Edgar blinked. “What are you talking about?”
Damien sighed heavily. “You’re not going to make me repeat myself, are you? I’m talking about that maggot Gavin Jenkins. He’s the one who started that whole nonsense about Frank being involved in the Web site.” Even at the mention of his name, Damien felt his blood pressure rise. He shook off thoughts of Gavin and looked at Edgar, whose face had frozen in an odd expression. “What?”
“You went and confronted Frank’s rookie this morning?”
“That’s what I just said and what you just said. What are we talking about here?”
“The Web site. There’s a new post this morning.”
“What?”
Edgar’s eyes narrowed. “Now you’re going to act surprised?”
“Yes, I’m surprised!” Damien’s patience was growing thinner by the second. “Why wouldn’t I be surprised?”
“Because it’s about you.”
“What are you talking about?” Damien sat down at his computer, hurriedly typing in his password. An error came up and he retyped, trying to slow down. Another error message.
“Stop.” Edgar’s voice was sharp.
Damien turned back around in his chair, feeling like a small child who had just been scolded.
“Get your things and get out of here.”
“Edgar—”
“I mean it. You’re on administrative leave until this has been resolved. And if you’re involved in this, you can kiss this job good-bye.”
“Wait—”
“I think you got your wish. Frank’s name is about to be cleared.”
31
Damien stood in the doorway to Frank’s house with the key firmly gripped between his pointer finger and thumb. Except the door did not need to be unlocked. It was already wide open. A high-pitched, hollow-sounding whistle passed through the gaping hole.
Damien took a step in and saw a man walking through the back door.
The man looked up and noticed Damien. “May I help you?” he asked, wiping his feet on the small mat before walking to the front door.
“I’m Damien Underwood, Frank’s friend.”
“Damien, yes. We spoke on the phone. Duane Morley, Frank’s landlord.” He shook Damien’s hand. “Listen, I’ve got to get this house ready for rental again. And nobody has called to claim this stuff. Any idea what he’d want done with all of this? I’m going to have to do something with it.”
Damien scanned the room, each piece of furniture, each knickknack, each piece of technology ushering in a different memory. There were so many. Damien gazed at the coffee table that had held heaping piles of hot wings and various boxes of fast food. The television, dark and dusty, seemed the perfect symbol for Frank’s passing. That TV had probably never been turned off since it arrived at the house four years ago. Damien remembered the day Frank bought it. He’d helped him move it in. He’d been so proud of his flat screen.
“Mr. Underwood?”
“Yeah, sorry. Um, Frank would want this all donated to charity. He was that kind of guy, you know?”
“Sure. Of course. I really liked Frank. He was one of my best tenants.” Duane headed toward the door. “Tell you what. I’ll start getting this stuff moved out this weekend. That’ll give you some time to look through everything, see if there’s anything you want to keep.”
“Thanks.”
“Just make sure everything is turned off before you leave.”
Duane left and Damien walked quietly through the house, gazing at dusty picture frames and books lining the small bookshelf. Kay had come over and cleaned out the refrigerator and pantry so the rodents wouldn’t get any ideas.
There was the obvious absence of Christmas decorations, which Frank had purposely protested since his divorce.
He made his way to the basement, clicking on the light. The computer, set atop an old desk he’d found at a flea market, was still on.
Sitting down and leaning back in the ergonomically correct chair, he stared at the beams supporting the ceiling, wondering how Frank would tackle this problem of being wrongly accused.
First of all, Frank would want to know what was posted. Damien’s stomach turned at the thought that someone had been listening to his conversation. And, it seemed, someone deliberately posted his conversation, knowing full well he was a suspect. It couldn’t be coincidence.
He’d gone to the library and printed out the conversation but hadn’t had the guts to read it. Not yet. He took it out of his back pocket but couldn’t get himself to unfold it.
Did he really want to read it? No. He did not. But he was going to have to find the courage to read it anyway.
He carefully unfolded the paper. Frank had done the same thing, read a conversation, and it had ended in his death. What would this bring for Damien? for his family?
Damien chuckled, remembering Frank lecturing him about how archaic dial-up was. Now he was down to hard copies. Damien looked away for a moment to compose himself, as if the words were alive and were taunting him with ill-intentioned eyes.
Then he looked it right in the eye and read.
“I’ve become a person of interest in the Web site case. They think I’m doing it.”
“What? What in the world? Why would they think that?”
“I made a bad judgment call.”
“Damien, you’re not involved in this, are you?”
“No, I’m not. And neither was Frank; I can assure you.”
“Then what are you talking about, ‘judgment call’?”
“I received a note at the office, a sort of encrypted crossword deal that I believe was sent to me by the person doing it. The mistake I made was that I didn’t tell anybody. When the Web site stopped after Frank died, I decided to send an encoded message in the crossword puzzle in the paper. I just wanted to get whoever was doing it to start again so Frank’s name would be cleared. Unfortunately, Captain Grayson is a crossword fanatic. He saw the clues a mile away and knew I’d put them there.”
“So? Show him the crossword that was sent to you. Then he’ll know.”
“It’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“I had it in my briefcase. It’s not there anymore. That’s all I know. It makes no sense to me. The good news is that I haven’t been charged with anything. They don’t really have any proof, but I’m their best lead right now.”
“That Web site has brought nothing but trouble!”
“Calm down, Hunter. Please. We can’t afford to get hysterical about this. Besides, as much as I hated it at first, I actually think it has done some good. I hear it in the break room. People are starting to talk about the power of words. People are listening more than they’re talking. Our dark and dirty secret has been exposed, and maybe we’re better for it. I don’t know. Life and death are in the power of the tongue, if you give the tongue all the power, I guess.”
“Well, we’ll prove your innocence. We won’t stop until we do.”
“It’ll work itself out in time. I’m not really worried. I know I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t even know how to do it. Someone out there is the right person, and eventually he’ll be exposed. Listen to all that is said from everyone you know. Listen hard and you will have understanding beyond the words.”
Every word stopped his heart. Damien knew exactly where this conversation had taken place. Right at his dining room table, where his family had played Monopoly.
What was this supposed to be? Some confession to his guilt? He read it carefully. On the contrary. He was talking about how he didn’t do it, but it still made him look stupid. If he were the one doing the Web site, this seemed like a lame attempt to cover his tracks, especially since nothing had been posted until now. It made no sense. What was the purpose of it?
Damien blew air from his cheeks, along with a sense of resentment that had bubbled inside him. He’d never felt so violated in his life. This was his family. This was a private conversation. It had no business being listened to by anyone else.
He stood and paced. First, the crossword puzzle. Someone at the office had access to it. He usually left his briefcase under his desk when he went out for lunch or on break. Maybe someone had a complaint against him, wanted to get even for something. He seemed generally liked, and though several of his colleagues had voiced disagreement about some of his op-ed pieces, nobody was hostile. It just made for lively conversation.
At least that was what he thought.
In five minutes of hard thinking, he could not come up with a single person who held a grudge against him enough to do this.
Damien tried to move on. A citizen of Marlo, perhaps? They already knew it was someone within the community, but who would want to set him up like this? Who would go to this much trouble? And who knew enough about him to know he was in trouble at work?
His mind wandered to the police department. Perhaps someone there knew he was being investigated. But again, why the grudge? Why take the trouble to record a conversation he had with his family? How long had this person been listening? all night? Was he watching the house?
His heart jumped at the thought of Kay. She was supposed to go to work today. He took out his cell phone, dialing her number.
“Hello?”
“Hey, babe. Are you at the house?”
“No. I’m in town. Getting ready to show a house. Why?”
“I don’t want to scare you, but . . . just be careful. Watch your surroundings. Lock the doors when you’re home. And watch what you say.”
“What? Why?”
“Our conversation was recorded last night. At the table.”
A long stretch of silence. “What are you talking about?” Her voice was now a heavy whisper.
“I don’t know what’s going on. I’m trying to figure this thing out. But I’m somebody’s target, and I have to find out who’s trying to set me up. I want you to be vigilant, with yourself and with the kids.”
“Both the kids have something after school. Jenna’s got a class project she has to work on, and Hunter has to stay late to complete his science fair essay. I’ll pick him up at five.”
“Okay, that’s good. I don’t want to frighten them, and so far whoever is doing this doesn’t seem the violent type, but we can’t be too careful.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know. I am too. But we’re going to get through this. The truth will come out.”
“I want to call Reverend Caldwell. Tell him to pray for us.”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Call me soon, okay?”
“I will.” Damien put the phone back in his pocket.
Think. Think.
He sat back down at the computer, scrolling through the previous conversations that were recorded. He studied every word, every sentence, trying to get an idea of some kind of unobvious agenda.
“I’ve never liked the man.”
“Come on. We hardly know them.”
“You can sense weirdos, and he’s a weirdo.”
“You’ve never said a word about this guy.”
“Yes, well, that’s before he went nuts.”
“You have no proof that—”
“I don’t need proof. I can see it in the man’s eyes. Tell the kids not to talk to him. Or his wife. We’re going to stay the _____ away from him.”
“Do you really think she’s having an affair?”
“_____, yes.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t put it past her, but—”
“It’s written all over her. First of all, she’s late all the time.”
“But is it an affair? With a married man?”
“Of course it is.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know her, and normally she’d be talking the thing to death.”
Something struck him. There were blanks where curse words should be. Without exception, every place a curse word looked like it should fit, a blank line was drawn. It had been like that from the beginning of the Web site.
Damien leaned forward, feeling like the ultimate sleuth. That had to mean something. He was certain it meant something to Frank, though Frank had never mentioned it. For Damien, it meant that whoever this was had an aversion to curse words. Which meant they were probably religious. Yes, so, it was the local nuns?
Or . . . Reverend Caldwell? The guy liked to pop up unexpectedly.
Damien filed the thought away and continued to scroll, looking to pick up more clues. It all seemed pretty random. Some conversations were more damning than others. There didn’t seem to be a pattern of trying to target one person over another. It seemed like this person was just a simple observer, reporting the facts.
Kind of like an investigative reporter.
Damien shook off the thought and continued to read but still didn’t find anything that stuck out to him.
He scrolled back to the top and decided to read the conversation about him. It hurt. He found himself blinking at every word, as if it were slapping him across the face. But he kept reading over and over. The more he read, the less painful it became, and he was able to read with a more critical eye.
And then . . .
Damien slammed himself backward in the chair. His heart hammered inside his chest. He shot to his feet, accidentally kicking the chair, then slapped his hands on the desk and put all his attention on the sheet of paper. He read. He reread. Again. And again.
“No,” he whispered. “I don’t understand. . . .”
He grabbed his keys and jacket and bolted up the stairs. He ran out of the house, not bothering to shut the front door.
32
Kay turned up the heat in the SUV. Exhaust filled the space behind the bumper. Even with the heater running, it still felt frigid. Her windows were fogging over too.
Normally she would let Hunter walk home but not today. Not after Damien’s phone call.
The parking lot looked fairly empty, and only a few cars had pulled to the curb. Hunter wouldn’t be happy seeing his mom’s SUV idling out front, but she didn’t care at this point. She just wanted him home safely.
She’d texted Jenna earlier and tried not to sound frightened. Instead she said, Checking in. Doing okay?
Jenna’s response: Doing fine.
That was all she needed to hear.
Now she just needed to see her son walking out the front doors of the school.
She swiped her hand across the windshield and checked her watch. She knew she was on time. He’d been staying late for a few weeks working on his science fair project.
She got out of her SUV and stood on the curb, glancing back and forth to make sure she hadn’t accidentally missed him.
A few kids straggled out. She didn’t recognize them, though admittedly, she didn’t know many of Hunter’s friends. She’d been so consumed with the whole cheerleading scene she had let those kinds of details slip lately. But Hunter had never had trouble making friends, and usually they were the good kids.
She blew into her gloved hands and wiggled around in her coat, trying to keep herself warm.
Where was he?
A nervous chill managed to snake its way up her spine, colder than what this wind was causing.
She couldn’t have missed him. The kids always came out the front door to walk home. The back of the school was fenced in and there was no other way to go.
She took out her cell phone and called Reverend Caldwell. His voice mail picked up. “Hi, this is Kay Underwood. Our family is going through a lot right now, and I wanted to say thank you for your kindness. I’m so glad Gabby is okay. If you could just say a prayer for us. Thank you.” Kay shut her phone and thought that perhaps she could say a prayer herself. She hadn’t prayed in years besides the occasional blessing at the table on a religious holiday.
She wante
d to pray, but she couldn’t get her mind off Hunter.
He was going to kill her, but at this point she was willing to take the risk, since she felt like she was going to die from a combination of fear and hypothermia.
“Don’t panic,” she said as she started toward the school. She realized she’d forgotten to turn off her SUV and take the keys out. Her purse was on the floorboard. She paused but couldn’t get herself to turn back. With brisk strides she swung open the heavy glass door of the school.
The halls were empty and dark. Her heels echoed dully against the laminate. A janitor swung his mop back and forth a few feet ahead. “Excuse me,” Kay said. “I’m looking for Mrs. Patterson’s room.”
“Straight that way, at the end. Room 110.”
“Thanks.”
Kay hustled forward, nearly in a run. She found the room and grabbed the handle, but it was locked. She peered through the small window on the door. Heavy shadows, long against the floor, clung to the last bits of light filtering through the outside window.
Kay turned, her back against the door, each breath hard to take. She hurried to the center of the building, where the office was and hopefully the teachers’ lounge.
She heard a few voices and followed them into a long room with tables, a sink, and a coffeemaker. She couldn’t even remember what Mrs. Patterson looked like.
A few teachers looked up as she cleared her throat. “Sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Mrs. Patterson?”
“Yes, that’s me,” said a slender woman with long, straight hair. She didn’t really fit the profile of a science teacher. “What can I do for you?” she asked, walking toward Kay.
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