Dark Road Home

by Anna Carlisle

  The bitterness in Jake’s voice chilled Gin almost as much as his accusation. “My father has never—never—done anything like what you’re suggesting,” she protested hoarsely.

  Jake raised an eyebrow. “How do you know? People misjudge each other all the time. I thought I knew Lily, but she never could bring herself to trust me enough to tell me. I thought I knew you, but you—”

  He didn’t finish the thought. Didn’t have to.

  “My father submitted his DNA, along with everyone else. He gave his statement; he had an alibi.” She replaced the lid to the box and put it back on the shelf and headed for the door, not bothering to make sure Jake was following.

  They returned the way they’d come. Gin had left the door to the utility room slightly ajar, and she breathed a sigh of relief to find it still open. They were out in the warm night air in moments.

  “Everything go okay?” Lloyd asked, snapping off the laser and pocketing his keys.

  “We got what we needed,” Jake said in a clipped voice.

  Lloyd didn’t ask questions on the way back. He undoubtedly sensed the tension between the two of them and chose not to intervene. Or, maybe he didn’t want to get involved, didn’t want to risk being called out of retirement for more than a single night’s cloak-and-dagger adventure. Breaking into the hospital had been an adrenaline rush for the old guy. It had been exciting for Gin, too—right up until the moment they unearthed the damning evidence.

  “Keep me posted,” was all Lloyd said when they reached his cabin, and he got out of the truck and hobbled slowly up to his front door. Jake waited until the elderly man was inside before putting his truck in reverse.

  The drive home was silent. When they reached her house, Gin couldn’t stand it anymore. “Look. I’ll agree not to rush to judgment—on anything. I just ask that you do the same.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. This might lead to confirming who killed your sister. Everything we’re doing, in the end it’s for Lily—we owe it to her. We need to tell the detectives what we found.”

  “No. Please. For one thing, we could both go to jail for what we just did.”

  “I doubt that. You can just tell them what you suspect, without saying how you know, and they’ll subpoena your dad’s records.”

  “It doesn’t work quite like that,” Gin objected; the ME’s office had been turned down many times when asking for the freedom to search people’s property for clues to their death. “There’s no guarantee they’ll find sufficient cause. Look. Let me talk to my dad, let me give him a chance to explain why he prescribed the Doxorubicin. I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure there’s a lot of call for chemotherapy drugs during joint replacements.”

  “Jake. I promise. If I’m not satisfied with the answers Dad gives me, I’ll share the information with the investigation.”

  “And give him time to destroy his records? No way.”

  “I’ll—I’ll deny being here with you tonight.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll just leave an anonymous tip.”

  “Jake.” Gin could feel tears threatening—but whether they were over Jake’s refusal to cooperate, or his terrible accusation, she wasn’t sure. “Please. Just give me one day.”

  “It’s late, Gin,” he said wearily. “You’d better get some sleep.”

  She hesitated, remembering dozens of times that he had dropped her off in this very spot, in this truck, so long ago.

  At last she opened the door and got out. The winds had turned; the humidity had lifted from the air. The breeze coming off the water now was cool and carried with it the ripe scent of decay.

  She opened her mouth to say something, one last plea for Jake to reconsider, but he reached across the bench seat and shut the door. He didn’t look at her as he drove away.

  ***

  Gin slept poorly, tossing and turning until the sky was beginning to lighten. Eventually, she drifted into a heavy, dreamless stupor. When she woke, she was shocked to see that it was almost noon.

  She pulled on her running gear and took a route through the streets rising up into the hills above town. Many years ago, when the steel industry was in its infancy, men came to towns like Trumbull from all over the country, seeking their fortunes. The steel companies erected housing, churches, stores, taverns. Now all that was left was their skeletons, their overgrown, burnt down, boarded-up shells, populated with the unfortunate and desperate.

  Eventually Gin reached the newer neighborhoods above town, tidy ranch houses with wind chimes and vegetable patches, and ran along the ridge, watching smoke rising from a cola-processing plant twenty miles away. Her lungs burned and her muscles ached, and she realized how much she’d missed her regular runs. She emptied her mind of everything but her senses, and focused on the smell of fresh-cut grass, the sound of birds calling to each other, the river lazily looping through the valley far below.

  When her phone rang, she almost ignored it; this was the first time she’d felt like herself since returning to Trumbull. But then she remembered that it could be Jake—coming to his senses and agreeing to give her the time she needed, or else letting her know he’d decided to contact the detectives despite her pleas.

  But the call wasn’t from Jake. It was from her mother.

  “Hello?” she said, out of breath.

  “Please come home, Gin,” Madeleine gasped, her voice thick with emotion. “They’ve arrested your father.”

  27

  Gin ran hard all the way home, taking the most direct route through town. She tried not to get ahead of herself, tried to remember that there could be a dozen good reasons why her father had ordered the drug, and now he would be forced to reveal them. Even now, he was probably explaining it to the officers; he might even be on his way home.

  There was no way her quiet, gentle father had murdered anyone. Gin would stake her life on it.

  When she finally got to her street, she could see two cars parked in front of her parents’ house: behind a sober, dark sedan, she recognized Christine’s red minivan. And there, standing on the porch, in a filmy skirt that grazed her knees, was Christine, flanked by her kids.

  What was she doing here? And why on earth would she bring Olive and Austen with her? Gin sprinted the rest of the way, but she still reached the house after all three had gone inside. She had to pause on the porch for several moments to catch her breath, doubled over with her hands on her knees. When she finally straightened, her tank top was matted to her skin with sweat, and her hair had escaped its elastic.

  There was nothing she could do about her appearance now; she pushed open the door and went inside.

  Christine was standing at the counter, stirring the contents of a mug so vigorously that liquid slopped onto the tile. Austen drew on a piece of paper, chattering about some game involving a sorcerer. And Spencer stood in the middle of the room, his phone pressed to his ear.

  Spencer saw her first. He gave her a flash of a smile so brief it was more like an involuntary grimace, held up a “just a moment” finger, and walked into the hall, no doubt so he could hear his conversation better.

  “Hey, everyone,” Gin said.

  Christine turned at the sound of her voice, a worried expression on her face. “Gin. God. I’m—when I heard the cops had come by . . .”

  Gin knew that Christine was trying to apologize. It had never been her strong suit; her pride had kept her on the offensive since they were kids. Her clumsy attempt didn’t diminish the knot of resentment inside Gin—if anything, it made it worse to remember the way Christine had spoken to her just yesterday, the anger she’d directed at her when Gin had only been trying to help Tom.

  “We came right over. Well, Dad got here first. He’s on the phone with his lawyer now.”

  A lawyer. Yes. They needed one, didn’t they? Gin’s thoughts immediately went to Madeleine: in a crisis, her mother was the strong one—her mother had always been the strong one, but it had taken the loss of her da
ughter to make everyone see it.

  “Where the hell is Mom?” she demanded, aware that her voice had taken on a shrill tone.

  Her gaze fell on Olive, whose mouth was bunched up in a small, worried smile, and immediately Gin regretted the way she’d spoken. She wondered if Olive was aware of the tension between her and Christine. She would make it up to Olive, when they got this latest crisis under control.

  “Madeleine’s on her way,” Christine said. “She was trying get them to let her see Richard, but I don’t think she had any luck.”

  “It was my fault.” Gin blurted it out before she could consider the ramifications: she couldn’t confess to having looked at his files without also admitting that she and Jake had broken into his office. And while she was ready to defend her own actions, she couldn’t throw Jake under the bus.

  “It’s no one’s fault,” Christine said.

  Gin wanted desperately to believe her. But how to explain her father’s signature on the prescription? Could he have made a mistake and specified the wrong drug? But that wouldn’t explain how it got into Lawrence’s system—if indeed the tox screen identified it.

  Spencer walked back into the kitchen. “Paulson says he can meet with Richard later today. He cleared his calendar.”

  “Who’s Paulson?” Madeleine came walking into the kitchen on the heels of the conversation. Her outfit was as polished as ever, her linen skirt grazing her knees, her creamy blouse accented at her throat with the pearls Richard had given her to celebrate the birth of their first child. But her face clearly reflected the full weight of recent events: the lines around her mouth were deeply etched, and there were dark depressions under her eyes.

  “He’s a criminal defense attorney in Pittsburgh,” Spencer said. “He came highly recommended by Ed Chee—remember, the lawyer who reviews contracts for the center. Good guy.”

  “How is Dad? Did you talk to him?”

  “Yes, they let him call me. He sounded all right. Calm.” Madeleine sat in one of the chairs pulled up to the kitchen table, her body slumping forward in an uncharacteristic lapse of correct posture. “They’re treating him well, at least. He knows almost everyone there.”

  “When can we see him?”

  “He wasn’t sure. Visiting hours are over already for today, but maybe we can try tomorrow.”

  Madeleine looked so fragile that Gin bit back further questions. “Olive, do you want to help me for a sec?” she asked, going to the cupboard where she knew her mother kept snacks. She got down a package of Oreos and a serving plate, and Olive got to work arranging the cookies.

  Gin approached Christine, who was standing nervously in the door to the dining room. “Listen, Christine, I appreciate you coming here.”

  “Oh God, I’m such an idiot,” Christine blurted, handing the mug of cloudy liquid close to her body. “I’m so upset, I can’t even make tea. I think the leaves all escaped the strainer.”

  “It looks . . . well, I was going to say it looks fine,” Gin said, and then suddenly the two of them were trying not to laugh, turning their backs to the serious conversation taking place behind them at the table.

  “How did any of this happen?” Christine said suddenly, the laughter dying on her lips. “All any of us ever wanted to do was just—just grow up. In this little town. Nothing bad was ever supposed to happen here, that’s why Dad moved here.”

  “I know,” Gin murmured. “I know. It’s all—”

  “Dad will help Richard all he can,” Christine promised. “He’s good at this stuff, he’s had to represent the surgery center on a few lawsuits over the years.”

  “But Chrissy, this would be a criminal case,” Gin said, easily slipping into the nickname that no one but the two families had ever used. “Not civil.”

  “Still . . .” Christine gave a little shudder. “I can’t even hear that word associated with your dad. It just doesn’t make any sense.”

  Gin understood what she meant. Her father was a fastidious follower of rules, a believer in order; he’d never incurred so much as a library fine.

  But someone had to be brought to justice for the deaths of two people. The people of Trumbull were going to demand it, and Gin had been ready to lead the charge—right up until the moment the evidence started leading back to her own family.

  ***

  Gin sat on a canvas bag she’d taken from her car under the long shadow of the water tower, tipping a Pixie Stick against her lips, tasting the sweet-tart candy she hadn’t had in years.

  Once Madeleine had arrived, she’d turned into a whirlwind of efficiency, but there was nothing else to be done until the discussion with the attorney. Once Spencer and Christine and the kids left, Gin had needed to get away. She’d stopped to fill up at the gas station at the edge of town and, spying her one-time favorite treats near the register, bought the Pixie Sticks and a can of Fanta, which lay unopened on the ground next to her.

  Two other vehicles were parked at the Bear Creek trailhead when she arrived: an old, rusted-out pickup and an equally decrepit sedan. Gin guessed that their owners were either fishing downstream where the creek widened before joining the river or tending illegal marijuana plots that were obscured by the dense woods. She didn’t particularly care about either, as long as they gave her privacy today. She just needed a place to be alone and think about everything that had happened.

  Which was why, when she heard someone’s footfalls crunching along the nearly hidden trail leading up to the water tower, her heart sank. She was set to gather her things and move on, when the hiker came through the trees near the far end of the clearing.

  Jake.

  He was dressed in faded jeans and a T-shirt so old Gin thought she remembered it, a soft green that had once been more vibrant. He was wearing work boots that had been liberally used and abused, and a workaday steel watch. All in all, he looked more like one of his crew members than the head of a successful construction business.

  When he saw her, he stopped and shook his head. “You’ll have to get a little more creative if you want to dodge me,” he said.

  “How did you even know I was here?”

  “Saw you pulling out of the gas station going east. Wasn’t really that tough. You were either headed here or on to the East Coast, and even if it was the latter, I might have considered joining you.”

  His tone had been joking, but there was a hard kernel of bitter truth underneath his words. What was there to hold Jake here, now that Lawrence was gone? Why should he stay behind in a town that reviled him—especially now that he’d given the police a new direction to search?

  “Well, I came here to be alone,” Gin said icily.

  “Yeah. Sorry.” And he did sound sorry, but that only somehow increased Gin’s anger at him.

  “You didn’t even wait one day. That’s all I asked you for.”

  Jake lowered himself to the ground, leaving space between them. “You’re right. I didn’t. Look, Gin . . . I truly am sorry, more than you could possibly know. I hate putting you or your family under scrutiny—and I never imagined they’d just arrest him like that. But you have to understand—the truth matters. I mean, you of all people know that. I don’t want your dad to be guilty—please know that. I desperately hope there’s a good explanation for what he did. But . . .” He looked out over the river, squinting against the late afternoon sun. “After all this time, I’m not letting this thing go unsolved if there’s any way I can help it.”

  Gin felt something loosen inside her. Jake was right, and that only made it worse. She couldn’t blame him for needing to know the truth, even if that meant jeopardizing her father’s freedom. But it was just one more thing standing between them, one more painful piece of evidence that whatever they’d once shared was gone forever.

  They were silent for a long time, listening to the water rushing over the stones where they had lain in the sun so many years ago. Occasionally a distant grinding of gears or honking horn was a reminder of what lay beyond the wooded trail, the peo
ple going about their lives, eking out an existence from the decaying town.

  “Gonna drink that?” Jake finally asked, after the sun had descended into the trees and the heat of the day had given way to cooling breezes.

  Gin handed him the soda. “I haven’t had one of those in so long. I can’t even remember the last time.”

  Jake popped the can open, took a long sip, and handed it to Gin. It tasted wonderful, and she exhaled with pleasure, releasing some of her pent-up anxiety. “Do I have an orange mustache now?”

  She’d been joking, but his gaze on her mouth was anything but amused. For a moment, she thought he was going to wipe the dappling of soda off her lips with his thumb, and the anticipation of his touch was electric.

  Instead he took the can back and stared out at the wooded, sloping descent to the creek. “So are you meeting a secret lover?”

  “No, I just . . . I guess I feel close to Lily here. Not because this was where she’s been all those years, but because we spent so much time here. Good times.”

  “I know. I’d hate to admit how many times I’ve come here myself over the years. Just to skip stones into the water or watch the sunrise, if I wake up and can’t get back to sleep.”

  So he had it, too. The insomnia. Gin wondered if it followed everyone who’d lost someone the way they had, with no closure, no explanation. From time to time, in the shadow place between wakefulness and restless sleep, she sensed Lily’s presence, not so much a ghost but a memory that spanned all the years they’d lived together. Lily as a baby and a child and an adolescent, her memory a sweet ache.

  “Gin, I want to apologize. If I hadn’t pushed you to break into the surgery center, your dad wouldn’t be under suspicion now.”

  “Do you believe him now? That he didn’t have anything to do with your dad’s death?”

  “I do, which is maybe stupid of me.” He sighed. “If I’d gone with my gut from the start, I’d never have had any doubts. This whole investigation has knocked me off my moorings.”