by Amalie Jahn
Without stopping to put on a robe, I slipped quietly out of my bedroom and crept downstairs to my father’s office. The door was unlocked, just as it had been the only other time I ventured inside on the afternoon of his funeral in the original timeline. The door groaned on its hinges.
I switched on the lights.
The box was still there, but it was no longer in the corner where I left it in the original timeline. At first I thought someone had moved it, but then I realized I never explored the room the second time, and it was still sitting beside the door where the police dropped it off. Of course, there was no need for snooping, because I already knew the secrets the office contained.
I emptied the contents of the box onto the floor and dug through the ropes. The fittings were the same. The anchors were tied in the same dangerous fashion. It dawned on me that if I’d wanted to, I could have easily prevented my father’s death by alerting him to the faulty anchors. But if I had told him and he’d survived, I would have ended up incarcerated for my actions. I felt the tiniest pang of sadness as I considered his death. And then I remembered the reason why I ventured into the office in the first place.
My father’s anchor was tied incorrectly. When it failed, he plummeted to the bottom of the ravine and died. Someone must have tampered with his equipment.
That person, whoever it was, killed my father. And I didn’t believe it was a mistake, given that my father’s death appeared to be directly connected to my mother’s. With that information, there could only be one person responsible.
I sat on the floor of the office and worked through scenarios in my mind. I was certain Victoria’s parents had something to do with my father’s death. However, there were several things that just didn’t add up. Victoria admitted lying to her father about Phil Johnson being responsible for her pregnancy, but somewhere along the line, he must have come to know the truth. I had no idea what catalyst caused Weddington to suspect my father after so many years, but Victoria’s death must have been part of it.
After hours of obsessive contemplation, I finally accepted there were gaps in my theory which could only be filled by Weddington himself. I knew because of his age, he could not have been the one to tamper with the rigging, so he must have hired someone to go along on the trip with my father. The list of witnesses to his death was my one and only lead.
After repacking the equipment and retrieving the picture of my mother from my father’s desk drawer, I returned to my room and began digging through my closet for the suit I wore to his funeral. In the pocket, right where I left it, was the business card given to me by the officer who’d been assigned to investigate my father’s death. I hoped he would be able to provide me with the names of the people who accompanied my father on the trip.
As soon as I thought she was awake, I called Brooke. Like every Sunday morning, she was preparing for church with her parents, but she happily invited me over for our traditional Sunday dinner. Although I was bursting at the seams to tell her about my suspicions, I knew it was something we needed to discuss face to face.
My next phone call was to Detective Roger Sloot of the local sheriff’s department. I explained my interest in speaking to the other members of my father’s expedition to gain closure regarding his death. Within fifteen minutes, he emailed me the list consisting of eleven men. I recognized several of the names, but a few were unfamiliar. Of course, I didn’t plan on speaking with any of them. Instead, after breakfast with Mom and Melody, I sat with my tablet at the kitchen table cross-referencing the names of the men on the list with members of Weddington’s inner circle. I searched employee files, campaign photos, press releases, and public records. I was about to give up and head to Brooke’s, when I clicked on a photo of a press junket and noticed everyone in the photo happened to be tagged.
Buddy O’Leary stood behind him, partially obscured by the podium. In addition to being with him in the photograph, he was also on the list of people who accompanied my father on the climb. The confirmation that someone close to Weddington witnessed my father’s death fueled my investigation into overdrive.
I did a quick search for Buddy O’Leary, and found that he was employed as part of Weddington’s security detail for many years. Additionally, he was an active member of the Vertical Rock Climbing Club of central Virginia. It was widely known that my father was an avid climber who hosted many mountaineering events over the years. With Weddington’s political connections, it would have been relatively easy for him to have gotten O’Leary an invitation for the trip.
I printed out what I discovered and took it with me to Brooke’s, hoping that together we could figure out what to do with the new information. Although I usually spent Sunday afternoons watching football with her father, as soon as we were finished eating, I escaped with Brooke to the kitchen where we washed dishes together instead.
“I think I know what happened to my father,” I began.
She sighed. “You’ve said that three times already this week. Do you have an actual lead or just another hunch?”
Although she was right, I rolled my eyes anyway. “I got to thinking that the only people I know of tied to both my mother and father are her parents.”
“Why would they kill your dad? That’s crazy.”
“I don’t have that piece figured out yet, but I have a possible connection.”
“What sort of connection?” she asked, scrubbing out the casserole pan.
“I found out this guy who is one of Weddington’s henchmen was with my dad on the climbing trip when he died.”
She set the pan in the sink and turned to face me. “You’re kidding.”
“No. I think he had this guy Buddy O’Leary tie my father’s anchors to make the fall look like an accident. He’s a member of a mountaineering club. He would have known how to redo them so they’d fail.”
She abandoned her dishes and sat at the table, scrunching her face at me. “But why? Why kill your dad after all these years?”
“I don’t know, but it has to be related to her death. You said yourself, ‘when she dies, he dies.’ That’s all I’ve got to go on.”
She grinned at me. “You figured all this out on your own. I’m impressed. Are you trying to steal my position?”
“What position?”
“As Sherlock, of course. Am I being relegated to Watson?”
“Never! That’s why I’m here! I’m stuck. I need your help.”
“Really?” she said, standing up to join me with the drying. “Well, first, you should know it’s gonna cost you.”
“Naturally,” I grinned at her.
“But more importantly,” she continued, “I need to know why I should help you on another one of your adventures. Truly, Charlie, we just discovered what a fiasco you made of the last one. Why bother with any of this? Maybe you should just let it go.”
She was right, of course, and yet I needed for her to understand how I felt.
“I know there’s no reason to investigate further. I get that. The police closed his case months ago, and nothing I might discover will bring him or my mother back. But I don’t know if I can live with myself knowing my biological grandfather abandoned my mother, murdered my father, and never answered for any of it. I never stood up to my father for the way he treated me, just as my mother never stood up to her father. I think it’s time to end the vicious cycle.”
I tossed my towel on the counter and gathered Brooke into my arms. She felt solid. Grounded.
“This whole thing started because I was lost. I’ve always been lost. I’ve always felt like everyone else was in on this big secret I was never a part of. And it wasn’t because I wasn’t loved, because I was. But from early on, I realized something wasn’t right.” I swallowed hard, remembering the emptiness. “When I met you, for the first time in my life, all that stuff didn’t matter as much. You knew what it was to feel lost, and you continued to thrive. You gave me hope that I could feel that way too. But then the possibility of finding my mother came a
long, and it was like a drug I couldn’t pass up. When I found her and she told me my story, all the jumbled up pieces of my life fell into place. I can’t explain why it was so important for me to do what I’ve done, but now that I have, I owe it to my mother to see this through to the end. Her father treated her worse than my father treated me. I can never forgive him for that. And now I think he may have had my father killed. He’s a bad man, Brooke. He’s cruel. Heartless.”
“Like a tin man,” she interrupted.
“Exactly. Like a tin man,” I agreed. “And now I have the opportunity to see justice served. To make him understand he can’t do whatever he wants and get away with it.” I paused, resting my chin on the top of her head. “My mother died to save me, Brooke. I keep thinking that there’s a reason why I’m here and she isn’t. Maybe this is the reason why. Maybe this is what I’m supposed to do.”
She pulled away, peering up at me with an expression of genuine love and understanding. “You need to confront him.”
“He won’t even see me. Remember, I tried before.”
“It might be time for an ambush,” she grinned.
Her smile was infectious. “I like the way you think, woman. What do you have in mind?”
“You want to get him to admit what he did, right?”
I shook my head. “Yeah. Good luck with that.”
“It might not be as hard as you think, Charlie. We’re dealing with a man who has the same personality type as your father. How would you have gotten him to admit something?”
I learned as a child how easy it was to manipulate him. When I was seven, I outgrew my training wheels and fell in love with an amazing BMX in the bike shop window across from school. When I initially mentioned it to my father, he told me it was a waste of money. Dejected, I returned to the store where I noticed a flyer advertising a father/son bike race. I took one of the race pamphlets home and left it on the kitchen counter for him to find. The next morning, when I noticed him looking at the paper, I commented that I thought there would be lots of people and maybe even camera crews at the event, and since he was such a great biker, he would probably win. Then I hung my head, bemoaning the fact that it would be fun for us to do together, but since my bike was too small, I wouldn’t be able participate. The following day, he took me to the bike store, bought the BMX, and signed us up for the race.
“If it was my father, I’d stroke his ego, make him think whatever I wanted was his idea, and convince him he knew more than I did. He used to hate feeling like he wasn’t in control.”
“Do you think the same thing would work on Weddington?”
“Probably.” I raised my eyebrows at her, giving her a look of uncertainty. “So what you want to do is show up and sweet-talk him into admitting he had my father killed?”
“Yes. And record it for evidence.”
I shook my head. “I thought for sure you would tell me to go to the police.”
“They’d never believe you.”
“I know.” I paused. “So are you gonna help me or not?”
She took my face in her hands, pulling me close to press her lips against mine. “Let’s do this,” she said.
C HAPTER THIRTY ONE
Three days later, my hidden recording device disguised as a flash drive arrived in the mail. Brooke secured a fifteen minute appointment with Weddington at his DC office for later in the week. Under the guise of a campaign manager intern, she charmed her way into an interview with the grace of an Academy Award winning actress. I had never been so proud.
We spent our final days of winter break holed up together planning the course we hoped her conversation with Weddington would take. I did a bit more research on O’Leary, confirming my suspicions he was capable of murdering my father. Although never found guilty, he’d been arrested several times for assault and weapons violations over the course of many years. He was a member of Weddington’s staff for just over nine years, demonstrating a mutual respect and trust between the two men.
As Brooke and I drove together along route 211 toward DC, I struggled to discern why Weddington had my father killed. I knew how, by whom, when, and where; I just couldn’t figure out why Victoria’s death triggered him to have my father murdered. Especially given his estrangement from her. Something must have happened.
To avoid parking downtown, we stopped in Fairfax County and took the orange metro line into the Federal Center station. From there, it was only a short walk to Weddington’s office. Along the way, we discussed everything but what we were about to do. We were as prepared as we were going to be, having been over the different scenarios dozens of times. All that was left to do was confront him.
At quarter of two, we stood on the front steps of the Rayburn House Office Building where Weddington and his staff were housed while Congress was in session. The wind cut at our cheeks, and Brooke blew into her hands to warm them.
“Are you nervous?” I asked, grabbing her hands and rubbing them between my own.
“Yes!” she responded. “I don’t want to screw this up for you. It’s a lot of pressure, Charlie.”
I tucked a loose lock of hair under her knitted snow cap. “There’s no pressure at all. Just do the best you can. If you can’t break him, you can’t break him. At least we tried. Worst case scenario, we turn over what we have to the police and let them try to figure it out.”
She sighed. “You have my notes?”
“For the hundredth time, they’re right here in the back pack. You have the recorder?”
“Here in my pocket. You have the earpiece?”
“Front pocket, with the car keys.”
She shifted from side to side, out of nervousness or in an attempt to keep warm, I couldn’t tell which. I checked my phone. It was almost 2 o’clock.
“Let’s go inside and find his office. We don’t want you to be late.”
Inside the lobby, we inquired about a restroom, where Brooke fixed her hair and touched up her lipstick, and I secured the earpiece which would allow me to listen in on her conversation with Weddington as it was being recorded. When she emerged, looking particularly beautiful, her cheeks still rosy from the cold air, I handed her the notebook from the backpack.
“You ready?” I asked, gently brushing her face with my fingertips.
“Yes,” she replied resolutely. “Now let’s get up there before I lose my nerve.”
We found the elevators and headed to the fourth floor. In the relative privacy of the elevator, I bent down to kiss her, hoping to convey my appreciation for what she was about to do.
“For luck,” I said.
She repaid me with the warmth of her smile. “I may need more than luck,” she replied as the doors slid open. “I feel like I could throw up.”
“You’re not gonna throw up. You’ll be amazing.” I scanned the length of the hallway. There were benches lining either side. “If I sit out here I should be able to hear what’s going on.” I pulled her into my chest and held her tightly. “You’re one special girl, Brooke Wallace.”
“I never get tired of hearing that, so just keep telling me, okay?” she replied, as she backed away toward the office with Weddington’s nameplate on the door. From my earpiece, I heard the click of the recording device being turned on from within her pocket as she stepped inside. For better or worse, there was no turning back.
Weddington greeted her several minutes later. “How do you do, Miss Wallace?”
“I’m fine,” she replied. “Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to speak with you today.”
“It’s my pleasure. Always happy to help a young woman on the track to a career in politics. Please, have a seat.”
The audio muffled as the recorder shifted in her pocket. I heard papers shuffling and knew she was bringing out her notes. Out of habit, I crossed my fingers, smiling to myself at how ridiculous I must have looked.
“Where would you like to begin?” he asked.
She coughed nervously. “Representative, you are one of the preem
inent politicians of our time. You’ve initiated and passed legislation on everything from social security reform to raising minimum wage to clean air initiatives. It seems that everything you do has such a positive effect on our society. What do you think your greatest accomplishment as a congressman has been?”
She delivered her lines flawlessly, with just the right inflection of reverence to boost his ego. He droned on for several minutes about how wonderful he was. I imagined the look on his face, resembling my father at the podium, speaking to his adoring constituents. Now I was the one who felt ill.
As we rehearsed together, Brooke asked him several more questions regarding effective campaign strategies and marketing.
“You certainly have worked your way into the public’s hearts,” she gushed.
“Well, that’s mighty kind of you to say, Miss Wallace.”
“I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind. I know we’re running short on time.”
“I’ve certainly got a few more minutes for a pretty girl like you.”
Neither spoke for several seconds. I could feel Brooke gathering her courage.
“I’m sure your daughter enjoyed hearing that when she was a child.”
More silence. I held my breath. This was it.
“I’m sure she did,” he replied at last.
Brooke continued. “There’s very little in the media about your family, Congressman. Certainly they helped shape the vision of your platform and have supported your campaigns throughout the years. Can you tell me a little about how your personal life is affected by your position?”
“I would prefer not to discuss my family.”
“Oh. I understand.” Her voice wavered slightly.
I couldn’t sit any longer and began pacing the hall.
“It’s just that I read somewhere that your daughter passed away not too long ago, and I was so intrigued by your strength. It was as if you were unaffected, even though I’m certain losing her was devastating. Is there a secret to how you are able to compartmentalize your life so that personal matters don’t interfere with the work you do for the good of this country every day?”