“Like what?”
“Like none of your business.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “You broke up with Ivy. Why?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Max held open her empty hands. “I’m trying to get a sense of who Ivy was, and what happened in the days leading up to her murder. Where she might have been during the hours before her death—time that is unaccounted for. Ivy’s mother said she broke up with you, but she didn’t know why.”
“I don’t know what Ivy told her mother, I don’t really care.” Travis glanced at the wall where all the family pictures were grouped. “I broke up with Ivy because I didn’t like who I was becoming when I was with her.”
“Something must have happened,” Max said quietly.
She glanced over to where Travis was looking. His brother. He looked up to his brother, respected him. Smart, older … Max could see something his brother may have said sticking with Travis. Changing him. Getting him to think about who he was—and who his girlfriend turned him into.
“Have you ever said something to someone and wished to God you’d never said it?” Travis asked, but Max didn’t think the question was directed at her.
Max was always conscious of what she said, understanding that there would be consequences to some of her opinions, questions, and comments. Yet, there were a few times when she wished she’d been more tactful.
“You hurt someone you cared about,” she prompted.
“It doesn’t matter. It was my fault, not Ivy’s, not anyone but me. But I knew that I would be better off if I shed her. It took a while.” He shook his head as if clearing his mind, then said, “Look, lady, I appreciate you want to help Mrs. Wallace find out who killed Ivy. But I think the police are wrong and it really was an accident.” He got up. “I have to help my mom. She has real bad arthritis and I hear her cutting vegetables.”
“I appreciate your time, Travis,” Max said. “If you think of anything that may help in this investigation, call me.”
“Yeah.”
He wouldn’t call. If Travis knew something, he wasn’t going to share with Max or anyone. There was more to his story. She wanted to know what.
Mrs. Whitman came into the living room. “Travis, would you please take out the garbage for me?”
“Sure, Mom.” He gave Max an awkward half smile then went to the kitchen. When she heard the garage door roll up, Mrs. Whitman turned to Max and said, “I heard most of your conversation. I wasn’t intentionally eavesdropping.”
“That’s fine. You could have stayed and listened.”
“Travis went through a rough patch, and that included the time he was involved with Ivy. He was angry, sneaking out of the house, failing his classes, being mean for no reason. Drinking. He lost his best friend—and that changed everything.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“Oh, Rick didn’t die. But he and Travis had a falling-out, then Rick moved. They were best friends from the first day of kindergarten. Travis tried to fix things this summer. I don’t think it worked—he doesn’t like to talk about it. But I just want you to know that Travis is a good kid. Some good kids do awful things, but they’re still good kids. And they learn from their mistakes. Do you understand?”
She did.
“And then—there are some kids who aren’t very good. And they’ll never learn.”
“Like Ivy.”
“I will not say a word about her, Ms. Revere. She’s dead, poor girl. I’d like to think she would have grown out of her bad habits, and that’s how I’m going to remember her. A lost little girl who didn’t have a chance to grow up. And for that, I am sad for the Wallace family. I wish you luck—and I’m sure if Travis knew anything that might help bring peace to Ivy’s mother, he would have told the police.” But then her eyes skittered away just a fraction.
“What is it, Mrs. Whitman? What were you thinking?”
“I didn’t like how the police treated my son. He grew a lifetime last year. That’s what happens when the authorities put you under a microscope. They interviewed Travis three separate times. Searched his room. His computer. Cell phone. We allowed it because we knew he didn’t do anything wrong. They found nothing because there was nothing to find, yet they still treated Travis as if he were a bad kid, a criminal. I didn’t like it, but—looking at the silver lining—when it was done, Travis was a different person. A better person. He was forced to grow up, and he grew up the way he should.”
Max could take that in two different ways. Maybe Travis really was innocent … or he was guilty, and relieved that he got away with it. Either way, Max wouldn’t take him off her suspect list.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Whitman, I appreciate your insight.”
Chapter Twelve
Travis Whitman hadn’t killed Ivy, so why was he nervous?
He finished his homework after dinner, but couldn’t settle down. He had energy to burn, and a headache building. His dad was working late and his mom was watching TV. Sometimes he’d watch some of her shows with her. Over the last year Travis had realized that he hadn’t been the best son to his parents. That was Greg’s domain—the perfect son. And for a long time, Travis had resented his brother.
And then Ivy was dead and he was interviewed by the police and Travis looked into his mom’s eyes and realized he’d hurt her.
He never wanted to see his mom like that again. He didn’t want to be a selfish jock who didn’t care about anyone but himself. He cared—he wanted to care—but Ivy had been intoxicating, worse than any drug.
Now she was gone and he could turn his life around. He had turned his life around. Colleges were courting him. His grades were up. He would prove to his parents that he was a good kid, that he deserved his scholarship and their love. He didn’t want to make his mom sad or disappoint his dad. Travis desperately wanted to make everything right.
And now he didn’t get why that reporter was here. He supposed he should call Bailey. Give her a heads-up. What if the reporter went to her house next?
Travis dialed the number he had for her. A recorded message said the cellular number was no longer in service. He tried again.
Invalid. She’d changed her number.
He should have brought the flip phone home from his locker. At least he could text her, convince her to call him.
Travis needed to clear his head. He changed into running shorts, a T-shirt, and Windbreaker. It was cool at night, but he liked running along the water, the fresh salt-tinged air clearing his lungs. He told his mom he’d be back in an hour and took off on a steady jog.
Four point five miles later, he was back in front of his house as the remnants of the sun disappeared. All thoughts of Ivy and her death and the reporter—gone. He’d just keep a low profile and it would all blow over like it did last summer.
Travis saw someone familiar sitting in a car across the street from his house. Watching him. When the guy got out of the car, Travis recognized him. The reporter. The other reporter.
Travis did not want to talk to him.
“Travis, Lance Lorenzo. We talked last year after the police interrogated you.”
“I remember.” Travis hadn’t remembered his name, but now it came back to him.
“Do you have a minute?”
“No.”
“Did Maxine Revere talk to you today?”
“How do you know that?”
“I had breakfast with her this morning,” Lorenzo said. “I didn’t buy Revere’s story—that she’s here to do a segment on her show about Ivy, hoping someone will come forward. I did some research on her and this isn’t the kind of case she’d normally investigate. But she comes from money, and Ivy’s stepdad is big money. Those types stick together.”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Revere is going to bring up every detail of Ivy’s life, all the shit she posted on the Internet, the people she went after. That photo of you smoking pot.”
“That was fa
ke!” Was he never going to live it down?
“Help me, Travis. I want to shut her down and prove once and for all that Ivy’s death was an accident.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I want the police to admit that they fucked up. You’re not the only one who was raked through the coals last year.”
That was certainly true. “Look—she didn’t say much. She just wanted to know about Ivy as a person, and I told her the truth. Ivy was a bitch. She messed up my life. I broke up with her because I didn’t like who I was becoming. End of story.”
“That’s all Maxine Revere asked you about?”
“I don’t know, it’s not like I wrote everything down after she left.” Travis was cold. He wanted to go inside, take a hot shower, and crash.
“Did she ask about Ivy’s whereabouts the night she died?”
Travis hesitated. “Yeah—she said something about a few hours unaccounted for. Ms. Revere said the police think it was murder.”
“The police are making it up as they go along. The results were inconclusive—the coroner refused to say it was an accident, but he also didn’t state it was homicide.”
“I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but I don’t want to be in the middle of this. Don’t you dare quote me on anything, I’m not talking to you or anyone else.”
“I don’t need to quote you,” Lorenzo said. “You already answered my question.”
Travis watched the guy cross the street, get in his car, and drive off.
What question had he answered?
Travis went inside, told his mom he was going to bed, and ran upstairs. He turned on the shower and while he waited for the water to get hot, he pulled out his cell phone and downloaded the ChatMe app. He’d deleted his account and tossed the second phone no one knew he had after Ivy died, but now he really needed to talk to someone.
He sent a private message to ChatMe101.
QB17: Do you know what’s going on with Ivy’s family? That reporter from New York was here asking about Ivy. Then that other dick reporter Lorenzo came by asking about the first reporter.
Travis waited. No response. Shit. He stripped and took a quick shower. When he got back on his phone, she still hadn’t texted him back.
QB17: Are you there? Dammit, I left the phone in my locker.
QB17: Fuck it, are you there?
ChatMe101: Chill, okay? What happened?
QB17: Maxine Revere is investigating Ivy’s death. I looked her up. She’s a legit TV reporter from New York. Lorenzo said it was an accident. This Revere lady says Ivy was murdered. I don’t want to go through this again. It’s not fair.
ChatMe101: I told you not to talk to her.
QB17: She showed up at my fucking house!
ChatMe101: What did you say?
QB17: Nothing! Because there’s nothing to say. I didn’t do anything. Why is this happening now?
ChatMe101: It’s probably just something Ivy’s mother wants. What she wants, she gets.
QB17: Revere wanted to know everything about Ivy. She asked why we broke up, shit like that.
ChatMe101: Chill. Out. Don’t text me again. If you want to talk, leave a note in Locker 101. But there’s nothing to worry about. I promise.
Travis didn’t know what to believe. His life was finally in order, he had a great girlfriend, a scholarship, football … his life was almost perfect.
He turned out the light and fell back into his bed. Picked up his phone and reread the message from ChatMe. Sent a message back.
QB17: I hope you’re right.
DamonServer5: The account you’re trying to message has been deleted.
Locker 101. He’d never seen Bailey on campus after she changed schools. Had he been wrong all this time? How many people knew what he’d done? Who else could ruin his life?
Travis stared at the ceiling. Sleep would be a long time coming.
Chapter Thirteen
David was late to dinner.
Max went ahead and ordered an appetizer and glass of wine because she was famished. Emma must have waited until the last possible minute to call her father. Max almost felt sorry for the girl, but she had to own up to her actions and accept the consequences.
At long last, David strode in and sat down. He didn’t say a word, but his face was set in a hard line and an almost imperceptible twitch pulsed along his square jaw. David always looked dangerous, and the crescent-shaped scar above his right cheekbone added to his dark demeanor. He rarely raised his voice, however, and tonight was no exception. Max could barely hear him when he said, “Explain.”
Max said, “Emma should have told you everything.”
“Should have.”
She sipped her wine as the waiter approached. David ordered a scotch neat. Double.
“Scotch?” Max smiled.
When he didn’t say anything, Max put down her glass and said, “It’s simple. Austin and Emma are friends. Emma saw that Austin was angry about how his stepbrother was being treated. After they talked, Emma surmised that this might be a case I’d be interested in.”
“So Tommy didn’t write the letter.”
“Tommy wrote a letter, but Austin and Emma rewrote it.” Max hesitated, then said, “Emma’s a smart girl. She asked me questions when we were in Tahoe that I didn’t know at the time were helping formulate this letter. Things I look for. But it was still a crapshoot.”
“Why didn’t she call me?” David said.
“To protect you,” Max said. “Emma doesn’t want to give Brittney any reason to limit your visitation.”
“She said that?”
“No, I inferred it.” Max sipped her wine. David was still angry, or maybe he was more upset. “It’s been better with Brittney, hasn’t it?”
“We’re not going to talk about Brittney,” David said. The waiter brought his scotch, but David glared at him so he walked away.
“Great. He may never return and I’m starving,” Max said.
“I told Emma not to run around and play Nancy Drew. There’s a killer in Corte Madera and I will not have my daughter in the middle of it.”
“Of course. I don’t want her—or Austin—to turn over any rocks. But that makes this so much more important, David. I have to find out who killed Ivy. Not only for Tommy, but to make sure Austin and Emma are safe.”
David leaned back in his chair. “For Tommy. Not for Ivy? Her parents?”
Max had no idea what he meant by asking that. “David, I was going to stay even before I found out Emma was involved. I have a plan—something I didn’t have on the flight out.”
Again with the look.
“What?” she asked again. “Spell it out for me, David, because I’m not understanding your silence.”
“Let’s set some ground rules for this case.”
She rolled her eyes. “You cannot possibly expect—”
His glare had her closing her mouth.
“Once you start asking questions,” David said, “the killer is going to hear about it. Just because Central Marin is one of the safest communities in the Bay Area doesn’t mean that you won’t set someone off.”
“It’s my charm,” she snapped.
“You have it in spades,” he said dryly. “And so your charm doesn’t put you in the line of fire, make sure you keep me in the loop. You’re getting better, but you still forget.”
“You mean you don’t want to tag along?” she said with intentional sarcasm.
“I reserve the right to ‘tag along’ anytime I see fit.”
“Of course. That’s why Ben pays you.”
The waiter did return, and they ordered dinner. Then David said, “Tell me the plan.”
“I want to see the tape of Travis’s police interview. Travis didn’t give me a bad vibe, but he gave it to Grace Martin. Why? After he and I talked, I was left wondering if he might know what Ivy was doing during those hours before she was killed. And maybe that he has some ideas about who was at the preserve with her, or at least wh
o she might have been meeting. But I don’t think he killed her.”
She continued, “Graham Jones arrives tomorrow afternoon—he’ll give me his assessment of the crime scene and the evidence, and hopefully Grace Martin continues to cooperate. She was impressed that NCFI was coming down.”
“Most cops are.”
“And I’m meeting with Paula Wallace tomorrow morning to prepare for the interview. Charlie will be here first thing in the morning. I also want to talk to the Brock family. I haven’t heard back from Lorenzo, the reporter, who promised to contact Justin Brock on my behalf. Weasel. So I’m going to the parents.”
“I should be there. As a parent.”
She almost said no, but nodded. “And what about your day?” she asked. “Learn anything from the wealth of information our staff downloaded from cyberspace?”
“Quite a bit. Ivy was a busy girl.”
“Tell me.”
“The report is in your suite. Let’s not discuss the photos in public.”
The waiter came with their food and they ate in silence for several minutes.
“What happened with Tommy and Austin?” David asked eventually.
“Tommy is a rare person, completely open, unassuming. Austin and Emma helped him with the letter, but the sentiment was his.” She sipped wine and considered what she’d been thinking that afternoon. “Austin is angry at everyone except Tommy. He’s protective. The best thing I can do for both of them is find the truth.”
“And what if the truth isn’t what either of them want to hear? Tommy may still be ostracized. Sometimes, Max, the truth doesn’t fix the problem.”
“But it’s better than not knowing,” she said.
“Is it?”
She stared at David in disbelief. He knew—better than anyone—how important the truth was, especially to her. How could he even suggest that anyone live with the cloud of doubt—the agony of suspicion—hanging over them for the rest of their lives?
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