by L. C. Warman
“Look,” Sam said, frustrated, into the silence. “I don’t want to be calling in this favor. But I’ve been a good friend to you. I could talk to the police, you know. Say things about your girl.”
“You’re threatening me.”
“I’m not, man. Just saying that you should help me out. As a friend.” He paused. “You do know, don’t you? She’s in on it. All but admitted it to me.”
Aaron hung up the phone.
When he walked back to his kitchen, Eliza looked up from her magazine. “Who was that?” she asked. “Aaron?”
Aaron searched her face, trying to read any guilt in it, trying to understand. “Is there anything you’re not telling me?” he asked.
Eliza folded her magazine and straightened. “Is there anything you’re not telling me?”
Yes, Aaron thought. But just to protect you.
What in the world had they gotten themselves into?
Chapter 30
“He wanted money, that cockroach,” Lyle Tiller said, face red as he half-lowered himself, half-fell into one of the high-backed library seats. He popped open the whiskey globe next to him and took out a glass, then snatched a decanter from the bookshelf behind him. Rick didn’t bother to ask for a drink, nor did Lyle offer. “Drunk out of his mind. Stumbling around like some crazed ape. Said he knew things and he could help.”
“Did he?” Rick said.
Lyle Tiller had called Rick the night before, in the early hours of Thursday morning, shouting into Rick’s voicemail about a robbery and an arrest and expletive expletive why can’t you pick up the expletive phone. He apparently had wanted an article to go out that morning, but had calmed down considerably by the time that Rick called him back at 6 a.m. Now, Lyle Tiller wanted blood.
“Did he help?” Lyle cried, almost spilling the whiskey as it sloshed in his shaking hand. “Of course he didn’t!”
“I meant, did he know anything?”
“You think I wasted my time asking? I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him out on the front lawn!” Behind Lyle, one of the maids dusting the bookcases winced to hide a small smile. Rick sincerely doubted this version: Sam had a foot and a half at least on Lyle Tiller, and over a hundred pounds. Even drunk, Sam would be more than a match for him. More likely that Lyle had danced around as his security team had deposited the drunk Sam O’Nally outside. “Besides, he just wanted money,” Lyle snarled, taking a long sip of his drink. The clock struck eleven a.m. “Kept ranting about how he knew about Eliza.” Lyle scowled and glanced back at his maid. “That’s clean enough! Leave us alone.”
When the library was empty of all except the two of them, Rick asked, “He was referring to the allegations?”
Lyle’s red color deepened. “You mean her lies? And when’s the article on this coming out, anyway? What am I paying you for, to sit around?”
“You’re not paying me,” Rick reminded him.
“No? Oh—well, that’s all right, then. But it’s coming soon, I guess?”
“As soon as I can. But that’s why Sam was here, to threaten you about Eliza? And ask for money to keep quiet, I’m guessing?”
“Probably. I didn’t let him get that far.” Lyle looked down into his drink. “He said—well. That perhaps Gina knew.”
Rick pondered this. If Gina knew about Eliza’s allegations about her father—what then? Would she have felt so defensive of him that she would have confronted Eliza? Would Eliza’s friends—Aaron, or Whitney, or even Becks—have tried to warn Gina off to protect her? And Sam was what, a witness to it all? An eavesdropper? It didn’t make sense.
“Do you think your daughter knew?” Rick said finally. “About—about the accusations?”
“I never told her that gossip,” Lyle huffed. “She always loved her daddy.”
Rick cringed.
“She thought the world of me,” Lyle continued, swirling his whiskey around the tumbler. “She wouldn’t have believed it, even if someone told her.”
“You think maybe she argued with someone, when they said something to her.”
Lyle’s jaw tightened. “I-I don’t know.”
Rick nodded. He could tell that even the idea that his indiscretion had something to do with his daughter’s death weighed on Lyle—but let it. Rick had little sympathy for a man who could not even admit that he had done wrong.
“Why don’t you interview him, in jail,” Lyle said tightly. “Figure out what he knows.”
“You know all those conversations are recorded, don’t you?”
“Why do you ask?”
“In case he says anything incriminating. Or incendiary.”
Lyle frowned. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing. I was just letting you know. I was thinking of trying to meet with him again, anyway. I’m sure he could use a visitor.”
“You’ll send me the story, before you publish it?”
“Of course.” If Rick wanted to. As long as he needed to stay in Lyle’s good graces. Rick knew where his loyalties lay, and it certainly wasn’t with this rich football team owner who thought he had a pet reporter in his back pocket.
He stood, while Lyle Tiller remained seated, eyes glazed as he stared out the window. It was something of a revelation when Rick thought, I wouldn’t trade places with you for the world.
Chapter 31
Becks sank down into the cushions of his couch, stunned.
DNA evidence. That was what the cops had wanted to discuss. That was what the dark-eyed detective had talked to him about, when she had entered his house and spoken in a low, soothing voice to him about what they were investigating. Becks had done what Whitney had told him to do, whenever she was out of the house. “I can’t speak to you without a lawyer,” he had told the detective.
“That’s okay,” she had said. “I’ll talk to you.”
And she did. She told him about his DNA, and where it was found. After that, Becks didn’t hear much of anything at all.
“Are you going to arrest me?” he blurted out when she finished speaking.
She gave him a look of almost pity. “We’ll be in touch,” she said. “I just wanted to let you know.”
Becks couldn’t quite believe it even now. He wondered, as he sat curled up on himself, if he had hallucinated the whole meeting. Certainly the world had felt cloudy that morning; certainly his head hurt more than it had in weeks, and he barely had an appetite. Even the detective had seemed to notice that he was unwell, and had looked at him with that awful sympathy that Becks had grown to despise. He wondered if he was truly going crazy.
Had he murdered Gina Tiller?
Sometimes, if he shut his eyes, he thought he could remember something. Of feeling so angry that night, so lost. And then—flashes, dream-like, so fleeting he wasn’t sure if they were real or imagined—the image of a woman backing away from him, of his hands around her throat, of a scream, and then—
Becks dropped his face into his hands.
When Whitney found him, an hour later, he had somehow drifted off into an uncomfortable sleep. In his dreams he was locked up in jail, and Gina Tiller was next to him, her neck bruised and her eyes bright. “It’s okay,” she said cheerily. “You didn’t mean to, right?”
“Becks!” Whitney shook him by the shoulders, and Becks gasped awake. His hands squeezed over Whitney’s arms and she squealed, pulling away from him.
“Whitney,” Becks said, horrified. He sat up quickly, and the room immediately began to spin. His wife looked frightened and took another step back.
“Are you okay?” Whitney said tentatively. “You were—you seemed upset. When you were sleeping.”
“Fine.” He rubbed at his eyes, trying to look alert, aware of how he was losing the struggle more and more as the days went on. He could feel Whitney pretending not to notice, pretending to dust something off of one of the armchairs, to give him a moment to recover.
“The police,” Becks croaked. “They came, didn’t they? When you were gone?”<
br />
“What?” Her voice was sharp, taut.
“They came. I’m sure they did.” He pressed his fingers against his temples, scanning. “There,” he said triumphantly, pointing to the glass of water that the detective had poured for herself. “She drank that. Stone—Detective Stone.”
“I told you not to talk to them without an attorney, Becks,” Whitney said. He could hear the barely contained panic in her voice. “I told you—”
“I didn’t. She came in and spoke to me. I didn’t say anything.”
“What did she tell you?”
Again Becks pressed on his temples. It felt like his head was on fire. He needed some water, or an aspirin, or something. Whitney saw him struggle and rose, returning in a few seconds with a full glass.
“Drink,” she encouraged him.
He downed half of it and sighed. “Something about—DNA evidence.”
Whitney looked stricken.
For a moment the words hung between them: DNA evidence, solid and real and ugly.
Finally, Whitney said, “They can’t prove anything. DNA can get on people at any time. We were all at the same party together, and—”
“My DNA, under her fingernails,” Becks finished. “Under Gina Tiller’s fingernails.”
Whitney collapsed into the chair behind her, burying her face in her hands. Becks stood helpless as his wife shook with silent sobs, not lifting her face. I’m sorry, he wanted to say. I messed up. I keep messing up. I’m sorry.
Chapter 32
Eliza went out for coffee while Aaron was at physical therapy. She felt like she was trapped in some awful nightmare and didn’t know how to escape. Blackmail, murder, police investigations, career-ending injuries…all of it cascading down and so much of it landing on her shoulders. Why couldn’t she just wipe her hands and be done with them all?
She saw the call from Whitney as she left the café with her smoked rosemary latte. “Whit,” she said, climbing into her car. “I was just thinking about you guys.”
The voice on the other end was muffled.
“Whit?” Eliza said, straightening as she turned on her car. “Whit, you there?”
She heard a distinct sniffle. And then, “Yes, I’m here.”
“What’s wrong?”
For a moment she heard nothing but more sniffling on the other end of the line. Then something garbled, including the words DNA and police.
“Whitney?” Eliza said, her own breath catching now. “Whitney? What’s going on?”
A shuddering breath. “The police came by. Becks is saying they told him—they told him that they found his DNA on Gina Tiller.”
Eliza sat frozen, latte hovering in one hand. “But that could be anything. We were all at the party. We were hanging out, and—”
“His DNA was under her fingernails.”
Eliza’s mouth snapped shut. She squeezed her eyes closed. Not good, she thought. Not good not good not good.
Whitney was now crying on the other line. She started blubbering again, nonsense that Eliza couldn’t quite make out. Something about failing him and not protecting him and not able to do this much longer.
“I’ll come over later,” Eliza promised. “We’ll go out for drinks. Let Becks rest. It will be fine. You have a good lawyer for him?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You called her? Or him?”
“Yes. We’re chatting tomorrow.”
“Great. We’ll get a handle on this. Don’t worry.”
“Eliza, I—I just…. If something were to come out…”
“One thing at a time,” Eliza said firmly. “We’ll worry about that when it happens.”
“It’s just all ruined,” Whitney said. “It wasn’t supposed to end up like this, you know? When I met Becks…even when that tackle happened…I thought we were going to be okay. I really did.” Whitney began crying again. “It’s my fault,” she said. “I didn’t protect him.”
“That’s absolute nonsense and you know it.” Eliza swallowed, not sure what else she could say. She felt her own share of guilt for everything: for letting time and distance slowly pull them apart, for not checking on Whitney more, for not going over there, every week, every day, after Becks’ fall from grace when Whitney needed her the most. Oh, she had checked on her, of course, sent flowers, sent texts, but maybe if she had done more…maybe if Eliza had stepped up…maybe none of this would have happened.
“What’s that?” Eliza said, as Whitney mumbled something else into the phone.
“Nothing,” Whitney said, sniffling. “I have to go. I’ll see you tonight.”
Eliza tried to ignore the foreboding feeling in her chest as she hung up.
Chapter 33
The fact of the matter was, everyone had it wrong.
Rick paced the length of his apartment, mind whizzing. He wondered how everyone could have overlooked it—why everyone was so quick to jump to Daniel Becker as the culprit. Maybe because people were always obsessed with the mighty falling, with the narrative of the golden child corrupted and ruined.
Rick knew about the DNA evidence, of course. That was the first thing Becks had told him when Rick had called. “It doesn’t matter,” Rick said, a little thrown off but still high on his own breakthrough. “It can be explained away. You don’t remember doing anything like that, do you?”
“I don’t think so…”
“I’m calling in some favors,” Rick assured him. “We’ll figure this out. Don’t lose hope, okay?”
Becks had made a noncommittal noise in response, and Rick had hung up, still feeling optimistic. But his optimism was tinged with restlessness and almost desperation…the clock was ticking, and he only had so long to prove Daniel Becker innocent.
The whole case had reinvigorated Rick. He felt a way he hadn’t for years, not since before he had abandoned his dreams in order to make a living. He felt…good. Ethical. Not riding a story until the bitter end, squeezing drop after drop from it, pandering to all of the gossip sites and the editors that he hated and the people he had to work with to get one measly little check in one to six months. He was searching out the truth and being careful about it.
Now, he was ready to share it.
Rick checked his watch and made for the door. There was just one final detail he wanted to check, and he had called in every favor he had ever had to get his hands on it. Rick wrapped a scratchy scarf around his neck and tugged on a coat before heading outside, warming his hands with his breath.
He was almost to his car when he saw her. Rick jumped, and then, wildly, felt a stab of fear. This he quickly got over (it was replaced instead by sheepishness), and Rick said, “Mrs. Becker. How can I help you?”
Whitney was parked behind him, a black ski coat hugged tight over her chest, her hair pulled into a bun with one wisp falling loose, sticking to her glossy lips. For a moment she said nothing; then she tucked the wisp of hair behind her ear and shook her head.
“I know you’ve been talking to my husband,” she said. “I want you to stop.”
Rick kept that stupid friendly grin that he had greeted her with on his face. He didn’t quite know what to say next—denying it would be stupid, but admitting it would be stupider. “I certainly don’t want to upset you,” he said finally.
“Then stop talking to him. He has enough on his plate without some—without some story coming out.”
“That’s not at all what I’m interested in, ma’am. I’m trying to help, actually, by—”
But she laughed harshly on the word “help.” “You think you’re the first person that told me that you’re trying to ‘help’ my husband?” she said. “I don’t want anyone’s help. I know that I’m looking out for his best interests. And I’ve learned that I can’t trust that anyone else feels the same.”
Rick wanted so badly to tell her. He wanted to lay the theory that he had before Becks’ wife and see her eyes gleam first with suspicion, then with doubt, and finally with hope. He wanted her to share in his excitement.
But he had to be patient. He couldn’t risk anything going wrong, not at this stage.
So instead he said, “Understood. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t seem to buy the fake apology, her eyes staying narrowed at him. “I blocked you on his phone,” she said. “If you try emailing him, I’ll do the same thing there, too. And if you show up at our house, I’ll call the cops.”
“Seems excessive.”
“I have to protect him,” Whitney said fiercely. “I’ll do whatever I have to.”
Rick nodded. Without another word Whitney climbed into her car and drove off. Rick watched her go, feeling a churning sense of unease. It was more than obvious that Whitney Becker thought her husband had gone mad. And personally, Rick agreed with her. But did Whitney Becker also believe her husband was a killer?
And what lengths was she willing to go to in order to protect him?
Chapter 34
Aaron walked out of physical therapy with his bag slung over his shoulder, feeling lighter than he had in days. He had finally, today, felt the first glimmer of hope that he’d be able to play in this week’s scrimmages without completely embarrassing himself and tipping off his teammates that something was amiss. It hadn’t hurt, of course, that he had been able to skip the first few practices this week due to the investigation, making excuses about police interviews and statements and the like, allowing himself time to heal outside of his coach’s hawk-like eyes.
But he knew that there was something else he needed to do. Something he had been putting off for a long time.
“You look cheerful,” Eliza said, handing him an iced coffee. “Go well?”
“Very well.”
“So you’ll make it through, you think.”
“The next week? Yeah. I think so. All thanks to you.”
Eliza shrugged off the compliment as she always did and started to drive back towards Aaron’s apartment. He had always appreciated that about her, her cool efficiency, her no-nonsense style. They hadn’t worked out as romantic partners, but he’d be a fool if he didn’t see that Eliza was a great teammate. This week alone, she had driven him to almost all of his appointments, set up his training, negotiated the rates, fielded off police and press inquiries, all the while working her own job and dealing with her own stress. Aaron would offer to pay her again, at the end of the week, if not in cash (as she already had refused), then in tickets, or something else she wanted that he could give her. And he would repay her for her friendship tenfold in the future.