Tonight might be worse at The Charcoal Grill because it's my first night back and patrons will be drowning me in their concern and questions. Their pity will be the heavy weight around my ankles and I'll have to use all my restraint to not shout at them that I am not a victim—that I proved how much I'm not a victim today when I shot two bullets straight into Brianna's pretty little head.
After parking behind the restaurant and changing, I grab the burner phone, hide it in my pants pocket, and walk into the building through the front door.
Birdie is the first one I see, looking a bit more frazzled than when I saw her two hours ago. She grabs my arm as soon as she notices me. "Thank God, you're here."
Don't thank God. What does God have to do with me being on time?
"Brianna was supposed to be here two hours ago, but she never showed up. I've been trying to call her, but she's not picking up. I can't work the dinner shift by myself. I've had my brother and sisters crammed into a booth all afternoon." She gestures to a booth with six children, ranging from toddler to mid-teens.
"Uh, aren't the older ones able to watch the younger ones?" I ask.
"Yeah, but then they discovered how easy it is to get their hands on pot. And I can't have a bunch of high teens in the house while there are little kids with a thousand dangerous things they could get themselves into."
I shake my head. "I can't imagine why Brianna wouldn't show up to work without calling first. When is the last time you tried to call her?"
"I think it was about an hour ago," she says. Two patrons walk in. She picks up two menus. "I don't know. I hope she wasn't in a car accident or anything."
"I'll call her. Try not to worry too much, Birdie. You have enough on your plate to deal with. I'll try to take care of this. I'm sure she just fell asleep after school or something."
I take out my cell phone and dial Brianna's number. I listen to her phone ring, trying to keep a look of worry and bafflement on my face. I prepare myself in case a policeman or detective picks up—What? No, she can't be dead. That's not possible. It must be someone else. Even if no one answers, at least my phone call will be good to reinforce my alibi. Why would I call a girl I had just killed?
Nobody answers. Too bad. I've been practicing my lying skills with Dr. Walsh and it would be interesting to see if policemen are just as gullible.
Birdie rushes by me with an order pad in her hand—she never managed the memorizing skills of the other servers.
"Hey, Birdie," I say. She stops and turns to face me. "Have you talked to Junior?"
She shakes her head, her face flushing. "He's being a lump back in his office. He's…he's being Junior."
Junior is our general manager, and not only is he the son of The Charcoal Grill's founder, Patrick Duff, but he also happens to be Brianna's uncle. If you ever want a place where nepotism flourishes, Wyatt, Alaska, is the place to go to.
He also is obsessed with porn, which he watches during business hours, and has a bad habit of hitting on the waitresses. But, I suppose, since I'm officially a murderer, I shouldn't judge other people's sins. I shouldn't judge them, but that doesn't stop me.
When I walk into his office, the door is wide open. A video of a naked woman's ass and a man's hand coming down against the plump flesh is on his screen. His speakers are blaring with the sound of the woman's yelps and the man's grunts.
Junior turns around in his chair when I knock on the door, but he doesn't try to hide his screen or lower the volume of his laptop. He's a large man, bald, with hands that always appear swollen. He's missing one of his front teeth, too, which he tells people he lost in a fight, but I suspect it was something less admirable—like slipping on ice or tripping over his own big feet. I raise my cell phone high enough to catch part of the screen and Junior's toothy grin. I pretend to type on the keyboard.
"Hey, Junior. I've been calling and texting Brianna, but she's not answering anything. Birdie has been doing the same thing. Both of us are getting really concerned. She was supposed to come in over two hours ago. Should we call Mr. and Mrs. Cull?"
"Nah," Junior says. He finally snaps his laptop shut. "It's their anniversary. They're going to dinner in Anchorage after work. I'll swing by the house and see if Brianna's still there. If she's not, I'm gonna kill her. The bitch has taken advantage of the fact we're related one too many times."
I press the red button on my cell phone's screen to stop recording. His last two comments could come in handy later if I ever need to give the police a suspect.
As Junior moves past me, his hand brushes over my waist and our eyes meet, but he keeps walking without saying anything. I've heard several stories of waitresses that he coerced into sexual acts by threatening their jobs. In a place like Wyatt, jobs are scarce and many women end up doing less than desirable jobs—like mining or crab fishing—which involve hard labor and likely sexual harassment from various coworkers. But Junior hasn't requested me to do anything sexual with him—I suppose it's one of the perks of having a judge for a father.
As I'm about to turn off my phone, a text pops up.
Nick: Hey, I'm here.
Me: Come to the back.
I wait a few minutes to give him time to get to the back of the restaurant where the dumpsters are kept. Most people wouldn't dare venture toward there because the smell is atrocious. When I open the door to the back, the smell hits me hard. As I step out, Nick appears around the corner.
Nick is the typical skinny nerd who wears clothes two sizes too big for him. He does have nice, thick black hair, which always seems to be perfectly messy, and his dark eyes could make him seem dangerous if it weren't for his utter lack of muscle.
"You okay?" he asks me. "Did something happen with Junior? Do I need to kick his ass? I come from a family of criminals and know a thing or two about how to make a body disappear."
"I'm sure you do," I murmur. While I feel no real attachment toward Nick—he's just a way to keep tabs on the police through Chief Grant—I have to admit feeling some gratitude that he's willing to put himself in danger for my sake. "But, no, nothing happened. I just wanted to do this."
I wrap my arms around him. I kiss him like I want him right then and there—my fingers tighten around his hair as I press my body hard against his. His tongue slides between my lips and I feel it explore inside my mouth.
But it's all simple actions. I'm just playing the role of a girl who gives a shit.
Chapter Nine
Junior, 2015 (Early Monday night)
AS I PULL INTO Elizabeth's driveway, the first thing I notice is two turkey vultures flying in circles, which can only mean something is dead near the house. Maybe somebody shot a deer nearby, which means my brother-in-law, Rick, will be pissed since he's one of the few people around here that hates hunters and he'll be even more annoyed that one was hunting on his property.
Rick the Prick. I'm glad something will ruin his day.
I approach their enormous log cabin and spot another bird on the ground. At first, I think it's a third turkey vulture, but it doesn't have the bald red head. It's a golden eagle. Then, I notice the red blood under its talons…and the body it seems to be carefully surveying.
Brianna.
With the presence of these birds of prey, I know she's dead, but it doesn't stop me from diving toward her body. Her blood soaks through my jeans and the eagle takes flight as I flip her over. There's a bullet hole to her head and her eyes stare blankly up. Blood splatters all the way to her open car door and there's some gray substance flecked all over it, too.
Brain matter.
I take a few steps away and vomit on my younger sister's frost-crisped front lawn. As I dry heave, I remember Zoë LaPonte.
Zoë—who had gone to Saint Anne's like Brianna—had been at an alumna event where she had worn her old school uniform and stopped her car because of a flat tire. I'd been playing golf with Walter, Zoë's older brother and my best friend, when Zoë called him to tell him she was having a tough time getting the lug
nuts off the tire and asked him to come pick her up.
We'd taken my truck to the golf course, but I was too messed up to drive, so Walter drove.
I wanted to believe I was so drunk that I hallucinated Walter griping about his dyke of a sister and phrases like shame on the family. Maybe I didn't hallucinate those parts, but I must have imagined him greeting his sister and instead of taking out my lug wrench, he grabbed a gun—out of a large sea bag I recall he carried out with him—from the back of my truck, and shot Zoë in the head.
Like Brianna had been.
I wanted to believe that's exactly what happened to Zoë. I wanted to think we had found her shot, and Walter had called the police as a concerned brother.
Walter and I never talked about it. There wasn't any extravagant plan to cover up the murder, so it was easy enough to think the whole scene was created by an alcohol-addled mind. I mean, I wasn't part of the cover-up plan. I suppose if it wasn't a hallucination, then the story about a tourist hunter who hadn't even noticed he'd shot someone had to have been pushed by Walter somehow. And there hadn't even been an autopsy done, which was weird.
But, what would it say about me if I thought my best friend was a murderer? What would it say about me if I was a murderer's accomplice, because I remained silent for eleven years?
Maybe this is a hallucination.
I glance down at Brianna's body. I feel the bile rising up in my throat again. Not a hallucination.
I stumble farther away until I fall onto my knees in the cold, wet grass. I grab my phone from my pocket, and then dial Walter's number. He will need to know there is going to be a death in the news—a death that some reporter will inevitably equate to the death of his sister. Questions will be asked. Conspiracy theories will spread.
"Hello?" a woman's voice asks. His secretary. What was her name? Amelia? Amy? Amanda? It doesn't matter.
"Is Walter there?"
"No, he's not. May I pass on a message to him?" she asks.
"Listen, this is Junior Duff. I'm good friends with him."
"Oh. The owner or manager of The Charcoal Grill, right? Don't worry. I'll put you through to voicemail."
I hear a beep before Walter's voice booms in my ear.
"Hello, you have reached the office of Alaska State Representative Walter LaPonte. I am unfortunately unable to take your call. Please leave your name, number, and reason for calling, and I will contact you as soon as possible. Thank you and have a great day."
Have a great day.
"Walter," I say. "Brianna is dead. Murdered. She was…she was shot in the head while she was nearby her car. Oh, my God, it's so much like…just call me back, okay? Call me back."
I hang up, my arm drops down to my side, and my phone nearly slips from my fingers. In order to avoid looking at Brianna, I gaze up at the sky. The vultures are still circling around, waiting for me to leave so that they can feast.
What is worse, a predator or a scavenger? The first one kills, but the second one will wait for you to die. It won't cry out for help and it's too cowardly to attack anything healthy or strong.
I'm a scavenger. I turned my back on Zoë when she was killed and now some higher power is punishing me.
I dial nine-one-one.
"Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?"
"M-my niece. She's been murdered."
Chapter Ten
Teresa, 2015 (Monday night)
"SO, WHAT MADE you want to become an FBI agent?" I ask.
I wanted to go to Wyatt to stop at The White River, my favorite bar, but Donovan was reluctant to drive all the way to it, so we went to The Cubbyhole within Anchorage. The Cubbyhole is the opposite of The White River. The White River has the cheapest wooden stools and every single one of the tables tilts whenever you put a drink down. It's so brightly lit that no matter how drunk you are, there's no way you would take someone below your beauty standards home. On the other hand, The Cubbyhole has chrome barstools with padded cushions and the blue mood lighting makes everyone look alien-like. It's a bit small for my own taste—I can feel everybody's body heat around me—but the rum and Coke isn't too bad.
"Was it watching The Silence of the Lambs or The X-Files? Or were you one of those kids everyone thought was weird because you obsessed about serial killers?"
Donovan laughs. "Everyone thought I was weird, but that wasn't because of anything I was obsessed with. I just liked the idea of going after the big bad guys—serial killers, terrorists, gangs, mafia…I wanted to make a difference."
I raise my hand. "Wait. Back up. You can't tell me that people thought you were weird and not expand on that."
He laughs, taking a sip from his beer. Two untouched shots of whiskey are in front of him, though he got them at the same time as his beer. "I come from a dynasty of funeral directors and morticians, which means everyone assumes I have some kind of infatuation with death, plus I grew up around more dead people than live ones. And my first name is terrible, so when I was a freshman in high school, I told everyone my name on the attendance list was a typo and my real name was Garrett. The teachers found out I lied, and one of them told everyone the truth, so after that, people assumed I was a pathological liar."
"What's your real name?"
He cringes. "Barrett."
"That's not terrible."
"In middle school, they called me Barrett the Barrette."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"With young kids, the criticism doesn't have to make sense."
I glance down at my phone.
Donovan follows my gaze. "Do you need to call Aaron?" he asks. "I can save your seat if you need to go outside to hear him."
"No. I don't know…no. Sorry. He's…he's been…clingy today. Is that bad for me to say?"
"No, it's not," he says. "Everyone needs different amounts of personal time. Has Wyatt gone back to being a sleepy little town with a higher than usual rate of wintertime assaults?"
"Yeah. Things are slow there. Hunting season just started, and after the mess this summer, their year-round delinquents have been quiet."
"The fire didn't affect hunting?" he asks.
"I guess not."
He nods, taking another sip of his beer. "Did you find anything on the judge while you were closing up the case? I know we closed it together, but you were more involved in it since you were closer to the police force."
"No…but I didn't really pay attention to him after he stopped being a suspect. Why? Did you find something?"
"Well, when someone's son turns out to be a sociopath, his daughter is kidnapped, and the guy continues to work through all of these tragedies…it's just abnormal," he says. "When I was a teenager, one of my classmates died. She was sixteen. Her father was obsessive over her corpse, wanting it to look perfect in the casket. He picked out the dress she wore, wanted to approve the makeup that was put on her, and touched her a lot more than people generally do corpses when they don't have to."
"Maybe he just cared a lot about how she looked?"
Donovan shakes his head, his eyes darkening. "No. He was just creepy. And I've gotten the same vibe from pedophiles ever since."
"So, you think the judge is a pedophile?"
"I think he married a woman that is nearly the same age his first daughter would be if she were alive."
"That doesn't mean that he's a pedophile. Vanessa was legal age when they married."
"True. But there's what Ms. Norris testified."
"Aaron says the judge has been harsh but fair."
"Chief Grant is also from Wyatt. People often don't see what's wrong with certain people if they grow up around them—they just don't see how bad it is if it's all around them every day."
"Like with you growing up with morticians?" I tease.
"Hey, now," he says. "Don't make fun of it. I actually went to Southern Illinois University for mortuary science, because I wanted to go into the family business, but after seeing so many dead bodies, I realized I wanted to save them before th
ey died."
I tilt my head. "I went to SIU, too."
"I know. I saw it in your file."
"You read my file?"
"You didn't read mine?"
I hadn't had the time—correction, I hadn't taken the time, because I was spending all my spare time with Aaron.
"Sorry," I mumble. "I'll get around to it soon enough."
"It's all right. That means I have the upper hand because I know all of this information about you and you know nothing about me."
"What kind of information could you possibly use against me?"
He pushes one of the whiskey shots in front of me. "Happy birthday."
I glare at him. "Now that's not fair."
"I know," he says. "I won't sing "Happy Birthday" at the top of my lungs if you just have this birthday shot with me."
"You wouldn't dare sing."
"I'm a bit tipsy and you don't know enough about me to say I wouldn't. For all you know, I'm in an a cappella group."
I raise the shot glass. "Well, as long as you're blackmailing me, I guess I have to."
"That's the spirit." He clinks his shot glass against mine and we both swallow our whiskey in one gulp. He smiles at me. "Happy birthday."
"Ugh."
* * *
It's almost eight o'clock when I let myself into my condo. I'm carrying my laptop bag and the container of lo mein from my lunch.
As soon as I walk in, I set my laptop down on the table near the door, and I flip on the light switch. I'm confronted by five photographs hanging on the side wall. It takes me a few seconds to realize they're my childhood photographs that were in a shoebox under my bed, because I'm not used to seeing them outside of the dim lights of my bedroom.
Devil's Dawn (A Grant & Daniels Trilogy Book 2) Page 4