by J P Tompkins
◆◆◆
“I’m looking for Todd,” I tell the guy at the Falls Lake marina shop.
It’s a convenience store attached to the marina, floors gritty with dirt. They carry all the usual fare—chips, sodas, candy, beer, cigarettes—and also fishing gear and lots of cheap t-shirts, all of which probably will never be free of the stench from the bait section that stinks up the whole store.
The guy is sitting on a stool, his belly hanging over his belt. His beard is dotted with droplets of water or sweat or both, I can’t really tell and don’t want to find out. His hat is tilted at a ridiculous angle, resting on the back of his head.
He speaks with a slow, heavy drawl: “Who’re you?”
“Kate Downey. I just need to ask him a few quick questions.”
I watch him as he looks at me with a blank expression. I wait for him to recognize my face from the TV, or maybe just my name from the newspaper bylines. But thankfully he doesn’t.
“Boat questions?”
“Yes,” I lie. “My boyfriend and I are thinking about purchasing a used boat and some of our neighbors told us Todd’s the expert. We’ll definitely be keeping our boat here, no matter which one we buy.”
The guy eyes me suspiciously. He’s older, so I’m thinking he’s wondering why the woman is here asking about a boat. Why isn’t the man here? But maybe I’m not giving this guy enough credit.
“Your boyfriend here?” he asks, proving I was giving him just the right amount of credit.
“I grew up around boats.”
He frowns, grabs the bill of his hat and adjusts it on his head. “Right down that way.” He points toward a side door that’s open, the warm breeze trickling in. “All the way down to the end of the dock.”
Todd is waiting in the doorway when I get there. As I walked down the dock, I heard a phone ringing where he works and I assumed it was the guy from the store calling to let him know he was sending someone down.
“What can I do for you?” he says, his tone open and friendly, helpful, as his eyes scan from my face, down my body, then back up.
I know nothing about boats, so I have nothing to ask. I can’t even make up a lie here. I’m forced to go right to my real reason for being here.
“I’m not here about a boat. I’m here to ask about Erin.”
As I look at him, I think Claire was wrong about his age. She said older, maybe forty. But I think he’s younger by about a decade and she was judging him based on his skin. All the outdoor work on the water has made the skin on his face and arms a deep brown, and almost leathery looking.
He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and his shoulders sink a little as he shakes his head. “I already talked to some other cops,” he says, surprising me. “What now?”
“Just following up,” I say, not identifying my profession, letting him think what he wants.
“Look, I came forward and volunteered everything before anyone knew I’d been hanging out with Erin. Nobody had to track me down. I even submitted DNA. I told everything.”
I wasn’t expecting this. He seems like the most innocent person I’ve ever talked with. Not just because of his cooperation with the police, but it’s the look on his face. Like he’s genuinely horrified by what happened.
But I still have some questions for him. The fact that he submitted DNA could rule him out as the father, but it’s not a given that the baby’s father killed her.
“How many times did you see her?”
“Outside the restaurant? Just the one time.”
“You didn’t try again?”
“No,” he says, his voice a little aggravated now.
“Any reason why?”
He ducks inside the doorway, bending and reaching for something out of my line of sight, then stands up straight again and lifts a water bottle to his mouth. He takes a long sip, swishes the water around in his mouth before answering. “She had baggage. I didn’t know that until we were outside the restaurant. In there, she was flirty, all happy, all the time. But then, that night, we hooked up and then it was all a sob story. All her problems. The cheating fiancée, her broken engagement, all of it. And honestly, I wasn’t looking for that. I just thought we’d have some fun. I didn’t even go back in that restaurant after that night,” he says, “and it’s been a favorite of mine for years. Still haven’t been back.”
“I think you can probably go back there now,” I say. “Thanks for your time.”
He says nothing as I turn to walk back to the marina store.
But after just a few steps, I think of one more thing. “When did you submit your DNA?”
“Yesterday,” he says. “But I don’t need to wait for the results. I know I’m not the father.”
“How’s that?”
“Because what we did, let’s just say it wasn’t gonna make her pregnant.”
I need no clarification on that.
Back in my car, I turn the AC on high and think about Erin flirting with this guy, enjoying herself, finding someone who brought her at least a happy distraction. And then she unloaded on the guy.
She was lonely, needy, looking for a connection. She found it in Todd, but ultimately chased him away.
After a few minutes, I start the car and pull out of the marina parking lot, convinced Erin had other secrets in her life.
Chapter 36
I get a text from Cole early in the evening: You near a TV?
Me: I can be. Why?
He tells me which channel to turn to and when I do, I see a split-screen—the host on one side, a picture of Paul on the other. Along the bottom of the screen, there’s a red bar with white letters in all caps announcing: FIANCEE’S SLEAZY SECRETS.
The host, an animated man with too much product in his hair, is reading from a sheet of paper that he holds high enough for viewers to see. In his other hand, he holds a pen, his forefinger extended, as he points in the air at nothing in particular, jabbing it with each word, really trying to drive home the information he’s reciting.
“Two women have come forward, accusing Paul Daugherty of making inappropriate sexual advances toward them. Both occurred in local bars within the last year. One of the women—and both of them have requested anonymity, saying they’re afraid of retribution—says Daugherty made a particularly disturbing comment. I think we have…do we have the video on that?” He pauses, looking directly at the camera, waiting for an answer from the control room “We do. Let’s play that.”
The side of the split-screen that had Paul’s picture changes to the video. The show’s host remains on the other side, looking at the camera, squinting his eyes.
The video shows a female head, backlit to protect her identity. “I asked him if he was married,” the silhouetted woman says. “More of a joke than anything else. And he said ‘not yet’ and then, because I was surprised and thought it was a weird answer, I asked him if he was engaged and he said he was but that it didn’t mean anything. So I tell him I’m leaving and he says…no one leaves me.”
The host is squinting harder now, shaking his head, adding all the drama he can.
The video stops.
“Now, I ask you, the viewers,” the host says, “remember, Erin Thorpe found out about Daugherty’s infidelity. You saw the video. You heard his words, right there, from a reliable source. Does that sound like a man who would be okay with his fiancée packing up and leaving him? I ask you. Does that sound like the words of a guy who might not stand for the fiancée calling it off, embarrassing him? I’m not saying he did it. I’m not saying he’s guilty of anything here. Well, maybe of being a sleazebag. All I’m doing is asking questions here. I’m not accusing anyone of anything.” He leans forward on the desk, looks into the camera, lowers his voice: “But use your common sense, folks.”
They go to commercial and I turn off the TV.
Cole texts: This is about to get very bad for him.
◆◆◆
“After watching all of that, I turned off the TV and stayed there on th
e couch.”
“All night?” Dr. Benson asks.
I’m not looking at him. I’m looking out the window, as I often do when I’m in his office. It’s a bright, clear, hot day. Out there in the parking lot, I see heat waves shimmering off the cars. I’m thinking about last night, what I saw on TV, how I slept on the couch and what happened around three a.m. “I actually woke up in her room. Again. I was just standing there in the dark.”
He nods, jots down a note on his pad.
“I didn’t realize where I was. Took me a few seconds to really wake up. I freaked out.”
Dr. Benson’s eyebrows move up a little. “How did you freak out?”
“I screamed.”
“Because you were scared?”
“No, I was pissed off. I want this to stop.”
He takes a deep breath, rolling his pen between his thumb and forefinger. “Maybe Neil had the right idea, after all. What do you think?”
When our session started today, I told him Neil had pretty much ordered me to take some time off and go away. Dr. Benson said nothing about it. Didn’t ask me to explain my decision to stay in town. Didn’t take Neil’s side. Didn’t take mine either. But that was about thirty minutes ago; he’s no longer neutral on that question.
“I’m taking time off,” I say.
He smiles. “Because you’re forced to take time off. But you’re not getting away from it. You’re still in town. And from what you’ve told me you’ve done for the last couple of days, you’re not even taking time off. Not really. Wouldn’t you say?”
He’s right. I’m not going to the office. But my work has never required me to be in the office very much anyway.
“I can’t just walk away from it.”
“What do you hope to accomplish?”
“I want to find out who killed Erin,” I say.
“And you don’t think the police are going to do that?”
“Not if they handle it like they handled the Nathan Greer murders. If he hadn’t started talking, who knows when they would have put it all together?”
Dr. Benson smiles. “I can’t argue with the fact that you were closer to the truth than they were.”
I reach for the table that’s next to the couch I’m sitting on and grab my drink, an iced coffee I picked up on the way over.
He folds the sheets over the notepad and closes it. “Tell me what you think happened to her. Maybe saying it out loud, you can get it out of your system.”
“I don’t know what happened to her.”
“How did you start with the other cases? What is it they say…motive, means, and opportunity, right?”
“Right.”
He says nothing, just looks at me, waiting to see what I’ll say.
“All of that kind of points to her fiancée, Paul. It doesn’t seem likely, though.”
“Why not?” he asks.
“Because I saw his reaction that morning I found Erin. He acted just like you’d expect someone to act if they’re innocent.”
“Act,” Dr. Benson says. Just the one word, lobbing it up in the air, saying no more, letting me figure it out for myself.
But it doesn’t make sense to me. I know what I saw: Paul wasn’t acting. He was as shocked and distraught as I was.
“I just meant that’s how he was, not that he was acting.”
“You could have said it that directly,” Dr. Benson says. “But your mind went to that word act. Twice.”
He’s right. It did. But does it really mean anything?
He continues: “There’s a reason why people look first to the man who was closest to the woman who was killed.”
“I know.”
“You do know, and you’re resisting it. What’s the reason? Just because of how he reacted that morning?”
“No,” I say. “It’s also because no one knows who the father is and I think he’d be just as likely to be a suspect.”
“I think you should think about why you’re resisting the evidence that points to her ex. You’ve always been about logic and facts, you told me yourself. Go with what makes the most sense. Not to me or anyone else, though. Just to you.” He rises from the chair. Our session is over. “Give it some thought before our next session. And who knows—it might bring you some peace.”
Chapter 37
I’m up early the next morning after a rare good night of sleep. I feel more alert than I have in months. No brain fog from either fatigue or medication.
When the rain started last night just after nine o’clock, I went to my bedroom and opened the window a little to let in the sound of the drops hitting the leaves, the ground, the puddle that forms next to the sidewalk.
I was asleep within minutes and grateful when I woke up in my bed and not in Erin’s old room or a neighbor’s yard.
I sip my coffee looking out the kitchen window into the backyard. It’s still raining hard. The forecast says this might go on all day. One of those days that’s good for staying inside, not bathing until midday, parked in front of the TV. Maybe I could start catching up on all those shows I’ve neglected for almost a year now.
The idea seems better and better with each passing minute. Maybe some peace. Maybe a step toward normalcy.
I hear a knock at the door. I’m not expecting anyone. Who would be at my door at eight o’clock in the morning? No one that I can think of.
Except maybe Roger Wilkes. Last year, during a heavy downpour, the runoff from his driveway flooded my front yard. He came over to apologize, as if it was something done deliberately.
Another knock.
I peer around the corner from the kitchen to see if I can see who’s there, on the other side of the glass panel that runs vertically along the left side of the door. But it’s blurry with condensation and all I see is the shadow of a person.
Another knock. This time a little more forceful.
I walk the few steps down the short hallway, unlock the door, open it a little, and there stand Detectives Hogle and Roark.
“May we come in?” Hogle asks.
“For what?”
He puts his hands up, showing me his palms, like a surrender pose telling me there’s nothing to worry about. “Just tie up some loose ends. That’s all.” I notice he has a folio tucked under his arm.
Loose ends?
It’s enough to pique my curiosity, so I open the door and let them in.
They each wipe their shoes on the mat, commenting about the rain.
“I have an appointment in an hour,” I lie, “and I still need to get ready, so I don’t have much time.”
“This won’t take long,” Roark assures me.
“We’d like to take a look at that collection of evidence you have.”
We’re standing just inside the doorway and it’s here that I decide that’s as far as they’re getting.
“Why?”
“There could be some stuff in there that could help us build the case against Greer.”
“He confessed,” I say, “and I’m sure you have plenty of evidence. Plus, I don’t have it anymore.”
Hogle looks side-eyed at Roark. They don’t believe me.
“I threw it away. Trash got picked up already.” I shrug.
“Threw away everything related to the case?”
“Yes.”
“Everything?” Hogle asks again, this time trying to give me a stern look.
“Look, I don’t know what you’re really getting at here, but—”
“How about this?” Roark folds his arms across his chest. “One more time, run us through what happened here the night Erin was killed.”
“You already have my statement,” I say.
“We just want to confirm—”
“There’s nothing to confirm.” I grab the door handle and start to pull it open again, signaling that it’s time for them to leave. “You can refer to my statement.”
The rain picks up outside. A car’s headlights catch my eye and when I look back at Hogle, he’s got his pen in h
is mouth, clenched between his teeth. He’s not leaving.
It feels like forever as I watch him scanning his notes.
Hogle takes the pen out of his mouth and uses it to point to the paper. “Any reason why you had a ski mask in one of those boxes?”
What is he doing? I say nothing.
Hogle lets his hand fall to his side, clicking his pen as he does. “And gloves?”
I feel my pulse thumping in my neck. “You asked me about it that morning.”
“Yes, we found them in the boxes in your closet.” Hogle pauses.
I know better than to speak, but I do anyway: “I told you that morning. It was research.”
Hogle looks to Roark, then back at me. “Research.”
“Yes,” I say. “I was writing about the murders. I wanted to be able to reference the…tools he was using.”
“That’s what I thought when we found them,” Hogle says. “And what you said made sense that morning. Now, I’m not sure.”
“Any electrical cord lying around the house?” Roark asks.
“No.” My answer is technically true. There’s none in my house. There is, however, a spool of it in the trunk of my car. But I’m not volunteering that information. I’m also not telling them that the spool has been opened, a length of cord cut off of it.
I have worn the mask. I have worn the gloves. I have held a length of that electrical cord, the ends wrapped around my hands, pulling it taut.
But that has only happened in my dreams—jolted awake in a cold sweat, sitting straight up and turning the light on, then lying back down, breathing heavily and staring at the ceiling.
But I have never actually done it.
I know this. I’m sure of it.
I think.
Hogle opens his leather folio, flipping through a few pages, looking through his notes. “Taking any medication?”
“Like what?”
“You tell me.” Hogle looks up from his notes, smiles at me and says: “It was in your bathroom when we were here that morning. Some unidentifiable pills in what looked like a bottle of Ibuprofen.”