by L. C. Warman
“Yes, I remember you using that phrase.” With as much pride as if you’d learned it yesterday, Evan thought with annoyance. “So? What is it?”
“You really want to know?”
“I think me posting your bail and driving you home pretty much shows you what I think.”
Sam looked out the front windshield, seeming to consider. He had a mischievous look in his eye—no, not mischievous, scheming. Evan suppressed a shudder.
“Come inside, then,” Sam said.
“What?”
“Come inside with me. I’ll tell you there. Not out here.”
“Why?”
Sam made a frustrated noise. “Because it’s not the kind of thing you want anyone to overhear, you understand me?”
Evan frowned. “There’s no one around. No one would overhear us in a car.”
“I got nosy neighbors. Besides, it’s easier if I show you something.”
Evan again felt that prickle of foreboding. No thanks, he wanted to say. I prefer not to enter the apartments of alcoholic ex-footballers with a criminal record. But he was here now. And he wanted to know. He needed to know, so, so badly.
“Fine,” Evan said, trying to sound braver than he felt. “But I can’t stay long.”
“Oh,” Sam said with a wolfish grin. “It won’t take long. Trust me, it won’t.”
Chapter 37
“What do you mean, it’s not Becks?” Rick said sharply, leaning closer. He had already been thinking of all the people he would tell the good news to after revealing it to Becks—Lyle Tiller, for one, and then his editor. Rick would collect the payout, and the paper would run a story that would finally clear Becks’ name.
But how could the figure on the tape not be Becks?
Officer Heitman sniffed and leaned away. He tapped the frozen screen, where a hulking man was walking out to the pool deck. “Watch here.” He went frame by frame; the man never turned around, but he did tilt his head up and to the left as he walked. Or stumbled, really—in slow motion, Rick could see more clearly the awkward movements of the man.
The profile was not Becks at all. The nose, the chin, the hair were all wrong. Rick felt himself deflate.
“You know who it is?” Officer Heitman said. He was sitting up much straighter now, alert and almost frightened.
“Do you?”
“Of course not,” Officer Heitman snapped. “I’m not working the case.”
Rick sucked in a breath. “Sam O’Nally,” Rick said. “Keep playing it.”
Officer Heitman turned back to the screen, hesitating. Rick could feel him trying to decide whether to run to get another detective or to keep going. “Just the next few seconds,” Rick said. “Then I’ll get out of your hair, and you can go hand this off to the right person.”
“I’d better not,” Officer Heitman said peevishly. “Not if I want to keep my job instead of explaining why I’ve taken an evidence tape.”
Rick shrugged sheepishly and indicated for Officer Heitman to continue. Again the officer looked conflicted, but after another few seconds of hesitation, hit the “play” button.
This time, Sam O’Nally moved in normal speed. He turned, his mouth slightly parting as he looked up towards what could only be the balcony. Rick thought he looked surprised—though the angle made it impossible to tell. He seemed to mouth something—Officer Heitman paused and played it back a few times.
“What the,” Rick said.
“What?”
“What the. That’s what he’s saying. He’s looking up and saying What the, like What the heck.”
Officer Heitman played it one more time, confirming the theory. The video continued on.
Sam O’Nally sprang back. The angle of the camera didn’t capture Gina Tiller’s fall, but it was obvious that this was what Sam was reacting to. He nearly jumped out of his skin; his hands went up to his hair, and he shook his head once, twice, as if denying the reality of what had just happened.
Then he ran.
“Holy…” Rick said. His mind was spinning. Sam O’Nally had seen the murder. Sam O’Nally had witnessed Gina Tiller being tossed off that balcony.
Which meant Sam O’Nally was not the killer.
And the killer could be anyone…or one person in particular.
Rick felt his whole theory unraveling before him. It couldn’t be. Something had to be wrong. His mind fought to keep hold of his original ideas. Perhaps Sam was reacting to something else…perhaps the security footage was of a different night…perhaps this was a doctored video from a crooked cop trying to extort him for…for…
The video cut to black.
“That’s it?” Rick cried. “That can’t be it. Didn’t Eliza Vorne find the body?”
Officer Heitman clicked on the video and typed a command on his keyboard. The video skipped back thirty seconds; they watched as the still frame continued on, then suddenly stopped, cut off.
“Did the film run out?” Rick cried.
“It’s all digital. Of course not.”
“Then what?”
Officer Heitman clicked a few more times, and they rewatched the end of the video. “Someone must have cut it,” he muttered. “Cut the feed. Disconnected the camera.”
“Why?”
Officer Heitman gave Rick a scathing look. “I can think of a few reasons.”
“Is there another angle? Another camera to show what happened?”
“I’m checking.”
They sat in silence for a few more minutes as Officer Heitman clicked around, looking for something, anything, that would give them answers. Rick felt his chest constrict; he had been so close, and now? Now he didn’t know what to believe.
“There’s nothing,” Officer Heitman said finally. “That’s the only camera. O’Nally must have seen something, and…” The police officer chewed the inside of his cheek.
“Have the detectives on the case seen this footage?”
Officer Heitman seemed distracted, so Rick repeated his question. “Hmm? No. We received the tapes this afternoon. Some trouble over contacting the owner, I think, since the house changed hands recently. Sorry, you have to go,” Officer Heitman said, seeming to come to a sudden decision. “I have to show this to them. Now.”
Rick rose. He felt a little dizzy. There could be another explanation, his mind tried to whisper to him, but what? Sam O’Nally was not the murderer. Becks’ DNA was found under the woman’s fingernails. Rick needed to stop hoping for a better end to the story. He needed to start facing the truth.
Chapter 38
Evan left Sam’s apartment, his whole body shaking. He could feel Sam watching him from the window, no doubt still staring at him with that wolfish grin.
He felt sick. He didn’t want to think—couldn’t think, not right now. He had to leave, first of all, and then he had to find Whitney. He had to find Whitney and talk to her. To protect her.
Why why why, Evan chanted to himself as he buckled himself into his car. It wasn’t fair. It was all just—
A mess.
Part of him thought that he should call Aaron first. Tell him what Sam had been threatening. He was never friendly with Sam, but Aaron and Becks were. But Evan had no idea how Aaron would react, and so he nixed the plan.
But there was hope. If Evan could talk to Whitney. If Evan could find her. Whitney would know what to do. And Becks? Evan squeezed his eyes shut and turned the car on.
And maybe people wouldn’t believe an alcoholic anyway. Maybe Sam O’Nally wasn’t the reliable witness he pretended to be.
If only Evan could talk to Whitney…
Chapter 39
“There’s one more thing I have to tell you,” Aaron repeated, as Eliza pulled into the security gate of his condo complex. Aaron reached over to wave to the security guard, who motioned them through.
“I don’t know if I want to hear it,” Eliza said, jaw tightening. “Seriously, Aaron. I don’t know if—”
“Please, Eliza?”
She parked and t
hen looked at him, her face pale, almost supplicating. “Haven’t I helped you enough?”
The question confused Aaron, who frowned. “Of course, I just—Eliza, you should know this. Really.”
Eliza seemed to struggle within herself. Finally, she sighed, a long, whistling sound, and motioned for him to lead the way in.
Aaron’s throat grew dry as he led Eliza across the parking lot, up the elevator, and down the hall to his condo. Part of him thought about reconsidering—about leading Eliza into his place, grinning at her, and making it seem like he had only tried to get her to come up for some other reason. But he was too nervous now to pull off the joke, and besides, this was what he had steeled his nerves for. Eliza had been there for him, this past week, and it was time that he came clean.
About everything.
They settled down to business almost immediately. Eliza took a seat at his counter, and Aaron stood across from her, leaning his elbows on the quartz countertop and biting his lower lip.
“I’m ready,” Eliza said quietly.
“It’s about Lyle Tiller.”
Eliza blinked, her eyes fluttering. He could see her wrists stiffen as she struggled not to react.
“I know that he came on to you, in that interview,” Aaron said. Even saying the words made him angry all over again—the idea that that fat old slob of a man thought, because he had a large bank account and a team of lawyers, that he could put his hands on a woman in his power made Aaron want to rip the man apart. He had come close. “I know that he was…inappropriate.”
“How?”
Aaron shrugged. “I just heard, eventually.”
“Whitney must have told you. Or told Becks, who told you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Aaron said, though this was uncomfortably close to the truth. “But I found out. And I—I went over there. To talk to him.”
He saw the fear in Eliza’s face, the very reason why he had not told her for so long. He was not ashamed of what he had done, would not take it back for the world, but he knew that Eliza would never want him to know. That it would embarrass her, the way it embarrassed every person who had ever had their dignity assaulted. That she would prefer to bury it and never talk about it again—least of all with an ex-boyfriend.
“So I go to his office and ask to see him. I didn’t think he would let me in, if I’m being honest. I certainly wouldn’t have. But he does, almost immediately, and I come in and he’s just surveying the city skyline as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Asks me if I’m having any problems with the coach or the team, as if anyone ever comes to him about that nonsense. I say no. He asks if I came to share good news. I say no. He asks if I came to share bad news. I said no, not exactly, but I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to say.”
Eliza looked a little sick, now. Her gaze was lowered, and she was still gripping the kitchen counter with whitened knuckles.
“Then he—he went on the offensive. He said that he knew what happened between me and Gina, and how I…” Aaron cleared his throat. “How I didn’t call her after. That things would look bad for me, if I treated girls this way. That he wouldn’t want anything unsavory to get out in the press.”
“He threatened you.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It didn’t matter—I knew he would never let his daughter get caught up in any sort of scandal. I told him that I had heard what had happened to a girl that had interviewed with him.”
“He knew it was me.”
“Yeah, he guessed. But I guarantee if we hadn’t dated he wouldn’t have known which person I was talking about. I’m sure you’re not the first he’s done this to.”
Eliza only shrugged.
“I told him that if he ever tried to lay his hands on you again that we’d have a big problem. He asked if I was threatening him physically, and I said no, I was threatening to sue him. Or rather, fund a lawsuit involving every girl who had ever worked with him. I—I might have done a little research. Just on assistants that had come and gone, things like that. I mentioned a few names—I didn’t know anything, just said them—and he got real quiet. He told me that he didn’t think we would have any sort of problem like that, so long as I stayed away from his daughter. I told him that I’d come as close to his daughter as Gina wanted me to, and that no matter what, he’d never try to pull something like this again.”
“Aaron,” Eliza said, squeezing her eyes shut. “You know that’s not going to help.”
Aaron felt an arrow go through his heart. He was so powerless—he felt it all over again standing across from Eliza. He knew better than to expect praise, or gratitude, or even appreciation for his poor attempt at chivalry. But he wanted Eliza to understand. Understand how much he wanted to be there for her, to make up for times when he wasn’t there to protect her or anyone else he cared about.
“Well, we came to some sort of understanding, at least. I left, and that was that. We didn’t talk again.”
“All you did was make sure that Lyle Tiller hated your guts. He’s going to make your life a living hell until you quit or are cut or both.”
“Doesn’t matter. You know I’m not much longer for this career anyway.”
“Good luck getting into business or anything sports-related after this.”
“I’ll manage. I have money. Hey, Becks was about to do it.”
They both winced at the mention of their friend. “I should check on Whitney,” Eliza said, slipping off of the stool. “She’s had a rough day.” She paused, staring at Aaron. “Look, I appreciate you trying. I really do. But I can handle myself. This is why I didn’t tell you in the first place.”
“I know.”
“Men like Lyle Tiller are absolute vermin. You won’t fix them, and you won’t intimidate them into being better. The best we can do is just minimize contact. You promise me you won’t try talking to him again?”
Aaron nodded, though he couldn’t bring himself to verbally promise. If the man ever did try talking to Eliza again, threatening her…
“And you should have told me this earlier,” Eliza said. “I wish you had.”
“I wanted to, but I didn’t want you to think that all of this had something to do with Gina’s death,” Aaron said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Lyle thinks I had a hand in it—he’s not my biggest fan, after finding out.”
“Who told him? About you and Gina.”
“Gina, maybe. Who knows? Lyle said a few things to me about ‘getting even’ when I saw him, you know. It was creepy.”
Eliza shuddered. “The best thing we can do is just never talk to him again,” she said. “And for you to retire as soon as possible. What we were talking about earlier. I can make those connections for you. Connections far away from Lyle Tiller and his friends.”
“I know, Lize. You’re the best. Seriously.”
Eliza walked over to Aaron and reached up to put her hands on his shoulders. “I love you,” she said. “As a friend, of course. I love you, and I want what’s best for you, and I will always be here for you.”
“As a friend,” Aaron repeated.
“Yes.”
He grinned and opened his arms, and Eliza leaned in to give him a quick hug. “Maybe one day I’ll be as good a friend to you as you are to me,” he muttered, as they both pulled back.
Eliza snorted. “Good luck trying.”
When she had left, Aaron sank down against his counters, breathing a deep sigh of relief. That done, he felt a thousand times lighter. Eliza knew all of his secrets now—and they were good. Better than good, really.
But he found, after the initial wash of relief, that something was still bothering him. The answer was obvious enough: Gina Tiller’s death, and the cloud that was still hanging over them all as they waited for the police to figure out who did it. Aaron felt a strange sense of foreboding. He knew what people were whispering. He knew what the news articles would be saying before long, if they had been careful not to say it up until now.
He knew that thin
gs were not looking good for Daniel Becker.
Chapter 40
Becks walked outside onto the deck, holding a steaming mug of coffee. He sat in one of the wicker chairs after tugging off the cover that Whitney had so neatly tied on for the winter. It had begun to snow, ever so lightly, and the sky was a dark and impenetrable mass hovering low over the town. He felt a strange sense of unreality, sitting there, as if he could reach up and cup the sky with his hand, as if he could lift himself higher and float towards the stars, away from all his problems. Away from himself.
His headaches were worse. They were sometimes blinding, preventing him from sleep. Though Becks supposed that was for the best, given his violent outburst against Whitney a few days ago.
He was having trouble speaking, too, which seemed to be a side effect of the pain. He would try to get a few words out and then his head would begin to pulse, and Whitney would look at him with that frightened expression on her face and ask if he needed something, a glass of water, an aspirin…? And he would grow short-tempered and say that no, for the millionth time, he was fine. Whitney would stiffen and tell him that he had to be careful of his tone, even if he was hurting, and Becks would feel rage bubble through him at the helplessness of his situation, at the fact that it was only getting worse, at his inability to control his pain or his emotions.
He wondered what would become of him. He would go to jail, certainly, or if not to jail then a mental hospital. He’d have doctors hovering over him all the time there, and just like the ones now, they would be careful and distant but curious, occasionally moving their gaze from his eyes up to his skull, as if they wanted nothing more than to split the bones open and see what the riddled insides looked like. Whitney would come to visit him sometimes, in a black dress and with no makeup, looking somber and sad and all the more beautiful. He would insist on a divorce, and she would protest, the always loyal Whitney, but then finally he would figure out a way—applying with the help, perhaps, of a sympathetic nurse—and finally free Whitney from the black vortex that had become his life.