Horton, Ronny Buck, and Quinn Kirkwood.
17
The knock on Quinn’s door broke through the sanctuary provided by her headphones. She stripped them from her head and paused the game. Listening.
DEFCON level 3. Doors locked. Cell phone within reach.
Few people knew where she lived. Fewer cared. And at 10:37 at night, not a single person should be at her front door. She padded into the kitchen and picked up the knife she kept on the edge of the counter. Maybe if she weren’t from the People’s Republic of California, she’d own a fucking gun.
Another knock. “Quinn. Open up, it’s me.”
Who the hell is me? She edged toward the door.
“Come on, Quinn. Hurry up. It’s freezing out here.”
The whiny voice sounded familiar. Stu/Stan? No. Standing on her tiptoes, she peered through the peephole. DEFCON 2.
Her hand hovered over the chain lock before she finally slid the little nub to the left, unlocked the remaining locks, and slid the chair jammed under the knob out of the way. She stashed the knife under a textbook, drew a breath, and opened the door.
Professor Lucas posed like a forties pinup girl in the doorway: one arm stretched high on the threshold, half smile, hooded eyes.
Quinn snorted.
He lowered his arm. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to let me in.”
“Technically, you’re still outside.”
“I thought you might like this.” He extended a bottle of champagne with his other hand.
It had a duck on the label. Quality stuff. “I don’t drink.”
“Recovery, eh?”
He smelled as if he’d bathed at a brewery and forgotten to towel off.
“Something you may want to try,” she said.
“Well, I’m thirsty.” He leered at her and nearly toppled over. “What do you say? Let me in?”
“Why are you here?”
He sighed. “All right. I’ll play.” He cleared his throat and adopted an overly stern expression. “It’s high time we discussed your grade, Ms. Kirkwood.”
Shit. A cold lump settled into her stomach. Her grade. Not all of her community college credits from California had transferred. Unlike Tye and Ronny, she still had another semester before graduating. She needed this grade. Wished she’d never made that goddamn promise.
Her dragon slippers clawed the floor. She invited him inside.
“You show great potential, Ms. Kirkwood. But I’m concerned I haven’t given you every opportunity to demonstrate your enthusiasm for the program.”
“Drop the formality,” she said.
Without asking, he waltzed into her tiny galley kitchen and attacked the foil at the top of the champagne bottle. “Where are your glasses?”
“Mugs are right above you.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“It’s that or nothing.”
The cabinet creaked, and he selected the front mug. Great. Her favorite. She’d throw it in the trash tomorrow.
He sloshed the bubbly into the oversized Firefly mug and slurped it when it threatened to spill over. He waited a moment, then topped it off.
Leaning his back against the counter, he drank, staring at her over the lip of the cup. Even wearing a sweat shirt, she felt exposed. Itchy.
Her inner optimist wanted to believe her professor was truly concerned about her grade and wanted to discuss her options now that there was no hope of finding Tye’s laptop. Her inner realist dispelled that notion with the realization that she was well and truly screwed. “Your visit was unexpected.”
His eyebrows furrowed, like when someone asked him a question in class that he had no idea how to answer. “What would you do for an A, Ms. Kirkwood?”
Slice you in little bits and feed you to the squirrels. “What did you have in mind?”
“You’re the creative one.” He raised the arm holding the mug, and champagne splashed on his hand. “Wow me.”
A buzzing started in her head, and she silenced it with images of her mother. The hospital room. The parade of police officers. Shooting up in the corner after they’d gone. Her sister’s look of disgust.
I promised.
She slapped on a smile. “I can tell you about the project we were working on. It’s worthy of an A.”
He stepped closer, and she fought the instinct to knee him in the balls. “Forget the computer. I’m talking about you. About us.”
There was no us. No her. Only him. She could play along or not.
He traced his finger down the side of her face. “Surely this isn’t the best you can do?”
She’d heard the question before, even though it had been phrased in slightly different terms—and asked without the disturbing cheek grope. What are you going to do with your life? How are you going to make a living? What are you going to do when I’m gone? Quinn’s answer had always been the same mumbled I’ll survive. The last time they’d spoken, her mother had reached up from the hospital bed and grabbed Quinn’s hand. “Like me?” The woman had eyes that knew too much. Saw everything. Even her daughter. “Quit the smack. Go to school,” she’d said. “You owe me. Promise me.”
Quinn had promised. Anything to shut the woman up.
She’d watched the coverage of her mother’s funeral on a jumpy television in a hotel that even cockroaches avoided. She had to hand it to San Francisco PD, though—they took care of their own. Fuckers knew how to throw a funeral.
The cops never caught the drug dealer who’d shot her mom. Quinn had refused to rat him out. Seemed noble at the time. By the time she’d gotten clean, the bastard was already dead.
The only thing that remained was the promise she’d made her mom.
Quinn stripped off her sweat shirt. “Prepare to be wowed.”
* * *
She’d have to go to the Laundromat. Sheets. Pillows. She’d burn her panties.
He rolled off her, gasping like he’d just summited one of the state’s fourteeners the diehard hikers always raved about.
Quinn pulled the sheet over her nakedness. “Grades are due next week. I expect an A.”
Sweat glistened on his chest. “That was a good solid B. Make me hard again. Then we’ll talk.”
Light from the living room sliced across the bed. She clenched and unclenched the fist at her side, digging her nails into her palms. The top of the mattress was only inches from the floor. She’d made sure nothing could hide under the bed, but she hadn’t prepared for monsters that lurked between sheets.
She dropped her voice to a purr. “I so want an A.” She stood and stretched her arms above her head. Provocative.
“That’s more like it.” He propped himself up on his elbow, gawking at her like he was mustering the nerve to ask her to go steady. “You got a beer? I’ve worked up quite the thirst.”
He’d get nothing else from her. She’d already given him more than she’d wanted, but it was worth it. A promise kept. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about your thirst.” Her voice still purred. “You’re going to give me an A.”
“And if I don’t?”
The bands squeezing her lungs broke. “You worthless piece of shit. You come to my house drunk and dangle my grade in front of me, acting like it’s something I haven’t already earned. You’ve seen the game. You’ve signed off on it every step of the way.”
He sat up and dragged the sheet over his flaccid penis. “What are you suggesting, Quinn?”
“That’s Ms. Kirkwood to you, asswipe.” The room was freezing, but she refused to cover herself. Refused to let him think he’d made her ashamed of herself.
“I’ve seen the tattoo on your inner thigh. I think I’ll continue calling you Quinn.”
Blood rushed to her face. “Let me make myself perfectly clear. You’ll submit my grade. In exchange, I won’t go to the police or the school administration and tell them what transpired tonight.”
“And what, pray tell, do you plan to share with them?”
A warning siren alerted in her mind. Loud and chilling. “Pressuring a student for sex is still rape.”
Professor Lucas laughed, the hearty laugh of someone who knew something she didn’t. It froze her in place.
“Go ahead, sweetheart. Call the cops. I’m sure they’ll love reading all the dirty details of what you had planned for me. You’ve got quite the potty mouth. Lucky for you, I’m into that stuff.”
DEFCON 1. Maximum readiness. Already too little, too late.
“What are you talking about?” But she knew. She’d been played.
“You can’t cry rape when you issued the invitation.” He folded his arms behind his head and relaxed. “And I’ve got the email to prove it.”
18
Jo heard the vacuum as she climbed the stairs to the detective bureau. Cody had his stocky back to her as she entered. He was hard of hearing, and she flicked the lights a couple of times so she wouldn’t startle him. Without breaking stride, he raised his free arm in greeting.
She set two breakfast burritos on the desk next to the hairbands Cody had neatly piled on the corner. She knew from experience he wouldn’t stop vacuuming until the job was done.
The detective bureau had a tiny offshoot break room. She plugged in the ancient coffeepot and willed it to heat up while she scrubbed the dried coffee rings from the bottom of the carafe. She placed her mug on the burner, too impatient to wait for the pot to fill. Once the coffee reached an acceptable level, she prepared for the exchange. Pot in one hand, mug in the other, she waited for a sputter and swapped spots. Only a slight sizzle of spilled coffee. It was going to be a great day.
Caffeine in hand, she returned to her desk.
Cody finished and unplugged the cord. “G-g-good morning, Mrs. Wyatt.” He enunciated carefully. “You’re here early.”
She waggled one of the burritos. “We haven’t had breakfast in a while.”
“G-g-green chili?”
“Of course. And I got extra sour cream too.”
His almond-shaped eyes closed in delight behind his thick glasses. “Thank you.”
Cody was only a little younger than Jo and had been working at the police department nearly as long. He’d never once called her by her first name, and rather than addressing people by rank, he always used either Mr. or Mrs.
“Sit with me?” she asked.
“I can’t. I have to finish before everyone gets here.” He lifted the bag of trash from Jo’s wastebasket and fitted it with a new liner. “Why are you here so early?”
“I have to learn more about computers.”
“I can help. Do you know why the computer was cold?”
Jo shook her head.
“C-cuz it left its Windows open!”
Jo groaned. “Oh, that was bad.”
“I know. But now you know something about computers.” He dropped the burrito into one of the cavernous pockets of his cargo pants and collected the other trash bags. “Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. Wyatt.”
“Thanks for rescuing my hair ties. I never seem to find them all.”
“Maybe you need glasses.”
“Maybe I do.” She definitely needed something to see what was going on.
The computer took its sweet time booti
ng up, and she stared out the window and sipped her coffee. One of the perks of being on the upper floor of the police building was the view. The elevation change between Main Street and Second Avenue wasn’t much, but add in the extra story of the PD and she had an unobstructed view of Peregrines Peak from her desk. This early, she hoped to watch its face materialize as the sun rose, but even as the sky lightened, the cloud cover obscured the crag.
She turned to her email. The Denver agent had sent her a series of messages containing several links and numerous PDFs. The sheer number of attachments meant one thing: she needed more coffee.
Armed with a fresh cup, she scanned the document names: “Best Practices for Seizing Electronic Evidence,” “Online Acronyms Used by Sexual Predators,” “Stand-Alone Versus Networked Computers.” There were files for specific devices: PDAs, cell phones, digital cameras, and storage media. When to seize. Authority to seize. What to do with it after you seized it all—which at a glance looked to be pretty simple: Don’t touch anything. Get an expert.
She clicked on a document titled “Crimes and Digital Evidence” and navigated to a section describing potential evidence that could be recovered from various types of electronic devices. She found a catchall section for email threats, harassment, and stalking investigations.
Bingo. She unwrapped her burrito and began reading.
* * *
By the time Squint arrived, the only remnant of Jo’s breakfast burrito was a dab of salsa on the wrapper.
He hung his hat on the coatrack and shrugged out of his jacket. “You’re here early.”
“TCOB,” she said, without looking up.
“Excuse me?”
“Taking care of business.”
He leaned over her shoulder and looked at the new stacks of paperwork covering her desk. “What is all this?”
“FMTYEWTK.”
“I haven’t had coffee yet.”
“Far more than you ever wanted to know.” She riffled through the closest pile and pulled out a paper-clipped document and shook it. “And there’s a lot more where that came from. I mean, I knew LOL and some of the basics, but you wouldn’t believe the stuff that gets abbreviated. And more than half of it isn’t safe for work—which, by the way, is NSFW.”
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