“So let’s back up. When Marlene Crockett called you, she seemed afraid of someone?”
“Yes. Or some situation. She wasn’t specific,” I say.
“Not even a guess?”
“Just that she seemed to be having a crisis and wouldn’t give me details unless I came up to talk in person.”
“Which you did not do.”
“No.”
He cocks his head slightly. “Why not?”
I think of a million defensive excuses, but I say, “Honestly? I didn’t want to put myself in the middle of something. After the business last year . . .”
“Yes, I can understand your wanting to stay out of the spotlight.” He doesn’t mention the disastrous Howie Hamlin TV appearance, though I’m sure he’s aware of it. “I assume you also considered that it might be a trap set to lure you to Wolfhunter . . . an out-of-the-way place where you might well be caught without support.”
“Well . . . yes, I did.”
“But you don’t think that’s the case now?”
I blink. “Marlene’s dead. She clearly did have something to fear.”
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t still a trap. Just that the bait is bigger.” Hector Sparks sits back in his chair and lowers his chin as he stares at me. He’s about to say something when I hear a distant banging. Rhythmic, like someone hammering in a nail. Banging a pipe? Annoyance flickers across his face. He picks up the phone sitting at precise angles in the corner of his desk and dials. “Mrs. Pall? Please get on the intercom and ask maintenance to keep the noise down, if you please.” He hangs up. “Apologies. It’s an old house. Repairs are simply never-ending.”
“Of course,” I say. “It is beautiful. You keep it in great condition.”
“Thank you. Well, it’s been in the family for a very long time.” Something about that seems to give him a flicker of amusement, but then it’s gone, and he’s back to seriousness. “I just want to be clear about what Vera Crockett is facing in this county. They intend to arraign her for first-degree murder, and try her as an adult. She may not have much of a defense unless I can find some alibi witnesses to show she could not possibly have done the deed.”
The banging comes to an abrupt halt. Mrs. Pall is efficient. Mr. Sparks visibly relaxes. “Ah, that’s better. Ms. Proctor . . . I have a somewhat unusual request to make.”
“About . . . ?”
“I’d like you to speak with Vera. I’ll accompany you; everything she tells you will be covered by attorney-client privilege, and you will be acting as my agent in this matter. You’re purely there as a facilitator. I’m willing to pay you a generous fee as an assistant to help me get her full story.” He shakes his head, a chagrined look coming over that kindly face. “She just doesn’t like me, I’m afraid, but I’m all she’s got. She talked to you. Reached out to you, in fact. I don’t have a lot of time if I’m going to start tracking down an alibi for her.”
“Wolfhunter can’t be that big,” I say.
“You don’t know this town. Vera’s reputation was already . . . let’s call it damaged. This place is quick to make judgments and close ranks. If I don’t find her witnesses quickly, then I might not be able to get them on the record at all.”
I don’t want to be drawn into this any deeper; I’m not sure I actually want to help Vee Crockett. She unnerved me on that call. But she’s fifteen, and alone, and he’s right: small towns like this don’t forgive, or forget. “Mr. Sparks, this case could draw media attention, and I’d rather not get caught up in it.”
“Understandable, given your, ah, current notoriety. It will only be one conversation, I promise, and then our business will be done, and you’ll leave her defense in my hands. Does that sound all right?” When I don’t immediately answer, he drops his voice a little into a warmer, slower register. “She’s your daughter’s age, more or less. And she’s trapped in a nightmare, all alone except for what help I can offer. And if I’m to give her any hope of avoiding a conviction, maybe even the death penalty . . . I need your help. All I’ve got to work with right now is a girl who was in the room with her dead mother, covered in her mother’s blood, with her prints on the shotgun that killed Marlene. And I’m assuming she didn’t say anything to you that would have exonerated her.”
I shake my head. “And even with all that, you still don’t think she did it?” I make it a question. Sparks’s expression stays carefully neutral.
“I believe she deserves a chance to prove she didn’t,” he says. “But she won’t speak to me to assist in her own defense. You could be the key to helping her.”
“I don’t think the police will welcome me back.”
“I can’t imagine you’re a great deal concerned with what the police want. I’ll get you inside. If you make a good-faith effort but Vee still refuses to talk, then keep my payment and be on your way with a clear conscience.”
I think about it and then ask, “Why did you take her case? You must have known the town would be against you.”
He’s silent for a moment. A long one. Then he slowly leans forward with a creak of springs in his leather chair and spears me with a look I can’t read. “I didn’t choose it,” he says. “I was assigned the case. Believe me, I’d rather not be responsible for it, but here we are. Do we have an agreement?”
We do.
When he writes me a check from a thick leather ledger for $1,000, I get the oddest feeling that he’s buying more than my time. But a grand is nothing I can refuse, especially now. I have no idea how he’s going to be reimbursed for this—if he ever is—but I’m not going to turn it down if he’s willing to offer. And besides, I do want to get Vera to tell her story. I want to know.
So I take the check, and now I’m hired.
“May I have your cell number?” he asks, and I write it down for him. As I hand it over, my sleeve rides up, and he sees the Sharpie marks on my arm. His silvery eyebrows climb. “Is that my phone number?”
“In case I was detained by the cops,” I tell him.
“How enterprising. I expect to have our interview set for the afternoon,” he says. “Thank you, Ms. Proctor. I appreciate your willingness to help.”
As I leave, Mrs. Pall is standing in the foyer, as if she’s a robot who plugs into the socket there. Her gaze follows me. I can’t resist. “I hear you have cream cake,” I tell her. “Any chance I can get some to go?”
She glares at me without answering, but then, I didn’t expect a gracious parting gift. I’m just enjoying twisting her tail.
Suddenly she smiles and says, “Have a very good day, Mrs. Royal.”
“Proctor,” I tell her.
“Oh yes, of course. I quite forgot.” In a pig’s eye.
Then the door shuts, and I can’t work out which of us won that. I frown at the shiny surface for a long moment. Something’s off with that woman. I have no idea what it is, other than general weird unlikability. Not really my problem.
The only reasonable thing to do while I’m waiting for Hector Sparks’s call, though, is to go to the motel, talk to Sam, and maybe get some clarity on what’s making him so twitchy.
When I call him, he sounds clipped, but normal, and it’s a brief call; I wait outside on Hector Sparks’s perfectly ordered lawn for five minutes until the SUV glides up. Sam’s in it by himself, and I get in quickly and stare at him while I fasten my seat belt. “You left them alone?”
“Yeah, I did,” he says. “I needed to talk to you. It’s ten minutes, Gwen. Lanny’s on guard.”
“Okay,” I say, but it isn’t, not really. “Private talk. This sounds dire.”
He plunges right into it. “Gwen . . . I need you to seriously think about moving away from Stillhouse Lake. Because Miranda Tidewell is not going to give up on this.”
“You sound like you actually know her.” He doesn’t answer immediately. “You do.” I’m taken aback. I don’t know how to feel about that. It’s certainly not my right to police who he knows, but that woman . . .
“I
do.” He says it quietly, and I can read how reluctant he is to admit it. “We connected after I got back from my last deployment. She met me at the airport. Helped me reacclimate to civilian life, and . . . figure out how to deal with Callie’s murder.”
I feel a real twinge of anger, and I bury it. Or try to. “Sam, if the two of you were lovers, just come out with it already.” I hate that I feel a surge of jealousy. But I can’t deny it either.
“No, it wasn’t like that,” he says. “Look, we talked before about how I was part of the pack of stalkers that came after you online, but . . . not the full extent of what I did, or how. She knows. And she’s going to use it.”
“Use it how?”
“To destroy us,” he says.
I turn and give him a really long look. “Can she?”
He doesn’t do more than glance my way, then turns his attention back to the road. We’re making a turn onto the main street already. Five blocks, more or less, to the motel. It seems a long way suddenly.
“She’s capable of doing anything to fill that bottomless hole where her soul used to be,” he says. “Melvin did that to her. She’s dangerous, Gwen. To you, to the kids, maybe. I need you to understand and think how we’re going to protect against that.”
“Is she physically dangerous?”
“I honestly don’t know. I feel like I don’t know where to look for trouble anymore. It’s not just watching my back, your back; it’s watching everything.”
“We’ve always known that,” I say. “Always. Three sixty, three sixty-five.” That means 360 degrees of awareness, 365 days a year. Our personal code. And it hasn’t failed us yet. “It feels like there are still things you’re not telling me. Am I wrong?”
“No,” he says, and takes in a deep breath. “I also got an outreach from a company in Florida. They’re looking for a private pilot to work standby. Good salary, benefits, the whole package.”
I’m ashamed that the first thing I feel is a deep fear that he’s found a real reason to leave me. Leave us. I quickly throttle that back and say, “Congratulations. Are you thinking about taking the job?” That sounds accusatory. I can’t help it.
“I wasn’t, not seriously,” he says. “Not until Miranda showed up.”
“Do you really think she can’t find you in Florida? She tracked us down at Stillhouse Lake.” I turn and look at the ramshackle, fading town of Wolfhunter as it glides past the window. The despair it emanates burns down my nerves. “I said I wasn’t going to run anymore.”
“I know you said that. But circumstances have changed.”
“Have they? Do you really think I’m more afraid of an angry, grieving mother than I was of my murderous ex who skinned women? I said I’m not running. I won’t.” I talk tough. I feel like I need to right now, because the undeniable truth is that if Sam does take that job in Florida, if he leaves us . . . I don’t know what that means. We’ve been so careful about not putting names and labels on what we have that I don’t even know what I’d be losing, except . . . everything.
I swallow hard. “Sam—I can’t do this. Not now.”
“We can talk about it later,” he says, and I know he’s struggling with this too. Probably more than I am, if that’s possible. “Okay. How’d this morning go?”
“Interestingly,” I say, and I’m a thousand percent relieved to change the subject. “I’m going back with Vera Crockett’s lawyer to see her this afternoon. He’s having some trouble getting a statement, and I might be able to get her to talk more freely.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t seem thrilled. “So we leave tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” I pause. “Is that all right?”
“Fine,” he says. I don’t know why, but I think he’s lying. Or at least suppressing something important. “Lanny will be glad to talk to you. I did my best, but broken hearts—”
“Sort of a mom thing?” I finish. “Probably.” I don’t tell him that for me, the only broken heart I’ve ever really had was from the first man I thought I loved. After the monstrous betrayal of my ex, nothing else can compare, and certainly never hurt as much.
Though thinking of Sam leaving comes very close. So does the thought that he and Miranda Tidewell were . . . whatever they were to each other. I wonder if he’s lied to me about the sex, or lack thereof. Sam doesn’t lie that often, but when he does, he does it disturbingly well.
By then, we’re passing the McDonald’s where we had breakfast, and then making the turn into the motel. We park. Most of the other cars that had been in the lot are gone—campers heading for the forest, I assume. Or couples who rented by the hour. The doors to our two rooms are closed, but I see the curtain tweak in the one occupied by my kids. That eases some tight knot in the center of my chest. Ten minutes seems like a long time for them to be on their own right now. I feel as if there are enemies all around, and I no longer know who the hell they are.
We both start talking at the same time. “Sam, I don’t know—”
“I’m sorry that I—”
When our words collide, we both fall silent, waiting for the other to proceed. He doesn’t. So I finally do. “I don’t know if I even want to think about moving away from Stillhouse Lake right now. The kids—they only just started to feel safe, and . . .” I trail off. He nods. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t go after that job. You should if it’s what you want to do. I won’t get in your way.”
I get out of the SUV before he can think of an answer. I don’t want to hear it. I go straight to the door of the kids’ room and knock, and before I hit twice, the door’s open, and Lanny throws herself into my arms. I walk her inside without breaking that embrace. “I was worried,” she says, and sniffles. “You were gone a long time.”
“I’m fine,” I tell her. I push her back a little and study her. She’s been either crying or fighting not to, and she looks puffy and miserable. I hug her again and smooth her silky, multicolored hair. “You know me. I’m not going to leave you. Not even when you want me to, because I’m the most annoying mom ever.”
She laughs a little and hugs me tighter. I look over at my son, who’s quietly watching us above the edge of the laptop. “Hey, kiddo,” I say, “how’s it going?”
“Fine,” he says. “I’m not the one who’s freaking out.”
“Don’t be mean,” I chide him.
“Yeah,” Lanny says, and turns her face toward him, still pressed against me. “Don’t be mean, jerk.”
“And you.” I bop her gently on top of the head. “Quit name-calling.”
“She’s been like that all day,” Connor says. “I don’t care.”
He does, though. He and Lanny were each other’s everything while I was in jail, then on trial. Even when I came back, they stayed close. They had to. It was us against the world. I know that has to end eventually . . . but not yet. I can’t bear it.
“Anyway, this town’s really weird, Mom. It was started because they trapped and killed bears and wolves and things; then they had an iron mine. But some of the histories say there were gangs of thieves here, too, who used to rob people and bury them in the forest.”
“Okay.” I sit on the edge of the bed where he’s propped up. “That’s interesting background. Anything more recent?”
“Three women went missing,” he says. I like that he’s so particular about his nouns; even at his age, he’s not falling into the trap of calling adult women girls, or worse, females. “And there are a couple of younger ones who maybe ran away but maybe not too. And a disappearing wreck! It’s cool, Mom, check it out.”
He swings the laptop around toward me, morbid delight all over his face. It’s a paranormal website talking about recent accounts of a devastating wreck near Wolfhunter—two cars, a head-on collision. A hunter apparently witnessed it from the trees on the hill above, but by the time he was able to get a signal and call the cops and make his way down to the crash site . . . there was no wreck. No bodies. The tire tracks and crash debris that was left along the shoulder could have be
en there for days. The article segues into a discussion of a local legend about a deadly crash in the 1940s that left several dead, and a ghostly car that has haunted the road ever since.
Odd. Marlene mentioned a wreck.
“When was this?”
“Last week,” Connor said. “But even years back, there was a story about a ghost car that drives that same road. Some people think that’s where the missing women went. Maybe the ghost car picked them up and took them away.”
“Really, Connor?” Lanny’s face twists in a mask of disdain. “Ghosts, now? For real?”
I see the spikes come out in my son. “Like you didn’t say Bloody Mary three times in the mirror at midnight.”
“I didn’t!”
“I saw you!”
“Stop!” I shout it this time, over the rising volume, and glare at each of them until they look away. “Enough! Connor, thank you. I’m not sure the ghost car is going to help, but anything’s possible. Come on, you two . . .”
“I want my laptop back,” Lanny says.
“Fine, take it,” Connor snaps. “About time you did something useful; all you’ve done is cry about your stupid girlfriend not liking you anymore!”
The color drains from my daughter’s face, then comes rushing back in. She snatches the laptop away, runs into the adjoining room, and slams the door hard enough to vibrate the floor. I turn to my son. “Did you think that was necessary?” I ask him.
“Well, it’s true. She’s been moping around for days and acting like she’s the only person in the world. I’m sick of it!”
“Do you remember how it was after she found out you talked to your dad?” I ask him. “What did she do?”
He looks away. “But that’s different—”
“No buts. What did she do when she found you’d gone to meet him?”
His voice drops. “She came after me. Helped me get away. Kept me safe.”
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