“I’d like you to provide a formal statement and take a lie-detector test.” She would also try to get a genetic sample from him, even though she knew it would probably just end up sitting on a shelf in the precinct basement with all the other dead-end cases.
He groaned and tugged his fingers through his hair. “What? Why? I told you I didn’t do anything? I didn’t touch her.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?” She flashed him a smile. “If you’re telling the truth, you’ll pass the test with flying colors.”
He ground his teeth together, then, with a resigned sigh, said, “Fine.”
He gestured toward the door. “Can I go back to work now?”
She followed him out of the room, turning off the lights behind them. In the hallway, Zach paused to slide his mask down over his face.
“Zach,” she called out to him.
He turned toward her.
“I know how to find you now. Monday. Show up, or I’ll write up a warrant for your arrest.” She wouldn’t, but she hoped the threat would be enough to get him to keep his promise.
He glared at her, then stormed toward the kitchen.
Brett turned to go back to the ballroom and nearly tripped over a woman standing in the hallway behind her. The woman was dressed in a simple cream-colored dress with glass beads sewn into the bodice. Her mask resembled a goat head. The entire mask was painted with a floral pattern, except the horns, which were ink black and glittered in the dim light. Her lipstick was crimson red, and Brett fixed on them as they moved around words of apology.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.” The woman pointed to the room Brett had just left. “Is that the restroom?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Oh. Well. Okay.” The woman lifted her skirts and bustled away from Brett. She pushed through the door at the end of the hallway. Music and laughter swelled.
Brett gave herself another minute in the relative quiet of the hallway before she smoothed her dress, drew her mask down over her face, and went to find Eli.
Chapter 21
Clara hadn’t heard everything that was said through the closed hallway door, but she’d heard enough.
When Marshall pointed out Brett from across the room a half an hour ago, the first thing Clara said was, “What is she even doing here? She should be working on Elizabeth’s case.”
Elizabeth was spending the night at June’s house. Even though Clara had agreed to the arrangement, she had already snuck away twice to call and check on her daughter, who insisted she was fine. “We’re not going to sneak out again, I promise,” she said, and there was a beat of silence after that felt weighted with everything that had happened the last time Elizabeth slept over at June’s. But Clara took a breath and tried to let it go. Elizabeth was safe.
Her anger surfaced again when she saw Brett drinking and dancing, wasting time when she should have been tracking down the bastard who’d robbed a young girl of her innocence.
“She’s not a robot, Clara,” Marshall said, guiding her around the dance floor. “She gets to take breaks.”
“You should have seen the way she blew me off yesterday when I tried to talk to her about it.” Clara grabbed a glass of champagne and tipped it to her mouth, gulping it in one swallow.
As Marshall twirled her around the dance floor, his firm hand pressed to the small of her back, she watched Brett, who wore a luxurious blue dress that glittered like the ocean at sunrise. Her mask was a tuft of fluttering feathers, shimmering in the candlelight. Eli said something to make her laugh, and her head tilted back, exposing a slender, pale neck. Then Eli and Brett separated. Eli moved toward a group of his parents’ friends, and Brett followed one of the servers across the room, keeping her distance as if she didn’t want him to notice. The server went through a door. Brett slipped quietly after him.
Clara broke from Marshall’s grasp. “Ladies’ room,” she said, lifting her skirts and hurrying away.
She wasn’t sure what she was planning, exactly. To finish the conversation that had been cut short in the parking lot of the precinct yesterday, maybe. To demand answers and action. Not this. Standing with her ear pressed to the door, Clara listened as Brett questioned the boy who’d raped Elizabeth. Of course, the boy denied everything. But what Clara didn’t expect was for Brett to give him the benefit of the doubt and let him go. As if Elizabeth’s version of events meant nothing.
The door swung open. Clara pressed herself against the wall. The boy who came out didn’t give her even a passing glance. Without his mask, she recognized him. She moved to chase after him and ran straight into Brett.
“Oh, excuse me,” Brett said. “I didn’t see you there.”
The mask was enough to keep her from recognizing Clara.
“I’m sorry.” Clara made some excuse about looking for the restroom before spinning away and hurrying back to the ballroom. She circled, searching for Marshall, but he found her first, pressing his body against her back, his lips warm against the curve of her neck. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
The black feathers of his mask tickled her, raising goosebumps across her skin. She closed her eyes a moment, leaning into his strength. Then she turned to face him, whispering in his ear, “He’s here.”
“Who?” Marshall asked, brow furrowing.
“Do you remember that boy we saw talking to Elizabeth after her soccer game last week?” She looked around, but Zach was nowhere to be seen.
Brett had reentered the room shortly after Clara and once again stood with Eli.
Marshall thought a minute and nodded. “Yeah. Vaguely, I guess.”
“That’s him. That’s who hurt Elizabeth.”
“What? How do you know that?” He scanned the room. “He’s here?”
“He’s one of the servers. I was looking for the restroom, and I overheard Brett talking to him. He’s claiming he didn’t do anything, though, that Elizabeth is lying. She’s not going to arrest him.”
His jaw tensed. “Point him out to me.”
This time Clara spotted him. With his tray once again filled, he walked among the guests, offering them food. His mask was crooked, and as he reached to adjust it, a tremor ran through her whole body. Those fingers gripping Elizabeth, holding her still, forcing himself, forcing her quiet. Clara wanted to break every bone in his hand.
“There.” She pointed. “Next to the ice sculpture.”
Marshall shoved through the crowd toward the boy on the other side of the room.
She lifted her skirts and followed in his wake.
“Hey!” Marshall grabbed Zach’s shoulder and spun the boy around.
Startled, Zach bobbled the tray. It went flying and crashed to the floor with a loud clang. Everyone stopped talking at once and turned to look. The violin kept playing, a thin and strangled sound in the quiet room. Distantly, Clara heard voices, someone calling out to Marshall, but her focus was on the boy in front of her. He had stubble on his chin and a startled look on his face that faded to a smirk as he looked Marshall up and down, measuring the size of him. He tilted his chin, sure and cocky. “What the hell’s your problem, man?”
Marshall’s fists clenched, and before Clara could do anything to stop him, he cocked his arm and punched Zach in the face.
A woman screamed. Zach’s hand flew to his nose. Blood poured down his mouth and chin and dripped onto the front of his starched white shirt.
“What the hell?” His voice turned stuffy and nasal. “You broke my fucking nose. What the hell?”
Marshall shook out his hand. His face was pinched with pain, but he didn’t back down. He shoved in close to Zach, spit flying from his mouth. “I’ll break your fucking neck if you come anywhere near my daughter again. Do you hear me, you fucking prick? You touch Elizabeth, you breathe on her, you even so much as look at her, and I’ll fucking break you in two.”
Zach blinked, startled. Then his shoulders rolled
back, and he seemed to be gathering himself, readying to lunge at Marshall. Hands grappled him from behind, and then Eli was there, pulling him away and guiding him to a nearby door. “Let’s get you some ice for that.”
* * *
When they got home an hour later, Clara ordered Marshall onto the couch. “Take off your tie.”
She grabbed a beer from the fridge and a package of peas from the freezer, then sat down next to him and carefully lifted his hand to inspect his injuries. His knuckles were bruised and starting to swell. “Poor you,” she said, wrapping a towel over the peas and gently settling them over his knuckles. She leaned against his shoulder, cradling his hurt hand in her lap.
With his uninjured hand, he opened the beer and took a long drink.
“Does it hurt much?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine.” Then he gave her a devilish grin. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat, you know.”
“My hero.” She kissed his cheek.
He sighed and leaned his head back on the couch, closing his eyes.
Clara hadn’t even wanted to go to the Millers’ stupid party. She hated being around all those rich people, hated pretending to like them because it was good for Marshall’s business. This year especially, with everything that was happening to Elizabeth, Clara had wanted to stay home. But Marshall insisted, and now she was glad he had. Because even though they were the ones, not Zach, treated like criminals and ultimately escorted from the Millers’ house. Even as Brett scolded Marshall—You shouldn’t have done that. Even then, Clara had no regrets. Marshall had stood up for their daughter when no one else would.
Pride swelled in her chest as she pulled the peas off his hand and looked at the bruise again. “Can you move your fingers?”
He waved, then winced. “It hurts, but yeah.”
So probably not broken, but his hand would be stiff and painful for a few days. Clara settled the frozen peas back over the swelling and looked at him. They were both still wearing their costumes, though their masks were gone—his dropped somewhere back at the party and hers sitting on the coffee table where she’d dropped it when they got home. She felt a little ridiculous, sitting around in her finery, but with the adrenaline rushing through her, it had been the last thing on her mind when they got home.
“What are we going to do?” She took a sip of his beer and handed it back.
He gave a half-hearted shrug. “What Brett told us to do, I suppose.”
As they waited in the Millers’ driveway for the valet to bring their car around, Brett had said that the case would be nearly impossible to prosecute without a confession. Especially since Elizabeth couldn’t identify her attacker by anything other than the mask he was wearing. Especially since she’d been drinking and no one else had seen it happen. Then Brett told them something Clara wished she had never heard, something she wanted to go back and erase from her daughter’s history. Elizabeth’s attacker had not only violated her physically, but he’d also taken her underwear as some kind of sick prize.
But if Zach had the underwear, Clara had argued, wouldn’t that be all the evidence they’d need to convict? So what were they waiting for? Search his house!
But no, Brett said, it wasn’t as simple as that. They could ask Zach for permission to search his property, but if he didn’t give it, they would need a warrant. And warrants, she said, were hard to get without physical evidence or a witness coming forward. Even if they got lucky and found the evidence they needed, did they really want Elizabeth to endure such a long and public trial with so little chance of conviction? And an even slimmer chance of a prison sentence? She said it like her hands were tied, and she wished the Trudeaus would drop the whole thing and forget it ever happened. Then she said that Zach was coming down to the station on Monday to give a statement, and after that, she’d have a better idea of what to do next. She told them the best thing they could do for their daughter right now was just be there for her. Leave Zach alone and let Brett do her damn job.
Which to Clara meant doing nothing, which meant letting a guilty man walk. She had watched Zach’s face closely during the confrontation, and she was confident of his guilt, even if he’d told Brett otherwise. Clara had seen fear pass across his face when he’d heard Elizabeth’s name. He was a good liar. Good enough to fool a cop, but not good enough to fool a mother.
The events of the evening played out in Clara’s mind again. How quickly her husband had rushed across the ballroom, pushing aside anyone who dared stand in his way. His arm lifting, his biceps straining the suit fabric. The loud crack. How easily Zach’s head snapped back.
Her husband, her protector.
She gently moved Marshall’s injured hand out of the way and swung her leg over his lap, straddling him, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. He seemed surprised and gently pushed her away, at first.
They had always been private about their love-making, preferring their bedroom to exotic locations like the kitchen counter and the top of the dryer. But tonight felt different. Tonight felt charged with electric energy, and Clara didn’t want to bother moving to the bed. She wanted Marshall right here, no waiting.
Her lips brushed along his neck and, as if that was all the permission he needed, he set the beer on the side table and began fumbling with her dress. There were so many layers and tiny buttons down the back. After a few seconds laughing at each other’s fumbled attempts, he finally unclasped the last button. Clara ripped the dress from her body and cast it aside in a lacey heap. She reached to remove the corset she’d worn to fit into the dress, but Marshall grabbed her arms and pulled them down by her side.
“Leave it.” His voice was low and husky, thick with wanting.
She dipped her head and smiled, delighted that even after all this time, she could still turn him on. She reached to undo his belt buckle and pressed her lips to his.
* * *
Clara rolled to look at the clock on her nightstand. 2:03 AM. Beside her, Marshall snored softly. She slid out from under the covers, careful not to disturb him, and walked to their bedroom window that overlooked the street. Some sound had woken her, rattling cans and hushed voices, the rev of an engine, tires squealing away. But as she stood with her fingertips pressed to the cold glass, staring into the night, she saw nothing beyond her translucent reflection. She let the curtain drop over the window again, quietly dressed in a pair of jogging pants and one of Marshall’s hooded sweatshirts, and went downstairs. She didn’t bother turning on any of the lights. She knew this house like she knew her own body, which steps creaked, which table corners to avoid. Once in the living room, she slipped on tennis shoes and went out the front door.
She stood a moment, confronting the shadows, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. Whatever or whoever had woken her, they were gone now. The stars were still out, and so was a large chunk of the moon. A perfect, clear October night, a terrible thing to waste. She was already awake, already outside. She started to walk.
When she reached the dock at Deadman’s Point an hour later, she wasn’t surprised. It was at least a three-mile walk, but of course, this was where her feet brought her. She sat at the end of the pier, removed her shoes, and dabbled her toes in the water. The cold burned and made her suck in a sharp breath. Even though it was tempting death to swim without a wetsuit, she still felt the desire to slip into the darkness and let the current take her where it willed. She swept her feet through the glinting reflections of the stars and moon above her, splintering them, destroying. Then she pulled her feet out of the water, re-laced her shoes, and walked home, her mind empty of every thought but one.
Zach would pay for what he’d done.
Chapter 22
Hoping to pull Amma from her funk, Brett suggested they take a walk downtown on Saturday morning to check out Crestwood’s Annual Halloween Festival. Amma’s mood improved the second they stepped outside. It was a beautiful day for an outdoor festival. The temperatures were cool enough that everyone was bu
ndled in jackets and scarves, but they were lucky this year with sun and clear skies.
“At least it’s not raining, right, Amma?” Brett pulled her toward Main Street, which bustled with color and noise.
Barricades had been set up to keep cars out. People in costumes wandered down the middle of the street and crowded the sidewalks. There were a lot of werewolves and vampires. A few witches, some fairies, and a smattering of princesses. There were more unique costumes, too, like an astronaut, a Mary Poppins, a pickle, a centaur, several famous musicians including Bowie and Prince, and an entire family dressed as the characters from The Wizard of Oz.
Amma scowled at a man dressed as Superman and asked, a little too loudly, “Why is that man wearing his underwear over his pants?” But then a man in stilts and a clown suit walked by, and Amma laughed, delighted and said, “I’m glad you talked me into this!”
Rock music blared from boom boxes on one end of the street, and a live bluegrass band clanged at the other end. There were face-painting booths, balloon animals, carnival games, everything dinging and ringing. Kids shrieked with delight as they chased one another through the crowd. The air was thick with the smell of barbecued meats and fried dough. People kept brushing against them, and it took all of Brett’s effort to keep hold of Amma’s elbow so they didn’t get separated.
“What do you want to do first?” Brett shouted to be heard over the noise.
Amma tilted her head to one side and smiled like a little kid. “Eat cotton candy.”
Brett handed a dollar to the pimple-faced kid working the booth. He passed back a cone of pink spun sugar and fifty cents in change. Brett pinched off a large bite for herself and gave Amma the rest. A few minutes later, her tongue dyed pink, Amma said, “One year they had a petting zoo. A small one with bunnies and goats and guinea pigs. I wonder if they’re doing that again?”
“Let’s go find out.” Brett slipped her arm through Amma’s elbow, and they wandered slowly down the street, pausing to watch a woman juggle three flaming sticks.
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