"Which could be a coincidence," she says. "Come on, Aaron, you know how investigations work. You need more evidence than that."
"So, you can't talk to Junior with me?"
"Yep," she says. "She actually wants me to go back to the office."
"So, you're ditching me?"
"Nah, I'll tell her that I'm tying up some loose ends on my money laundering case."
"You think that will convince her?"
"No, but she's not going to fire me," she says. "She had a hard enough time to get Donovan up here. She won't want to struggle to get another agent, so I think I'm safe."
"Who doesn't want to go to Alaska? It's beautiful here."
"All of the people who want to retire in California or Florida."
I glance at her in my periphery. "I don't want to risk you getting in trouble at your job. You should go back to the office."
"Are you trying to get rid of me?" She teases.
I shake my head. "Of course not, but I know how hard you worked to get this job."
She leans across the center console and kisses my cheek. "You're a sweetheart."
"You are possibly the only person to think that," I say. "So, should I drop you off at your car?"
"As long as you promise to let me come over to your house tonight," she says. "I don't think you should be alone tonight."
My throat constricts as I remember that Nick won't be there tonight. What am I going to do with his video games and system? All of his other possessions?
There must be something in my facial expression because Teresa lays her hand on top of mine—wrapped on the steering wheel—and squeezes it.
"It'll be okay," she says. "When you're ready, you can keep some of it and the rest of it could go to foster homes."
I don't know how she knew what I was thinking, but I'm grateful I didn't need to stay anything aloud. Nick's name ricochets through my mind. The only way I can think to get it to stop is to find his killer and punish them. I don't want justice—I want somebody to feel the same pain I've felt every time I've lost someone I loved.
Chapter Thirty-One
Aaron, 2015 (Late Thursday afternoon)
JUNIOR AND I SIT across from each other at his dining room table. His house is full of modern furniture—his dining table is made of glass painted black, he has a bright red loveseat in front of a large flat screen TV, and stainless steel kitchen appliances. It would make him seem sophisticated if it weren't for the fact that he has clothes lying around everywhere, including a hamper with unfolded laundry in it, dirty dishes filling his sink, and stains all over his table and countertops.
"You get some good money from being a manager at The Charcoal Grill, huh?" I ask. "Or does State Representative LaPonte give you some financial help?"
Junior squirms in his seat. "Uh, not financial help exactly, but he has given me some nice gifts."
"I'm sure," I say. "Junior, I have to ask you a question and I don't want you to lie to me. If you lie to me, I'll be very upset."
"Okay."
"When Sarah told you about the photographs I was looking at, what did you think?"
"Photographs?" he asks, his eyes wide. "Uh, what photographs.
I slam my first against the table. It's lucky that the glass doesn't break. "I told you not to lie to me, Junior."
"I'm not lying! I don't know what photographs you're talking about."
"The photographs of you watching porn and being sexually inappropriate with your staff!" I blurt. "The damn photographs that Sarah told you about after she saw them."
He shakes his head. "I don't remember that…I mean, she could have told me about it, but I don't really listen when the staff talks, so—"
"So, you're denying that you knew about the photographs at all?"
"Yeah. I'm denying it because I didn't know about them."
"Right." I glance down at his hands, seeing if there's any sign of struggle—any sign that Nick fought back against him—but Junior's hands are perfectly fine. "So, let me ask you about a prior case. Zoë LaPonte."
All of the color drains from Junior's face.
"Z-Zoë?" he asks. "That case…it was an accident. A tourist shot her."
"That is what the case file says," I tell him, pretending to ponder what he said. "But, see…Brianna's murder seems to be an almost exact replica of Zoë's murder. Isn't that strange? Eleven years pass by…and someone has stayed around the LaPonte's and your family long enough to kill again."
"W-what makes you so sure that they're connected? People g-get shot all the time."
"By a rifle, beside their vehicle?" I ask. "And the victim is a young female? Both wearing Saint Anne's uniforms? And both victims are connected by…you."
"Zoë isn't connected to me," he insists. "I was just there when W-Walter found her."
"And Walter is your connection to her," I say. "Tell me…is there a reason you don't want Walter to become governor? I mean, he's your best friend, and if he became governor, it could only help you. But bringing back the memory of his sister's death…that could be destructive. He was a suspect for a short amount of time after all. A man doesn't want possible murderer in his campaign message."
He shakes his head. "I'd love if Walter became governor. Like you said, I have no reason to not want him to be governor."
"Junior." I lean back against his chair. "Tell me about the day you found Zoë."
"The d-day she was killed?" he asks. "You know the story. It was all over the news for weeks.
"Tell me again. I want to hear what happened directly from you."
"Well…Walter and I had been playing golf that day. Zoë called him while we were playing and mentioned that her tire had gone flat and she was changing the tire, but neither of us thought much about it. After we were done playing golf—"
"What time was that?" I ask.
His eyes widen and his mouth goes slack. "I-I have no idea. It was eleven years ago."
"Okay, continue your story."
"Um, well, after we were done playing golf, we were driving home—"
"Who was driving?"
"Uh, Walter. It was my truck, but I'd had a few drinks, so…he drove."
"Okay. Continue."
"Well, anyway, that's when we saw Zoë's car on the side of the road. At least, that's what we saw at first and when we came closer, we saw her…dead. Shot. Killed by a tourist."
"You knew it was a tourist who shot her when you saw her?" I ask, my voice filled with doubt.
"N-no, of course not. That's just, uh, commentary. Sorry. We just knew she had been shot. In the head. We weren't sure what had happened, which is why Walter called the police."
"What did you do after that?"
"After what?"
"After you called the police," I say, feeling impatience creeping through me.
"…Um, we waited," he says.
"…You waited." I echo. "So…when Brianna died, you tried to do CPR, though you knew it was hopeless, but when you saw a dead body that was almost exactly like Brianna's for the first time…you didn't try anything."
His face flushes. "I guess I was just in shock for the first time. And Walter was there. He…he was the calm one. The rational one."
"He was calm after he found his dead sister on the side of the road?"
His face becomes so red—it looks as if he's suffocating. Like Nick did before he died. "Look, you can't keep talking to me like this. I didn't do anything and you don't have any evidence that I did. This is a fishing expedition and I don't have to keep talking to you if I don't want to."
"That's correct." I stand up. "It looks like Walter taught you a thing or two about law. Did that happen after you found Zoë dead, too?"
"Get out of my house," he snaps. His eyes are glossy and he seems ready to cry.
"Just one more question, Junior. Did you know my foster son? Nick?"
His face is completely blank.
Confusion crackles in my mind—Junior isn't a good enough actor to fake this much
bewilderment.
"I thought you had a daughter and she died," he says.
I shake my head. "Never mind, I'll leave, but you better stay in town. You're not off the hook for sexual harassment."
"Where else am I going to go?" he asks, as I walk away from him.
To hell, Junior. You can go to hell.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Junior, 2004 (11 years ago)
I RAISE THE GOLF CLUB as high as I can behind me and swing it back down as hard as I can.
I take out a clump of grass that's two inches away from the ball.
Walter bursts out laughing, clapping his hand against his thigh as he celebrates my complete incompetence.
"That's not fair," I mumble. "I'm drunk. You shouldn't have convinced me to have so many drinks before we came."
"I didn't convince you to do anything." He smirks. "You're just an alcoholic. I have a psychologist friend. I mentioned you once and she said she thinks you might have an addictive personality."
"Does that mean I'm so likable that people become addictive to me?"
"It means you become addicted to things easily."
"Oh. When you say psychologist friend do you mean some psychologist you used for a case and now you're fucking her?"
"Something like that." He leans on his golf club. "I'm bored."
"You're the one who wanted to go golfing!"
"I only wanted to be out here because this is the only place we could talk without anyone eavesdropping on us, or any cameras that could catch us talking. I wanted to talk to you about that medical assistant I bribed. Now that we talked about it, I'm bored."
His phone rings.
"Maybe that's your psychologist friend. Or your medical examiner friend. Or—the least likely—your wife." I tease.
He glances at it and scowls. "No, it's Zoë," he mutters. "Fucking bitch."
I glance at him. "What did she do?"
"A Norris," he states.
"…Like Norris and Norris Law Firm?" I ask. "I thought your family hated those guys. In fact, I remember your father saying he considered buying a bunch of fire ants and setting them loose in their building."
"We do hate them…except Zoë, who is apparently in love with that Wendy bitch who ruined my case with the double homicide. That's why Dad and I kicked her out of the firm last month. The last thing we need is someone who consorts with those idiotic assholes who bend the law whenever they can."
"Don't you think that will become a problem when you run for state representative?" I sit down on the artificial grass of the golf course, the alcohol making my body tired.
"Why would it become a problem?"
"The town knows your sister is gay," I say. "And that's all they'll know. They'll think you kicked her out because of that and that will lose you some votes from the moderates and independent voters."
"Fucking bitch," he mutters again. He types something on his phone. "She has a flat tire and she's having trouble getting the lug nuts off the tire. She wants me to come pick her up. Apparently, she thinks I can forgive her bullshit in order to save her."
"So, you're going to leave her?"
"No." He scowls. "The last thing I need is somebody picking her up and her talking about how her brother refused to help her out."
He jumps into the golf cart, and I stumble into it with him. As he drives back to the parking lot, he takes so many sharp turns that I almost fall out of my seat twice. He ignores me as he parks the golf cart then gives the key to the man waiting there. I follow him to my truck. He spins around when we reach the grille of the truck and holds out his hand.
"Give me your keys," he says. "You're too drunk to drive."
I hand him my keys. I might have put up a fight against other people, but I've learned it's best when Walter is in control. He's someone who knows how to use control to his advantage.
Time or memory begins to waver for me after we get into the truck. Sometimes I think I fall asleep for a couple of minutes, but at the same time, I feel like I'm talking to him at the same time. I remember him griping about Zoë, using prejudicial slurs, and talking about how she shames the whole family. I may be talking in my sleep through it—maybe even agreeing—but I could be dreaming of it, too. I'm not sure. I just remember feeling the jerk of the truck as he stops and seeing Zoë leaning against her car.
I get out of the truck at the same time as Walter, rubbing my eyes, as the sun seems brighter than it should be at late noon.
"Hey, sis," Walter yells out, the volume of his voice hurting my head. "Let me guess…you don't have a lug wrench in your car."
"I took it out a couple of days ago," she says. "I was moving some glassware and I didn't want it to break anything, so I just took it out and forgot to put it back in."
"Of course," Walter says, flashing her his lawyer-smile—too big, fake, but it's easy to think it's genuine if you want to believe what he's saying. "Junior has one in his truck."
Walter opens the driver's side door again. From where I'm standing, I can see him pull the front seat back, which is where my lug wrench is. I turn around to look at Zoë.
"How's Wendy?" I ask.
Zoë has never liked me, or at least that's what Walter told me. He said she thought I was white trash, but I can't be too mad about that because it's true.
She shrugs "She's all right. She's working on a case where she's prosecuting a young woman who killed her uncle, so she's been a bit up and down emotionally lately. I think she—"
Zoë stops talking mid sentence, her eyes widen, and her mouth forms a small "O." There's shock on her face, but also a small amount of acceptance—as if something occurred to her as being inevitable.
I don't even have time to turn around before I hear the gunshot.
Then Zoë is lying on the ground with a bullet wound in her head…and Walter is slowly lowering my rifle.
"What did you do?" I whisper, the words coming out of my mouth like a slow hiss…like a gas leak, and the words could kill someone else.
"Nothing," he snaps. He throws the gun back into my truck, and then storms over toward me.
In my addled mind, I stumble back as he points his finger in my face.
"We found her like this, understand? She was dead when we got here."
"She was dead when we got here." I echo.
He nods, grabs his phone, and dials somebody's number.
I glance back at Zoë. Her head is lolled toward me and her eyes stare straight at me. One of my waitresses, who wanted to become a mortician, once told me that some people die with their eyes open because the muscles in the eyelids stop working. So if your eyes are open when you die, they'll stay open, and if they're closed, they'll stay closed. But I don't think so. I can see the way Zoë is looking at me, and I'm absolutely certain that her soul is memorizing this moment. When I die, there will be a courtroom and she will be the first piece of evidence to send me to eternal damnation.
There are worse things to be than white trash.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sarah, 2015 (Late Thursday night)
THE RAIN PELTS ME as I tromp down the hill in my oversized boots and raincoat, while lugging my pink SIG Sauer P290 pistol that I've got wedged beneath my coat. Debbie follows closely by my side, unfazed by the terrible weather. Even in my fucked-up mind, I want to shove her in the mud because she won't stop bitching.
"This is a terrible plan," she says. "When we talked about you taking action again, I didn't mean about Junior. He smacked you on the ass a few times. So what? That doesn't mean you should look up his address on the Internet, which the police could easily use as evidence against you—"
"He makes defenseless people feel even more powerless." I huff. "He deserves to die before the police can take me down."
"Something is going to go wrong," she says. "You rehearsed killing Brianna. You haven't even cased Junior's house."
"Why would I case his house? I know he lives alone. His wife left him and took the kids. I think he mentioned tha
t they live in Wisconsin or something. He doesn't own any dogs or else he wouldn't be able to stay at the restaurant all day. He's nobody. He's nothing. He'll do more good being dead than remaining alive. Maybe his death will trigger a confession out of Walter."
"You are way too optimistic." She sighs. "Maybe you are just like Mason."
I ignore her, as I am close enough to Junior's house to see the tip of his roof. I approach slowly, making sure he's not outside for any reason.
Junior's house is a single-story log cabin, painted a grayish blue, with a small porch in the front. There's two large windows in the front, one revealing the kitchen and the other showing the dining room. I'm certain it must have been a beautiful house when he first moved in, but now the paint is peeling and weeds are growing around the railing of the porch.
As I creep closer, settling right against the porch, I see Junior at the dining room table. He has his laptop open in front of him with a beer beside it. His pants are open and it appears to be naked bodies on his screen. I can't get a clear shot at him from where I am because I'm below him and the bullet might ricochet, so I step up onto the porch. It's a much clearer shot here, and he's too focused on jacking off to see me.
As I shift my left foot in front of me to get into the proper shooting stance—one quick motion without hesitation—I slip. The boots are too big, the porch is slick with rainwater, and my soles are muddy. I barely catch myself by grabbing the porch rail, but I end up knocking off some of the beer bottles that are perched on top of it.
"Who's there?" Junior's voice booms out.
I scramble onto my feet. I manage to get back into the right stance just has he opens the door. His pants are still open and his eyes are fixated on my skintight yoga pants, which are now plastered onto my skin from the rain.
Typical, I think, before I pull the trigger and the bullet tears through his chest.
It's close range, so it's far messier than I expect, and he doesn't die immediately. He grabs at my raincoat and tries to pull me down, his mouth gaping at me. I point the pistol at him and pull the trigger again. The blood sprays out of his chest onto my pants and raincoat. All I can think of is that the blood will come off my raincoat in the rain, but it won't come out of my pants, at least not without soap. Junior is still so desperate to cling on to his pathetic life that he grabs my ankle. I point the gun at the back of his neck…and pull the trigger one last time.
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