When Secrets Kill

by Zoe Carter

  “Well, I’ll go to my father for answers, then. He is the chief.”

  Lewton did look at Lauren then, with a sneer so dismissive and cold that the hairs on the back of Trevor’s neck stood up straight. Power hungry asshole.

  “I have all I need here,” Lewton said. He walked out, and Trevor watched him make a call on his cell phone. A minute later, Paretti came down the drive in the patrol car.

  Trevor and Lauren went outside, and Lauren rushed over to Paretti’s driver’s-side window. “Did you find anything?”

  “Not a thing,” Paretti said. “I did a search of the area where CJ was attacked and where the perpetrators might have come from—the access road on the periphery of the property—but I didn’t see anything that stood out. Nothing dropped or left behind.”

  Lewton got in the passenger seat. “We’re done here,” he said to Paretti, sliding his sunglasses down on his face.

  Paretti nodded at Lauren and Trevor, then drove off, dust flying in their wake.

  Lauren waved away the dust, frowning as she watched the car disappear up the drive. “We’re on our own here. That’s for damned sure.”

  Trevor shook his head. “No more we, Lauren. You saw the note. First my sister, then your office window, now CJ. Who’s next? Your sister Nova? Your dad?”

  “I’m not saying I’m not worried,” Lauren said. “But I’m not going to stop searching for the truth.”

  “I’m not putting your life or your family’s life at risk. I don’t have anyone. I’ll find my sister’s killer on my own.”

  He stared her down and she didn’t look away. The woman was tough, as tough as she tried to act like she was. He had to give her that. She was brave and gave a damn and she was a hell of a kisser.

  Speaking of which.

  “What happened in the kitchen was a mistake,” he added, hating himself for saying it. Yes, he should never have laid a hand on her, but nothing about how kissing her, holding her, feeling every inch of her soft, sexy body against his was a mistake.

  For just a moment, he could see that toughness in her expression falter. He’d hurt her. But then the stare down was back. “Yes, it was,” she said, heading toward her car. “I’ll keep you informed if you keep me informed. I have a post to write for the Townsend Report.”

  “Lauren,” he said, shaking his head. “This isn’t what I want.”

  “I’ll say it for the last time. I’m an investigative reporter. I’m going to investigate and report. With or without you.”

  She got into her car, then got back out and jogged into the house—to say goodbye to CJ, he figured. Then she came out. “If he needs anything, call me,” she said. “I’m going to work on his alibi. The only way we’ll get Lewton and Paretti to give a shit about this case is if we can rule out his obvious suspect, which is CJ.”

  “He has no alibi,” Trevor said. “Because no one can even pinpoint exactly when Tammy was killed.”

  The brown eyes were fierce again. “So let’s pinpoint.”

  “I told you, there’s no let’s, no us, no we.”

  “Right,” she said, her expression turning stony as she got back in her car. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  He put a hand on the window frame. “Nothing can happen to you, Lauren. Do you understand? I can’t—”

  “Let me be who I am,” she said softly. “Fine, kissing me was a mistake. Whatever. You don’t have to date me, Trevor. But you do have to let me do my job.”

  I do want to date you, he realized. I want to sit across from you at some candlelit table in a steak house. I want to slow dance with you. I want to hear what you’re thinking. I want to take you to a cattle sale. I want to be in bed with you. But he couldn’t have any of that.

  “Anyway, you can’t get rid of me that fast, Trevor. I’ll be here tomorrow for the funeral.”

  He nodded and she drove off. He watched her red taillights disappear, thinking about the note.

  One by one until you both mind your own damned business.

  Who would be next?

  * * *

  This time, Lauren made her father’s favorite, chicken parmigiana with a side of linguini and bruschetta.

  Chief Tommy Riley took a second helping of chicken, but wasn’t much interested in answering Lauren’s questions about his department’s investigation into the attack on CJ. “I’m sorry, Lauren, but for all I know, Lewton’s on the right track about CJ Spinner. There are no other suspects in the murder of Tammy Gallagher.”

  Now, why is that? she wanted to scream. Because no one in this town cares about people like Tammy Gallagher and CJ Spinner. “What about the rich older stalker I told you about?” Lauren asked. “He’s as much as a suspect as CJ. And I’ve fully come to believe, like Trevor, that CJ is not a suspect.”

  “If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck...” her father said, swirling an enormous amount of linguini onto his fork.

  Ugh. That sounded more like Pat Lewton than her father.

  “Look,” Lauren said, putting down her fork. “All of you should know how easy it is to appear guilty of something you had nothing to do with. Did anyone at this table really think I could have killed Victor Townsend? Even though I was found with the murder weapon beside his bloody body?”

  No one answered.

  “I want you all to answer that,” Lauren said. “Please.”

  “No,” Nova said quietly, looking up at Lauren. “I absolutely did not think you were capable of killing anyone, let alone Victor.”

  “Ditto,” Tommy Riley said.

  Jennifer put down her wineglass. “When I came home to help out on your case, I didn’t know you, Lauren. But I know you now. No. I would not have believed you capable of murder.”

  For a second, Lauren let that sink in. She was so damned relieved to hear them all say it that she almost burst into tears. “That’s how I feel about CJ Spinner. I’m going to try to pinpoint a reasonable date of death for Tammy, both so we have it and so that maybe CJ will discover he does have an alibi.”

  “Christ almighty, Lauren!” Tommy snapped, thudding his hand on the table. “Leave this to Paretti.”

  Lauren snorted. “Right. Paretti. He’s a real go-getter.”

  Her father sighed and ate his linguini. Both were a sign, though, that he was giving her his almost blessing to do what she had to do.

  “Thank you,” Lauren said. “All of you,” she added, looking around the table at her family. “What you said about believing in me means a lot to me.”

  “We believe in you, Lauren,” Jennifer said. “But we’re scared for you.”

  Lauren plucked a piece of garlic bread from the basket in the center of the table. Come and get me. She wouldn’t say it in front of this crowd, but it was how she felt. Come. Get. Me. I’ll be waiting. “I know. Good thing everyone at this table is associated with the THPD.”

  “Nova doesn’t carry a gun,” Jennifer pointed out, and everyone put their forks down.

  “I can take care of myself,” Nova said. “I’m aware of the threat against our family and watching my back.”

  Lauren’s stomach dropped. She slammed her hand against her forehead, hating herself for not thinking. She was supposed to be different now. Smarter. Thinking about other people besides herself. “Nova, if anything happened to you...”

  “I’m surrounded by cops at work and at home,” Nova said, tucking a swath of blond hair behind her ear. “And when haven’t the Rileys had to be tough? Nature of the family.”

  That was Nova. Sometimes, always at the right time, Nova had Lauren’s back when she should throttle her selfish little sister. What would Lauren do without these three?

  “So can we eat now?” Tommy asked. “Enough with the indigestion. Lauren, the chicken parm is amazing.”

  “I secon
d that,” Jennifer said, taking a bite. “Mom’s sauce.”

  Lauren nodded. Her sister was aiding her father in changing the subject. Being cagey again. She needed info from Jennifer, needed to know what was going on in her sister’s own investigation of the missing girls. Lauren didn’t even know how many girls had gone missing, but Jennifer probably didn’t know either. The photographs Lauren had found on Victor Townsend’s computer might have been just the start. Ten to start...

  What Lauren did know was that Jennifer was focusing on Abby Blake’s disappearance because it was the one case she had anything on at all. Jennifer had been supposed to meet Abby the night she went missing. What Abby had done instead, where she’d gone, had torn her sister to shreds for two decades. Jennifer wouldn’t leave town until she knew what happened to Abby. Lauren would bet her crappy checking account on it.

  But Jennifer Riley wouldn’t talk to the press at all. She couldn’t completely ignore her own sister, though. So Lauren would just have to come at her in the right way at the right time. Which wasn’t now. Right now, the Rileys needed a break. And to talk about sauce.

  “I always use Mom’s recipe when I make tomato sauce,” Lauren said, taking a bite of chicken. “God, this is good. Did I actually make this?”

  Tommy looked down for a moment, then glanced up at his three daughters. “She’d be so proud of all of you.”

  After more small talk over tiramisu, the Rileys watched a reality TV show cooking competition, then went their separate ways to their rooms. Her family might be done talking about what was going on, but Lauren wasn’t. She grabbed her phone and texted Trevor for a report on CJ.

  He’s holding up. The eye is all sorts of colors, but CJ just gobbled up a cheeseburger and a baked potato, so I’d say he’s on the mend.

  Good. See you tomorrow.

  He didn’t respond and Lauren suddenly felt bereft.

  She wanted a drink. A cold vodka tonic.

  A chill ran up Lauren’s spine. That was how it was before. She couldn’t deal with her goddamned feelings and poured herself a drink. Not anymore. Or ever.

  She wasn’t going to let him get to her, get under her skin or anywhere near where he’d do real damage. Walls up, she told herself, trying to block out the image of Trevor Gallagher, tall and dark and hot and sexy.

  If she couldn’t do it for herself, she’d do it for his sister. Justice first.

  * * *

  At 7:00 a.m., Lauren sat at her desk in her bedroom and wrote a post for TownsendReport.com about CJ’s attack and that someone sure was working hard to scare off the investigation. As the sole reporter, she was covering only the major news in town—what her readers would want to know most—and she wanted an update from the police about the skeleton found at the boathouse. So far, there was no new information. Because the police couldn’t identify the remains? Or because they were keeping the ID a secret? Maybe the remains had been ID’d and the body turned out to have been someone from the wrong side of the tracks like Tammy Gallagher. Maybe the police weren’t all that interested in “old news and cold cases.”

  They weren’t all that invested in new cases, either.

  Time to hit up Jennifer for information. She grabbed her press pass and hung it around her neck, then went downstairs. Her sister was in the kitchen, sitting with her phone, the Gazette and a case file.

  “Morning,” Lauren said. “So has the body been ID’d yet?”

  “Lauren, I can’t comment on that,” Jennifer said, eyeing the press pass and turning back to sip her coffee.

  “Well, you can,” Lauren said. Jennifer was using an empty guest room on the first floor as her office since their father couldn’t give her official space at the station. The word was that Jennifer was on loan temporarily from the NYPD to help police investigate the cold case, at the chief’s request, so even Lewton couldn’t try to get rid of her. So she was THPD, even if unofficially. And she could comment.

  Lauren held up the press pass. “I’m asking on the record.”

  Jennifer glanced at the pass again and rolled her eyes. “Lauren, come on.”

  “I’m the press. You’re a cop. I want answers.”

  “I’m your sister. You can put the pass away.”

  “Seems you won’t reveal anything either way,” Lauren said. “Has Hayden identified the skeleton?”

  “I have no comment. If you want to know official police business, go to the department. Or ask the medical examiner yourself. I’m not working in official capacity. You know that.”

  “I know there’s something you’re not telling me,” Lauren said.

  “I don’t have to tell you, Lauren. I have no right to talk to the press. I’m not THPD.”

  “Then talk to me sister to sister.”

  Jennifer leveled a stare at her. “You’re being unfair. We could both get Dad in trouble.”

  “Oh, suddenly this is about making sure protocol is followed.”

  Jennifer stood up and walked into her temporary office and closed the door, twisting the lock.

  Ugh. Lauren hated this. She’d spent twenty years waiting for Jennifer to come home. Now she had and she was making her sister walk away from her.

  She needed coffee pronto. She poured herself a cup of coffee, then sat down at the table and flipped through the Gazette Jennifer had left behind. The THPD all read the Townsend Report, but her father never mentioned any of her posts, and Nova and Jennifer rarely did. Yeah, it stung, but she got it. They were worried for her and had been on red alert since the MYOB rock had been thrown through her office window and the note had been left in CJ Spinner’s pocket.

  The Gazette was a decent paper, full of the usual stories, but nothing like the hard-hitting exposés that had marked the Townsend Report. Lauren hoped that by the end of the month, she could garner enough ad revenue to hire another reporter and get the news site back to at least a quarter of what it had been. It would take time, but she’d do it.

  She flipped through the paper, past all the boring articles and local news she didn’t have to cover in Townsend, then froze. Whoa.

  At the bottom of the page, in a boxed-in memoriam near the obituaries, was a color photo of a girl named June Gissler with a caption: “Gone but not forgotten. June Gissler, last seen twenty years ago today at age eighteen, my BFF 4ever. I’ll never forget you. If you see this, get in touch. I miss you! Love, Mackenzie Wattman (née Tanner).”

  Lauren had no access to the photos of the missing girls she’d seen in Victor’s office; they’d disappeared, somehow, from the police evidence files weeks ago. But she remembered this face from those photos in Victor’s file. June Gissler was one of the missing girls.

  Lauren raced upstairs to her laptop on her desk and did a Google search for Mackenzie Wattman. She still lived in Thornwood Heights. She had a Facebook page full of her young kids’ photos. Lauren took a screenshot of Mackenzie’s profile photo and saved it to her phone.

  Perhaps Mackenzie could shed some light on what June Gissler had been like, who might have wanted to hurt her or where she might have run off to—if she had.

  Lauren glanced at her alarm clock. Crap. Why was it so early? She was dying to call Mackenzie and talk to her but would have to wait till 9:00. Maybe 8:45. She did a search on June Gissler, but there wasn’t much information. She’d last been seen twenty years ago, but because she was eighteen, no one had been looking—just like Tammy Gallagher. The Gisslers had lived in the two-bedroom apartment above the drugstore. June’s mother had died when she was sixteen. Her father was an alcoholic with three DUIs and had been in and out of prison for petty theft for years.

  By the time Lauren took a long, hot shower, calmed down her crazy wavy hair and dressed in a black pantsuit, it was just before nine o’clock. She drove to her office, just in case Mackenzie would want to come talk to her immediately.


  Good, she thought as she approached the door of the Townsend Report and let herself in. No rock-sized holes. No smoke bombs.

  She sat down at her desk and called Mackenzie Wattman, who sounded glad to have the opportunity to talk to a reporter about her friend. They agreed to meet tomorrow morning at Sunnyside Coffee at eight thirty, bright and early after school drop-off, the woman had said.

  Maybe the skeleton found at the boathouse a few weeks ago was June Gissler. For her friend’s sake, Lauren wasn’t sure whether she hoped it was or not. Peace of mind was a good thing, but so was hope.

  Chapter Ten

  There were three people at Tammy Gallagher’s funeral. Three people. Trevor could barely feel the anger at the edges of his grief. Eighteen years alive on this earth and only three people cared enough to attend her memorial service. His mother had called this morning and said she was praying for Tammy’s eternal soul, but Trevor was pretty sure he’d heard a splash in the background as if someone had jumped into a pool. He’d hung up on her.

  In a black suit he’d bought an hour ago, Trevor stood between Lauren and CJ at the gravesite, a sunny spot underneath a crabapple tree a quarter mile from the farmhouse. Tammy had loved crabapple trees; one of his favorite photographs showed her at eight or nine, sitting on a branch, holding out the little round apple. She would like this spot as her final resting place, feel protected by the tree and the land on Trevor’s property.

  The minister gave a nice, if short service and then it was over. Trevor let Lauren and CJ know he wanted to spend some time at the grave alone, and they headed back to the house.

  He sat there, his head on his arms, for a good hour. He didn’t promise anything this time about finding her killer. He didn’t want to talk about murderers. He just wanted to be there with her, to make sure she knew that he loved her.

  His phone had pinged with texts over and over this morning, and he’d silenced the ringer, but now he went through them. His squad. Fourteen troops. His sergeant. The sentiment was the same in every one: “We can’t be with you today, but we’re with you, man.”