The Shadow Writer

by Maxwell, Eliza

  “Have you found Laura?” Graye asks.

  She recalls the slippery sensation of blood between her fingers and shudders.

  They don’t seem to have heard her or, more likely, simply don’t bother to answer.

  “Let’s get a few formalities out of the way. First, I want you to know we’re recording this conversation.” The officer points to the corner of the room where a shiny black orb is mounted.

  Graye doesn’t care about that.

  “Fine,” she says with a wave of her hand.

  “For the recording, it’s nine twenty-three a.m. the morning of Sunday, August twenty-sixth, two thousand eighteen. This interview is in reference to an initial investigation concerning a suspicious death at four fifteen Oceanside Parkway, Port Mary, Texas. Now, can you tell us your name for the record?” the woman asks.

  Grace Ann Thacker. Daughter of Crystal, sister of Alexis.

  “Graye Templeton,” she answers without hesitation. Daughter of no one.

  “Miss Templeton, I’m Detective Foster and this is Detective Branson,” he says, gesturing to his partner. “We’re with the Rockaway Police Department. At this point in time, you are not under arrest, simply a person of interest in this investigation. However, we want to do this right. Cross all the i’s and dot all the t’s, if you know what I mean, so I’m going to go ahead and read you your rights.”

  He proceeds to do just that, never losing his gentle, casual tone.

  Graye shakes her head, uninterested in either an attorney or the detective’s easy banter, designed to tempt her into believing he’s her friend.

  “Do you know why you’re here?”

  Graye nods. “Because of the blood,” she says in a quiet voice, nearly a whisper.

  Detective Foster’s features remain relaxed, but his eyes take note of every twitch of her facial muscles.

  “That’s right,” he says. The kindly uncle tone of his voice never wavers. “Can you tell us about that? Can you tell us about the blood?”

  His partner looks up, her pen poised to jot down whatever Graye might say next.

  Her foot throbs. She focuses on the pain so she doesn’t have to think too deeply about the words they want to hear.

  “There was so much of it. I slipped and fell. Can you tell me if you’ve found her?”

  “You’re speaking of Laura West?” Detective Branson asks with a tilt of her head.

  “Yes. There was blood, so much of it. David must have killed her. Have you found David?” She doesn’t mention the troubling possibility plaguing her that it could have been Nick. That admission would just complicate things. There would be so many questions.

  “Dr. David West, Laura West’s husband?” the female detective asks.

  Were they seriously playing games with her right now? Did they not realize the severity of the situation?

  “Yes! You need to be out looking for him! He killed her, I know he did.”

  “You believe Dr. David West killed his wife?”

  Graye stares at her in disbelief.

  “That’s what I’ve been saying! It was David, it had to be.” Or Nick. Or Rachel Caron. But that’s their job, not hers. Why aren’t they doing their jobs?

  Graye is horrified by the growing tightness in her throat. She’s going to cry. She promised herself she’d never cry in front of anyone with authority over her again, but the tears are there and she can’t stop them.

  Once they start, there’s no holding them back.

  Eventually they pass, leaving her broken and humiliated. Drained of her final drops of self-respect.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. For what, she can’t say, but apologizing is a difficult habit to break.

  “Would you like to take a moment?” Detective Branson asks.

  Graye shakes her head. She’s stronger than this. She is.

  “No. I just want this done.”

  Detective Foster leans forward and places his elbows on the table. “Why don’t we start from the beginning?”

  Graye knows this man is her enemy. In her heart, she knows. But that voice. It’s so very kind. Kindness is Graye’s weakness. She’s known so little of it in her life.

  “It’s all my fault,” she says. “I knew David was dangerous, and I left her alone with him. It’s my fault.”

  Tears threaten again at the thought of what Laura must have suffered. Detective Branson speaks, and Graye focuses on her words, refusing to allow herself to break again.

  “How is it your fault?”

  Graye shakes her head. Why don’t they understand?

  “Don’t you see? I knew he could be violent. I’d seen it. I was her friend, and I let her down.”

  How she wishes she had the power to turn back the clock, to warn Laura, but she never imagined . . .

  Detective Branson briefly meets her partner’s eyes. Graye can’t read what’s exchanged between the two of them but senses it’s not good.

  “Miss Templeton,” Detective Foster says gently. “I can assure you, David West didn’t kill his wife.”

  Graye’s stomach drops. Nick. They’re going to find out about Nick.

  “That . . . that can’t be right,” she says, stunned. “He was so horrible at the party. Laura was humiliated and angry. She told me she was packing his bags. He’d knocked her to the ground in front of sixty witnesses, for God’s sake.”

  The two officers watch her closely.

  There’s something going on here. Some piece of the puzzle that Graye can’t quite see.

  She’s reeling, shuffling through the possibilities. Had Nick done this just to hurt her? She can’t face the implications of that. “It couldn’t be Hugo. He loves her. Anyone can see that.”

  Detective Branson flips through her notebook without meeting Graye’s eyes.

  “Would you be referring to Hugo Caron?”

  “But he would never hurt her.”

  “What makes you believe Mr. Caron could be involved?” Detective Branson prods.

  “Nothing!” she says. “I just told you, he couldn’t be. He loves her, and she loves him.”

  “Laura?” Detective Foster asks. “Laura West, in love with Hugo Caron?”

  The man’s slow, smooth delivery that had lulled her just moments before is beginning to grate.

  They’re detectives. Why are they having so much trouble keeping up?

  “Why don’t we slow down and back up just a bit,” Detective Foster says, leaning back in his chair and running his hand across his nearly bald head.

  But Graye doesn’t want to slow down. She can’t.

  The female detective speaks, her voice all corners and edges.

  “Mr. Caron may or may not have been having an affair with Mrs. West, but Hugo Caron didn’t kill anyone. He has an alibi for the time in question.”

  Graye was almost relieved they sounded so certain. For Laura to face such violence at the hands of someone she cared so deeply about would be the worst sort of betrayal. She must have been so afraid.

  “She was pregnant, though,” Graye says, leaning forward and placing her hands on the table. They’re not taking her seriously and she feels like she’s nine years old again, about to be dismissed with a pat on the head.

  “That has to be the key. Laura was pregnant and Hugo’s wife knew about it, I’m sure of it. I was there. I overheard her telling David.”

  Agitation has overtaken Graye’s nerve endings, and her skin warms, as if a stove burner has been switched on inside of her.

  “It must have been Rachel. Rachel Caron. If she’s his alibi, he could be protecting her. Talk to Rachel.”

  “Miss Templeton, I think maybe we’re getting a bit off track. Perhaps we should start with how you came to be acquainted . . .”

  He continued to speak, but Graye lost track of his words. Her eyes were drawn behind him, to the window that opened onto the rest of the police station.

  A man was walking past, headed from another room Graye couldn’t see. He stopped and spoke to the receptionis
t behind the desk.

  His back was turned to her, but she knew that man.

  Graye rose from her chair slowly.

  The detectives met each other’s eyes, but neither made any move to stop her as she stepped carefully from behind the table.

  At a torturous pace, Graye walked to the glass and placed her hand upon the cool pane.

  The man turned, glanced in her direction.

  It was Hugo.

  “You’re just going to let him walk out of here?” Graye asked. “He must know something!”

  “Miss Templeton, perhaps you should sit back down.”

  But she’s not listening.

  The double glass doors at the entrance to the station that hold back the scorching August heat are opening.

  A woman enters. Rachel Caron.

  Hugo turns and greets his wife, holding an arm wide for her to slip next to his side. She, in turn, wraps an arm around his waist.

  “That’s her! She did this, I’m telling you!” Graye says, tapping on the glass with her index finger and whipping her head back around to face the detectives. “He’s protecting her, the bastard!”

  They’re staring at her with a mixture of confusion and empathy.

  “Miss Templeton,” Detective Foster says gently. She wishes he’d stop using that solicitous tone. It’s lost its appeal.

  “Miss Templeton, Rachel Caron didn’t kill Laura West.”

  She gapes at him.

  “You can’t know that,” she says, shaking her head at their incompetence. “You’ve had me here for what? Two hours? That’s not enough time to make those kinds of decisions. How could you possibly know that?”

  A flurry of movement pulls her gaze back to the lobby of the police station.

  Someone else is crossing the lobby, heading in Hugo and Rachel’s direction, practically running.

  Graye stares as the three people embrace. They speak to one another for a moment, words Graye can’t possibly make out due to the distance and the glass between her and them.

  Then the newcomer turns and meets her eyes.

  “Miss Templeton, Hugo Caron didn’t kill Laura West, and neither did his wife,” the voice of Detective Branson says at her back.

  It can’t be. It doesn’t make any sense.

  But there’s no mistaking that face, the shining blonde hair, the blue eyes set against pale skin.

  “We know this because Laura West isn’t dead.”

  Graye turns back to stare at the woman in the lobby and her shock turns to something else entirely.

  Graye stands straighter as a massive weight dissipates from her chest. The anxiety that’s dogged her since she first saw the blood drains away. She’s as light as air.

  “Now, Miss Templeton. Why don’t you have a seat and we’ll start again.”

  “Of course,” she says, her entire demeanor shifting in an instant.

  A dazed smile she can’t contain blooms. She bites her lip, but that doesn’t hide her joy, her relief, so she drops her gaze to the floor and walks on lightened feet to take her seat.

  “Miss Templeton, we’ve brought you here as a person of interest in the investigation of the death of David West, Laura’s husband.”

  A girlish giggle escapes her lips and floats into the room, as out of place as a jazz band at a funeral.

  She can’t help it. She’s been haunted by visions of Laura being murdered in a savage, bloody rage. Haunted by the fear and despair she must have felt, realizing this person she trusted completely could subject her to such horrors. Haunted by the thought that, in her final moments, Laura saw nothing but the eyes of an animal who’d never cared for her at all.

  The sight of Laura has swept that all away.

  She’s alive. Laura is alive and David is dead.

  That was certainly never part of Graye’s plan, but she can’t deny there’s an alluring beauty to it. The stricken expressions on the detectives’ faces tell her she should stop, and she raises a hand to her mouth, trying to shut the laughter in, but it’s insistent.

  “Laura’s alive,” she says, exuberance in every syllable of the words. She reaches a hand out across the table, but neither officer is inclined to take it as they stare back at her, shocked by her outburst.

  She pulls her hand back and cups her palms around each other, pulling them and her joy close beneath her chin.

  “Miss Templeton?” Detective Branson says slowly. “A man is dead.”

  “Yes,” she says, struggling ineffectively to tamp down the happiness. “Yes, of course.”

  “What can you tell us about what happened to David West?” Detective Foster asks. His tone of voice, while still low and soothing, is more reserved this time, guarded. It’s clear he’s been thrown by her reaction.

  “Oh, I don’t know anything about that,” she says with a wave of her hand. She sighs happily and leans back in her chair, dropping her hands into her lap.

  This may not be exactly the case. Graye sometimes struggles to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s imagined, even to herself. That’s especially true in times of stress.

  But there’s no need to share her personal idiosyncrasies.

  Police officers deal in facts, and there’s only one fact Graye can share that matters.

  “Whatever did happen, I can tell you this. David West deserved it.”

  38

  LAURA

  “Laura, you shouldn’t be here,” Rachel says, placing a gentle hand upon her upper arm and peering closely at her face. “Have you told them what you went through last night?”

  Laura shakes her head, too close to tears at Rachel’s concern to say more.

  “They need to know,” Hugo insists.

  “I’m fine,” Laura says. She’s not fine. Not by a long shot, but the words come automatically.

  Rachel crosses her arms and gives her a disgusted look. “You are the absolute worst judge of whether or not you’re fine.”

  Rachel has known Laura since their days in college, and she’s not wrong. But it makes no difference.

  “I have to stay. They’re not going to let me go anywhere until I’ve been interviewed by the detectives.”

  “They will if I call my attorney,” Rachel insists. “And they will if you tell them what happened.”

  “I’ll tell them. I promise,” she says. “But please don’t call a lawyer. Not yet.”

  “Legal representation does not make you guilty. It makes you smart.”

  Rachel is an attorney. She specializes in tax law, thankfully. Laura has no doubt that if she were a criminal attorney she’d have already made a scene.

  The last thing Laura wants is a scene.

  David is dead.

  Murdered.

  She has trouble wrapping her mind around it. It sits like a stone in the middle of every thought as she tries to skirt around it, avoiding looking directly at it.

  “I’m fine,” she says again. “How did everything go?” she asks Hugo, deflecting Rachel’s ire.

  It works.

  “I still don’t understand why they questioned you first,” Rachel exclaims to her husband.

  He leans over and squeezes his wife’s shoulders. “Because I got into a public brawl with the man less than twenty-four hours ago,” he says quietly.

  “Were they treating you like a suspect?” Rachel prods. “Because if I get a single whiff that they’re trying to pin this on you, I swear to God—”

  “Rachel,” Hugo says. His voice is smooth and steady, a counterpoint to his wife’s fiery one. “They’re just gathering facts. You need to let them do their jobs.”

  “From what I heard, the facts are pretty damn clear,” Rachel points out. “She was picked up standing in the room with David’s dead body on the floor beside her.”

  The words steal the breath from Laura’s lungs, and the blood drains from her face.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry,” Rachel says, holding her for support. “You need to sit down.”

  They move to a bank o
f uncomfortable plastic chairs lining the wall of the station lobby, and Laura drops into one, then lets her head fall into her hands.

  The visual hits her like a battering ram. Her friend rubs a hand up and down Laura’s back as she tries to catch her breath.

  They sit in silence until she does.

  “What kind of questions did they ask?” Laura says quietly.

  Hugo’s focus is on Laura’s well-being rather than the police interview, but she needs to know. She needs to know if she’s placed her friends in danger by dragging them into this mess. Her mess. If she’s placed herself in danger.

  He takes one look at her determined face and sighs.

  “They asked about the fight,” he admits. “About what caused it.”

  “What did you say?” Rachel asks.

  “I told them the truth, didn’t I. That David was an insecure drunk who’d somehow gotten it into his head I was sleeping with his wife.”

  “Hugo,” Rachel chides.

  “What, Rachel? It’s not like it’s a secret. There are a thousand and one witnesses that heard him accuse me. It would have been a waste of time to play dumb. Jesus, Laura, I knew we shouldn’t have left you alone last night, no matter what you said.”

  “You told them the real story, I hope,” Rachel says.

  “Of course I did. But don’t be surprised if they want to confirm everything I said with you.”

  “Oh, I’ll be happy to tell them what’s up.”

  Laura lets out a choked laugh.

  “I’ve no doubt you will,” Hugo says and leans across Laura’s back to give his wife a kiss.

  Introducing them had been a whim Laura considered one of her greatest accomplishments. Hugo and Rachel were two of her favorite people, and somehow she’d known they’d fit perfectly together.

  She’d sat back and watched their love grow into something real, something tangible, that went deeper than surface attraction.

  If only she’d been so perceptive when it came to her own life.

  But could she honestly take the blame for what David had become? Should she have somehow known what kind of man he would turn into? Worse, was she somehow, at least partially, responsible?