It wasn’t like Jimmy to bail on plans he’d made. Then again, Brett had bailed first, so she couldn’t really judge. She was tired from driving, too tired to worry about Jimmy. He probably just got caught up sorting through the Tribune archives. The story always came first for him.
Brett told Amma goodnight, then went upstairs. Pistol followed at her heels. In her room, she changed into pajamas. She stood a moment at the window staring over the black and shimmering bay. Seeing French had left her feeling bruised and brittle, and she had a feeling she would be tossing and turning all night, unable to sleep as she tried to figure out how to get French what he wanted.
She pulled the curtain over the window, dampening the moonlight, then crawled under the sheets. Pistol let out a sharp bark. Brett reached over and scooped him up onto the bed, where he turned a circle before settling in the crook of her knees.
For not the first time in the past year, Brett slid her hand over the empty spot beside her and thought of Jimmy, their kiss, his hands wrapping around her face, drawing her in. His lips finding hers so confidently in the dark. She wondered what it would be like to come home to someone at night, someone like Jimmy who loved her and wrapped his arms around her and made her feel, finally, safe. Then came the thought that always followed this one. How she wasn’t sure it was even possible to feel safe in a world where men like Archer French existed.
Chapter 30
Clara stared at the man lying face down on her kitchen floor, then at the kettle of water in her hand. There was a smear of blood on the rounded metal bottom and splatter on the wood floor, but not much. And he was breathing.
He was still breathing. She clung to this fact, staring at the rise and fall of his ribs as the front door clicked open and Marshall called out to her. “Clara? Are you home?”
Then he was in the doorway behind her, inhaling sharply, exhaling a curse. She didn’t dare turn and face him.
“What have you done?” his voice barely above a whisper.
Her hands began to shake. Then her whole body. She dropped the kettle. It clattered onto the floor at her feet.
Marshall came to her, grabbed her arms, pushed his face into hers. “Clara, look at me.” His voice rose in anger. “What did you do?”
* * *
The man had come to the house late on Tuesday afternoon. He rang the doorbell, introduced himself as Jimmy Eagan, smiled, and asked if he could come inside. There was something familiar about him, but Clara couldn’t figure out where she knew him from. Then he said he had an appointment with Marshall, and she thought that must be it—he’s one of Marshall’s clients. She told him Marshall didn’t usually get home until 6:00 PM, but Jimmy, still smiling, told her he didn’t mind waiting. So she let him inside.
Clara did this to them, then. She opened the door wide and welcomed this stranger in. She said, “Can I get you something to drink?” And he said, “Coffee is fine.” And she filled the kettle and turned on the stove, more than happy to accommodate one of Marshall’s clients. In her mind, she gave the young man a wife and two kids. Because of his tweed jacket with elbow pads, the leather satchel he carried over one shoulder, and his fingers that were stained with ink, she imagined he was a teacher, or perhaps a college professor. He was looking for a starter home, something simple and functional, but quaint enough to impress his in-laws.
She smiled at him because he was smiling at her, and she didn’t think anything was wrong until he said, “You grew up in Crestwood, didn’t you?”
The way he asked it made her think he was here for more than a chat about the price of houses. But she answered him anyway. “I’ve lived here my whole life.”
Then he asked, “You and Marshall? You went to school together? You were high school sweethearts for a while? That’s what I heard, anyway.”
And that’s when she knew that he wasn’t a father-husband looking for a house. That’s when she remembered where she knew him from and realized the danger she was in. But she stayed calm, scooping coffee grounds into the filter and reaching into the fridge for milk.
“Yes, that’s right. Marshall and I fell in love in high school,” she said. “We’ve been in love ever since.”
“But you weren’t always together, right? I mean, that age, kids are always breaking up and making up.” He was trying to be so nonchalant, so pleasant.
She turned to look at him, really look at him for the first time since he entered her house—since she let him in. “Who did you say you were again?”
“Jimmy.” That smile was a fool’s smile, a liar’s smile, the smile of someone in the business of sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.
“And you’re working with my husband? You’re buying a house from him?”
“Oh, no.” A quick shake of his head. “I’m a reporter with the Oregonian.”
It confirmed what Clara already knew in her gut. This was the same man who had come sniffing around years ago. She’d been lucky back then and clearly smarter, too. He’d been so focused on Archer French, he hadn’t even noticed her. But now he was back and she had let him into her house. Now he was sitting at her kitchen table asking about her history with Marshall, and she could see quite clearly where all this was headed. She took a deep breath and turned her back on him to check the water boiling on the stove. The kettle rattled and hissed as the water grew hotter and hotter.
“I’m looking into the murder of a girl that took place around here over twenty years ago? Maybe you remember her? Margot Buchanan? She and your husband were close, weren’t they? They were dating the summer she died, am I getting that right? I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”
But of course, that’s precisely what he meant to do.
That’s when her hand wrapped around the black handle of the kettle.
* * *
“He was threatening me,” she said to Marshall, who had let go of her and dropped to the floor beside the reporter.
Marshall pressed his fingers to the man’s neck, checking for a pulse even though it was clear he was still breathing. A look of relief passed over his face, but this was quickly replaced by anger. “What happened?”
He rose to his feet, took a washcloth from a drawer, ran it under the faucet, then returned to the reporter and pressed it to the back of the man’s head where the kettle had made contact.
“I told you,” Clara said. “He was threatening me. He came into my home—”
“I invited him.”
“Why would you do that?”
“He said he wanted to talk to me about Margot. That’s why I’m home a little early.”
“But why? Margot is ancient history. And why would you tell him to meet you here when you knew I was alone?” Her hands were still shaking. Her whole body rattling like the kettle on the stove, simmering to a boil.
“I was planning on being here when he got here, but I ran into some traffic.” His brow pinched in a bewildered frown. “Please, Clara, tell me something that makes sense. Why is there an unconscious man lying on our kitchen floor?”
“He said…” She searched for something, anything, that would justify what she’d done. “He thinks you killed Margot.”
Marshall’s face paled, and he stopped fussing over the man. “He what?”
“He said he uncovered some new information, a new witness or something, someone who claims that they saw the two of you going into the woods that day. He wanted to know if you’d ever been violent with me. Or with Elizabeth.” Her voice cracked.
The name of his daughter brought Marshall to his feet. He stared at the reporter with a look of disgust, then he wiped his hand down his face and came to her, close enough that their faces were touching, breaths mingling. His thumb rolled over her wrist.
“I didn’t kill Margot,” he said. “I would never—”
“I know,” she interrupted him.
He glanced over his shoulder at the man on their floor, then squeezed his eyes closed as if hoping when he reo
pened them, the man would be gone.
She had done this, forced him into this position. Her sins had followed her out from the woods, out from the shadows, and into her home. She had always been expecting this, though, hadn’t she? Had always been expecting the truth of what she’d done to seep from the cracks in her lies. She knew what she was capable of, knew her own heart, how selfish and sharp-edged it was, knew she could—and would—do whatever it took to survive in this mean world. But Marshall, he was so gentle and kind, with the softest of hearts. She had always meant to keep him far away from things like this, far from these kinds of painful and necessary decisions.
She touched the back of his hand. “Elizabeth will be home from soccer practice soon. June’s mother is dropping her off.”
He looked lost, a younger version of himself. He wore the same expression he had the day Margot’s body was found. Confusion, his spirit crushed as if he was losing pieces of himself with each breath he released. She had been there for him then, and she was here for him now, taking him in her arms, comforting him as best as she could. These kinds of losses were not insurmountable. She had been here before. She knew what came next.
“Clara.” His voice was a rasping whisper, pleading with her. “What are we going to do?”
“Grab him under the arms.” She crouched by the man’s feet. On three, they lifted his body together.
Chapter 31
Brett left yet another message for Jimmy. “Where are you? Should I be worried? Please call me as soon as you get this.”
She’d called his motel room five times already this morning, twice before she left home and three times from her desk at the precinct. She’d even talked to the front desk manager, who assured her that Jimmy had yet to check out. Not that Brett really thought he had. Jimmy would never leave without saying goodbye. Sure enough, the front desk manager confirmed he’d paid in advance for the room through next Sunday. Brett hung up and sat a minute, trying to decide what to do next.
Worry knotted in her chest, but she did her best to ignore it. Jimmy was a grown man who could take care of himself, and it wasn’t her job to know where he was at all hours of the day. Right now, her focus needed to be on Archer French and the impossible task of convincing the superintendent to let a prisoner have one hour of extra yard time. She hoped Irving had some ideas for how to sweet talk the superintendent, but when she went looking for him, he wasn’t at his desk or in the break room.
Brett circled the squad room, then went outside in case he’d gone for fresh air. It had rained overnight. The pavement was still damp, and the clouds lingered, soggy and ash-colored. The news was forecasting a very wet Halloween, with more rain coming in this afternoon and staying through the evening. Just in time to ruin trick-or-treating. It fit the town’s mood, she supposed, which was still reeling from first Nathan’s death, then Zach’s. Two murders in two weeks. It had been only four days since Zach was stabbed at the festival downtown, and no one wanted to send their children out into the dark to knock on strangers’ doors. Not with a killer still on the loose. Brett had a feeling the streets of Crestwood would be unusually quiet tonight.
As she turned to go back inside the precinct, a patrol car drove into the lot. It parked close to the building, and Eli got out, then went to open the backdoor. A very dirty and very wary beagle leaped from the car onto the pavement.
“Trixie?” Brett ran toward them. She lowered herself to the ground and beckoned for the dog to come.
Trixie approached timidly, with her tail tucked between her legs. Dried mud covered her flanks and burrs stuck in her fur. There was a large scratch across her nose, and her collar was missing. Otherwise, she seemed unhurt. She flicked her tongue out and licked Brett’s cheek, then leaned her whole body into her leg and heaved a sigh. Brett scratched the dog’s ears and cooed to her reassuringly.
“This is your friend’s dog, isn’t it?” Eli asked
“Why do you have her?” Brett glanced at Eli’s patrol car. “Please tell me Jimmy’s with you, too?”
Eli frowned and shook his head. “A man who lives out on the other side of Lake Chastain found her running loose on his property. He coaxed her into his barn with some hamburger, then called dispatch to send animal control. I recognized the description of her. I saw Jimmy walking her down at Egret’s Park yesterday and remember thinking she was a good-looking dog. Since I was already out that way, I offered to bring her in.”
He held his hand out to pet her, and though she wagged her tail half-heartedly, she didn’t move from where she was pressed against Brett. “I thought it was strange for her to be out there by herself. Your friend doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would let his dog run loose.”
“He’s not.” The anxiety she’d been pushing down all morning rose again.
“You think she could have slipped her collar and run off?”
Brett shook her head. She swallowed the knot in her throat and plucked a burr from behind Trixie’s right ear. “I haven’t heard from Jimmy since yesterday morning. I think something’s wrong.”
Eli’s eyes narrowed with concern.
“It’s possible he got caught up in a story,” Brett said. “He does that sometimes when he’s writing. Forgets to sleep, forgets to eat, forgets to check in. But he would never forget about Trixie. Never.”
“Was he staying at the house with you?”
She shook her head. “He was at a motel downtown. I’ve left messages. Even drove past a few times, but he’s never there.”
“Maybe he went home?”
“Not without Trixie, he wouldn’t.” She scratched the dog’s flanks, and Trixie leaned into her even more. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Eli hooked his thumbs in his belt. “I’m sure he’s fine. Try not to worry. Maybe he went for a walk and got a little turned around. The woods out that way can be tricky if you’re not used to them. I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon, but look, I’m out on patrol all day. So I’m happy to keep an eye out for him.”
It was something anyway. She nodded her thanks.
“What’s he driving?” Eli asked.
She gave him a description of Jimmy’s car, then watched him climb back into his patrol car and drive off. When she turned and walked back into the precinct, Trixie followed close at her heels.
* * *
Brett made two more calls to the motel. Then one to the Tribune, where the receptionist confirmed Jimmy had stopped by yesterday morning and spent a few hours researching and talking to people. According to the receptionist, though, Jimmy had left the offices shortly before noon. Next, Brett called Amma, but Amma had heard nothing from Jimmy yet today.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Brett said, not wanting her to worry. “Just, if he comes by, have him call me right away.”
Brett peered under her desk where Trixie was curled around her feet, sleeping. She reached and stroked the dog’s ear. Trixie blinked up at her with mournful brown eyes.
“You hungry, girl?”
She got a single tail thump in response.
Brett found a packet of hot dogs in the break room fridge, leftovers from a recent barbecue, and brought them back to her desk. Trixie gobbled up the bite-sized pieces Brett offered to her like she hadn’t eaten in days.
“Where’s Jimmy?” Brett muttered. “Huh, girl? Where’s he hiding?”
Her tail thumped again at the sound of Brett’s voice. She ate another bite of hot dog, her tongue sliming Brett’s outstretched hand.
Brett sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Buchanan!” Henry Bascom’s voice bellowed through the squad room.
The chief stood in the doorway of his office, his face and cue ball head flushed crimson, his mouth a tight grimace beneath his bushy mustache. He’d never called her by her last name before.
“My office. Now.” He pointed into the room behind him.
A few officers heck
led her as she crossed the squad room.
“Uh oh, the little Princess is in trouble.”
“Someone’s gonna get a spanking.”
She glared at them and took a breath, steadying herself. Trixie wriggled out from under the desk and followed her into the office.
Henry glared at the dog. “What the hell is this?” Then he shook his head. “You know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know. Come in.”
He closed the door and walked back to his desk. Irving and Stan Harcourt were already here, sitting next to each other in the only other chairs available, which meant Brett had to stand. Henry sank into his chair with a loud sigh. Trixie circled the room, sniffing the corners of filing cabinets and a potted plant, before returning to Brett and sitting down with a pitiful groan.
Irving flicked her and Trixie a glance, but she couldn’t read his expression. Stan sat smug and smirking, with his skeleton fingers laced together in his lap. His tie was crooked. His jaw moved furiously around a piece of gum, pushing it from cheek to cheek.
Henry slicked his hand over his bald head and leaned forward on his desk. “Do you want to tell me where the hell you were yesterday?”
“Sir?” She stood with her hands folded carefully behind her back.
“I came looking for you at your desk, but you weren’t there. Then Sergeant Harcourt gets a call this morning from a superintendent at the Oregon State Penitentiary, who says Archer French is acting up, and the next time we send an officer down to interview him, he’d prefer a few days’ notice so they can properly prepare.”
“I had to pretend I knew what he was talking about,” Stan cut in. “Made me look like a damn fool.”
“Chief, this is on me,” Irving said before Brett could speak up. “I sent her down there.”
“We were hoping to get some information from him about the Andress and Danforth cases,” Brett added.
Stan snorted and shifted in his chair, jabbing his pointy elbows into the armrests. “I want the record to show I had no idea any of this was going on. No one ran anything by me.”
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