And Sarah is right. We are the luckiest family in the world.
30
Aaron, 2013
THERE ARE SIMPLY SOME people the police force is discouraged from arresting—either because it will rain hell down on the department or it will bring publicity we don’t want.
Judge Latham’s son is included in both of those categories.
Still, when I pulled him over for going fifteen miles per hour in a fifty-five mile per hour zone, I couldn’t ignore someone who was driving under the influence of marijuana and carrying enough marijuana with the intent to distribute. Mason Latham, of course, denied being high and denied the marijuana was his, but I wouldn’t expect anything less from a young kid with everything to lose.
District Attorney Brandon Wright, Gwendolyn “Wendy” Norris, defense attorney, Judge Earl Latham, and I sit in the Lathams’ dining room. Everyone looks tense—their bodies upright and their muscles contracted—but Brandon is more nervous, his movements are jerky and his eyelids flutter every few seconds. I would be nervous as hell if Judge Latham thought I was trying to imprison his son, too, but Latham and I have known each other long enough inside his courtroom that he knows I’m just doing my job.
“There is no reason for this to go to court,” Wendy says. “Brandon, you know that a jury will look at Mason and see an upstanding citizen who either made a mistake or was framed by some lowlifes.”
Brandon glances at Judge Latham, who is glaring down at his hands. “Still, what kind of message would we send if we let Mr. Latham off without any penalty?”
“There would be a penalty. He will pay a fine—with his own money—and do community service, which will be done under the strict guidance of his father,” Wendy says. “The boy is out on bail and he hasn’t tried to leave town. He’s a good kid that went down the wrong path for a short while. He has a clean record. Give him this one chance and if he messes up again—”
“You’ll do your job and try to get him off again,” Brandon finishes.
She smirks. “Of course, but my argument will be a lot weaker.” She turns to me. “Would you be okay with a fine and community service?”
I nod. “For a first-time offender, it makes sense to me.”
My cell phone rings. “Excuse me,” I mutter, though no one notices because Brandon and Wendy are trying to negotiate. Loudly.
I step out of the dining room into the Lathams’ living room. I don’t recognize the phone number. “Hello?”
“Mr. Grant?” a deep male voice replies.
“Yes?”
“This is Pat Sands, the fire department chief.”
“Yes, Chief, we’ve met,” I say, remembering his round face and the way he has the spirit of a twenty-year-old, though he’s in his sixties. “We had the case—”
“Mr. Grant, your house is on fire. Everything is burning to the ground.”
31
Teresa, 2015 (Monday afternoon)
THE WYATT POLICE DEPARTMENT reminds me of a fraternity house if the fraternity house was run by computer geeks who had a hardcore addiction to caffeine. The break room resembles the fraternity kitchen, where nobody knows how to clean.
I take two Styrofoam coffee cups—one that has something chunky and white floating in it—and throw them out. I sit down across from Police Chief Harlan Grant, Aaron’s father. We’re waiting for Judge Latham, Vanessa, and Mason to arrive, so that we can talk about what to do now that it’s been nearly three days since Sarah went missing.
“You know, I just tendered my resignation,” Chief Grant says.
“Wow,” I say. “Should I congratulate you or…you’re retiring, right? I mean, nothing happened to make you resign…right?”
He laughs. “Yeah. I’m choosing to retire now. I guess Aaron didn’t tell you.”
“No, he didn’t, but Aaron isn’t exactly the type to spill his guts.”
“No, no he isn’t.” Chief Grant rubs his five o’clock shadow. “But he isn’t good with complex feelings. He’s going to be acting as chief until the next election and I…I have prostate cancer.”
“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out, as my face burns hot. I never know what to say next when somebody has told me tragic news. “I can’t believe Aaron didn’t tell me…”
“It’s not a big deal,” Chief Grant says, waving away my sympathy. “There’s a good survival rate. I’m nervous, of course, but I know how to rely on logic rather than emotions.”
“Then, we have something in common,” I say.
“So…I have to say, I noticed something…” Chief Grant leans back onto the break room’s couch, which has foam poking out of it in several places. “My son, God forgive him, has had a problem with alcohol for the last two years. But since he’s met you…he seems pretty sober. What do you think made him change?”
“I think it’s just the case,” I say honestly. “It’s shocked him into going straight.”
“Maybe.” Chief Grant seems unconvinced. He opens his mouth, about to add something else, when Judge Latham, Vanessa, and Mason walk into the room, followed by two more people I don’t recognize.
The woman—in her mid to late fifties—has light brown hair that’s streaked with gray and pulled up into a bun. She’s thin—bordering on being frail—but her eyes scan the room with hardened resolve. The man next to her has a slightly younger face, but his hair is completely gray, and his slim frame is complemented by a three-piece suit. The sky blue tie even matches the woman’s dress.
Their appearance screams politics.
“Agent Daniels, this is Crystal Latham-Riverston and Jeb Riverston. They are Mason's mother and stepfather, as well as pillars of the community. Mrs. Latham-Riverston and Mr. Riverston, this is Agent Daniels, the FBI agent who is working on Sarah’s case,” Chief Grant introduces. “It’s a pleasure to see you both. I didn’t expect you two to be here.”
“Well, considering we have donated a hefty amount of money to the police department and we have ties to the Latham family, we wanted to make sure this case was being handled to the best of the department’s capabilities,” Jeb says. Out of the corner of his eye, he looks me up and down—judging whether I am ‘the best.’
“I can assure you we’re doing the best that we can—” Chief Grant starts.
“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “But just because you have donated money to the department doesn’t mean you can get involved in any case you want. This is a very sensitive case and the less people we have involved, the better chance we have at recovering Sarah.”
In my periphery, I see a smirk on Mason’s face, but when I glance over at him, it’s gone.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Crystal snarls. “Without us, this department would be riding horses to crimes and using a magnifying glass.”
“I think I’m the FBI agent who will do anything to get Sarah back. I would greatly appreciate it if you both returned to your home,” I tell her, every one of my words firm and unrelenting.
“I want to talk to your supervisor.” Jeb steps closer to me, his finger pointed toward my face.
I raise my eyebrow. Is he really trying to intimidate me? I was best in my class when it came to weapons training. I take my wallet out of my purse, pull out one of my business cards, and then hand it to him. “Go ahead. Call the number. It will reach my office, and you can find my supervisor there. Now, please, have a nice evening.”
Crystal and Jeb both look like they might explode, their faces flaming. Crystal gapes at me, her hands clasping and unclasping, while Jeb stares at me with his finger still in the air.
This time I’m certain I see Mason smiling. It’s possible he just hates these two, but there’s something else about his demeanor. He’s too calm for the fact that this half sister is missing.
“We will be calling.” Crystal then spins on her heel and walks out of the room.
Jeb lowers his hand, grimaces, and then follows her.
I turn to Judge Latham and Vanessa. “I’m sorry about that. I just
think the less people who know about this case, the better we will be. The last thing we need are rumors flying around.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” Judge Latham says. “That face Crystal was making was priceless.”
I don’t approve of his comments because of the abuse allegations, but it’s not the moment to be making more waves.
“So, the FBI and Wyatt Police Department have been working together to find your daughter—” I begin.
“Wait,” Judge Latham turns to Chief Grant. “Your son is off the case, right? He’s a suspect who had a weird obsession with my daughter. He should absolutely not be investigating.”
“Judge Latham, I respect your input, but my son did not kill those kidnappers,” Chief Grant says.
“It’s a conflict of interest!” Earl blows up. It looks as if a vein is about to explode from his neck. Vanessa shrinks beside him, but Mason seems unfazed as he plays with his phone.
“Judge Latham, you made a deal with Detective Grant on behalf of your son in order to have drug charges dropped. Those drug charges should have led to prison time, but instead Mason was charged with a fine and community service, supervised by you. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to talk about conflict of interest.”
Mason glances up from his phone, his dark eyes catching mine for a second. There’s no shame about his past or anger that I brought it up. In fact, he looks slightly amused.
Judge Latham, on the other hand, is livid. He takes deep breaths—his nostrils flaring—as his lips are pressed tightly together.
“Look, everyone is tired and under a lot of stress. We’re all afraid right now. We can talk strategy some time later,” I say.
Judge Latham’s fists are shaking as he stands up, but he nods and exits the room. Vanessa follows behind him, but Mason lingers in the room for a second.
“Are you really afraid?” he asks. “For Sarah?”
“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You don’t even know her.”
“She’s a person. She’s young and…if she’s alive, she’s probably really scared.”
“If she’s alive,” he repeats. “What makes you think she would have survived this long?”
“I have hope,” I say.
He chuckles. “Hope is for when the facts are telling you that everything is going to hell.” He takes several steps back until he’s outside of the break room. “Hell isn’t so bad. At least you know it can’t get any worse.”
He pivots and walks away from me. I turn toward Chief Grant, but he’s too busy getting some coffee to notice the abnormal boy who is devoid of all hope.
32
Teresa, 2015 (Late Monday afternoon)
I KNOCK ON AARON’S door. As I wait for him to answer, I glance at my reflection in his window. I’m normally not obsessed with how I look—I keep the same hairstyle and my wardrobe is essentially the same clothes in slightly different shades. I’ve never seen the point in spending so much time with perfecting how I look, but for some reason—while plotting to break into a judge’s house—I feel the need to look pretty. I don’t know if I could ever be considered beautiful, so looking pretty seems like a good compromise.
Aaron jerks open the door, and his eyes light up. There’s a flash of a smile before it disappears then his lips curve downward. “I still think this is a bad idea,” he says, but he gestures for me to walk in.
He lives in a small Craftsman bungalow-style house. It’s one story, painted pale-yellow, and has ornate beams that appear to be twisted as they hold up the roof over the porch. With such a beautiful exterior, I would have expected the inside to be as decorative, but there is hardly anything inside. Stepping into the kitchen, I only see a coffee maker and a stool beside the kitchen island. There aren’t any decorations, photos, or anything that would make someone believe that a person lived in the house instead of a squatter.
Then, I suppose when a fire burns away most of your belongings, most people would be hesitant to gather too many possessions that could be taken away within minutes.
“Do you have any better ideas?” I ask.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t know. Drinking seems like a really good idea right now.”
“Drinking is a really bad idea right now because you’re about to commit a misdemeanor.”
I sit down at his kitchen stool. The kitchen island has a pewter marble top. I run my hands over it. There are a few chips in it. “When did you buy this house?”
“About a year ago,” he says. His eyes study my face, trying to figure out if I’m making casual conversation or trying to figure out more about his tragedy. He must decide on the latter. “After the fire, I lived with my father for about six months and then a motel for another six months before I bought this place.”
I nod. I don’t want to pry too much. I know what it’s like to want to keep your past buried six feet under.
“Do you know where all of the Lathams are?” I ask.
“Vanessa went to go see a therapist, and Mason went to see his mother. Judge Latham should be going to Anchorage for work in…twenty-two minutes for evening court,” he says, glancing at the clock. “From what I've heard, the court told him he didn't have to work since his daughter is missing, but he insisted it was the only thing that could keep his mind off her.”
“Do I want to know how you know all of that?” I ask.
“Police connections.” He walks over to me, leaning onto the kitchen island. “Do you want a drink while we wait to commit this misdemeanor? And by drink, I mean a nonalcoholic beverage?”
“No, thanks,” I say. I pull out a protein bar from my bag and a bottle of water.
Aaron stares at me. “You’re packed like you think we’re going on a hike.”
“These bars are good for you and they’re easy to eat while I’m working. It’s just the logical choice.”
“I need to take you to The Charcoal Grill sometime,” he says. “That will show you what real food is.”
“That’s a bit presumptuous.”
“You know who calls people presumptuous? Presumptuous people.”
I glare at him as I take a big bite out of my protein bar.
He tilts his head, watching me. “Do you ever miss your ex-husband?”
I nearly choke on my food and end up coughing as it’s caught in my throat. Aaron claps me on the back until I manage to get it back down.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you that much.”
“It didn’t surprise me,” I say, and then take a deep breath. “I just…where did that question come from?”
“Sometimes I wonder if it would have been less painful to lose Becky through divorce instead of a fire. I would think that it would be, but with divorce, there’s still the pain of rejection and knowing that it didn’t work out as well as you thought it would. At least my relationship with Becky didn’t change. Our love never lessened.”
“I wouldn’t say that I stopped loving Nathan, but the love did change. We were a bit infatuated with each other’s ambition I think and we never thought about how, as individuals, that could create conflict. We weren’t prepared. We weren’t in love enough to stay together.”
Aaron nods. “That makes sense. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if Becky and I would have stayed together if she were still alive now.” He flushes and turns away from me, looking out into his front yard.
“I shouldn’t be talking like this,” he says. “It’s disrespectful to her memory.”
“I’m pretty sure it would be more disrespectful to pretend that everything was perfect,” I tell him.
He glances at me over his shoulder. “We did pretend everything was perfect. And sometimes it was. But it felt like a facade a lot of the time. The football star and the homecoming queen…what else could we have done other than get married?”
“The best relationships I know…it’s two people you never expected together. My old partner…Stephen…he’s married to an elementary teacher who at
tends war protests in her spare time and thinks the government is too corrupt to save.”
“She realizes she’s married to a government employee, right?” he asks.
I shrug. “Somehow, their relationship works. They’re very happy.”
“How can you tell it’s not just a facade?”
“Because I’ve seen them together. They look at each other with complete love and trust. I envy their relationship. I wish someone loved me as much as they love each other.”
“I’m sure you’ll find someone.”
“Not with the demands of my job. Nathan was a fluke while I was in the first steps of my career.”
He leans over the kitchen island again, his hands a few inches away from mine. “Maybe you’ll fall in love with a kidnapper or serial murderer,” he teases.
“Do I need to remind you what you were under investigation for?” I ask.
He turns red again and glances out the window. “Do you have what you need to get into the house?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready when you are.”
“Let’s go,” he says. “It takes a few minutes to get to his house and we won’t want to stop right in front of it, so we’ll need to walk a block or two.”
He grabs his jacket. I watch him. He’s definitely not who I thought he was. He seems to be a man who does everything in excess—drink, investigate, love. It’s something I wish I could do—dive straight in without concerns of whether or not I could get in trouble or get hurt. His passion is beautiful and it makes me remember that my own passion used to burn just as bright.
33
Aaron, 2015 (Late Monday afternoon)
I AM TYPICALLY NOT a subtle person. I don’t beat around the bush while interrogating suspects or kiss up to my superiors. Subtle is for people who are afraid of a person’s power or hurting people’s feelings—two things that I haven’t feared since the fire. When you have nothing left to lose, fear becomes an afterthought.
Midnight Sun: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (A Grant & Daniels Trilogy Book 1) Page 10