Some of the blood sprays my face.
I try to wipe it off, but my hand has blood all over it, too. The rain will just have to wash it off. It doesn't matter. Junior is dead. He won't torment anyone anymore.
But I can't leave it at that. People have to know what kind of person he was. I'll be damned if he gets a funeral that makes him out to be some wonderful person.
I force him onto his back and dip the tip of my pistol into his chest. Slowly, I write onto his pant leg, pervert.
When I'm finished, I grip my gun and run back into the woods. I can feel Debbie close to me, but she's silent. It makes me wonder—have I become so much like her that I don't need her apparition in my head, or have I gone so far from her moral code that she has abandoned me?
Chapter Thirty-Four
Judge Latham, 2015 (Late Thursday night)
THERE IS A CERTAIN conventional perception of judges. We're seen as impartial people, unemotional, but incredibly strict and uncompromising. There is this idea that we are machines, incapable of failure, without faults, and able to see through all of the lies and deceptions of defendants and lawyers alike. Society sees judges as the person who simply sits in front of the courtroom and decides if the prosecutor and defense lawyer are playing nice.
But we're humans beings, which is why I'm damn annoyed when the phone rings at nearly ten at night. I'm unaccustomed to getting telephone calls at strange hours. They are never good, I'm never in a good mood when I take them, and I'm very rarely in a better one after I finish the call. I'm also rarely civil when I'm on the phone—regardless of the hour—but there are a few exceptions. There are people I need to keep pleased for the sake of financial benefits or keeping secrets buried six feet underground.
"Hello?" I growl after blindly getting my phone from the nightstand. Vanessa is still asleep, but that's no wonder when she takes more sedatives than a trafficked sex worker.
"Earl," a clipped voice says. "Good. You're awake."
I close my eyes. Here's one of those exceptions. It's a pity—it would have felt good to tear somebody a new one—but if Walter LaPonte is calling, it's not because he wants to play bridge on Friday.
"Walter. Give me one minute." I slip out of my bed—I can't risk Vanessa waking up through her drug haze to hear anything she doesn't need to hear. I walk into my study, keeping the lights off. My study is across from Sarah's room and I don't want to wake her up either. I clear my voice. "How can I help you, Walter?"
Walter owes me a great deal, but not as much as I owe the LaPonte family. Walter's father and grandfather were instrumental in helping me gain and retain me judgeship. Without their quiet support, I would not have gained the reputation for being harsh but fair.
The LaPontes' concerns have always been my concerns. I have always done what I could to alleviate those concerns. Quietly. It's not like I can back out—not since I made some solicitation charges disappear for Walter, and especially not since Zoë's death. The LaPontes and I are intertwined in a never-ending helix of life-damaging secrets and cover-ups.
"I have some…concerns about Patrick Duff Junior. I'm sure you've heard by now what happened to his niece?"
"I have," I say. "It's a terrible thing."
"Indeed. You are also well aware that Junior is my best friend, and since he is my best friend he is also aware of my many…private ordeals."
"Yes…that's also a terrible thing."
"It is," Walter agrees. "Junior is a good man, a good soul, but you and I both know that he's not cut from the same cloth as the two of us. He's not equipped to deal with scandal or pressure."
"You think he's already having a hard time dealing with the emotional trauma of his niece's death?"
"Yes…" Walter says. "I have my reservations about whether or not he can face his sister, Elizabeth, or worse, his father. Junior has never been stable. There were his problems with alcohol, then there were the drugs, and there's now a rumor that he's addicted to pornography…I'm just afraid that he may hurt himself or others with the way he's spiraling downward. The last thing either one of us needs is for him to…start talking about prior events and cause more harm than what has already occurred."
"I understand," I say.
"It would benefit me greatly if you could check on him tomorrow," Walter states. "If you could make sure that he hasn't done something drastic…you know how depressed he can get and if you mix chemicals with that…I'm not sure what he might do."
"Of course. I'll check on him," I say. "I'll do it after morning court."
"Good," Walter says. "Please call me tomorrow night to report to me on…how he's doing. I'll talk to you later, Earl."
"Good-bye, Walter." I hear the click as he hangs up, and then I set my phone down.
Walter wants Junior dead. Now I just need to figure out how to get rid of him without arising suspicion. Perhaps an overdose of cocaine or mixing alcohol with some of Vanessa's sedatives.
People see judges as the individuals who ensure that justice is served, but sometimes justice comes in the form of a gun. Justice is a subjective term, but as a judge, I'm the one who defines it.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sarah, 2015 (Late Thursday night)
WHY HASN'T BRIANNA appeared? She wanted Junior dead more than I did.
"Maybe she wanted it, but that doesn't mean she could stomach it," Debbie tells me. "Murder isn't for everybody, Sarah. Brianna was a sheep in wolf's clothing. You're a fucking grizzly bear in sheep's clothing."
"I'm just defending territory," I mutter.
Debbie laughs. "Do you know what happens when animals defend their territory? Even humans? They decide that their territory keeps getting larger and larger until they have taken up whole continents."
I park my truck in the driveway, the lights off so it won't wake anybody. I'll need to burn my yoga pants like I did with the thrift store clothes, and I'll have to not be upset in case one of my parents is awake. I'll have to not be upset…or I could be upset. I just need a good excuse why…and I have it.
I walk into my garage and over to an old wooden chest. It used to belong to Debbie, evident by her name painted onto it in a child-like scrawl. It has a lock on it, but it's busted, and as far as I know, nobody has opened it since we've lived here. I'm careful to not disturb the thick layer of dust as I open it. I dump my boots, the pistol, and my raincoat inside it then slowly lower the top back down.
I creep upstairs using the back staircase that nobody ever uses, looking down every few steps and praying, really, genuinely praying that the drips I feel trailing off me are water, and not blood. I don't see any blood, but I also don't want to turn on any lights, either.
"Yeah." Debbie sneers. "Because divine intervention has always saved you. Except, you know, from the beatings, our father's night visits, being kidnapped, and nearly dying in an abandoned mine. I told you—you should have planned this out beforehand. God won't save you. The closest thing you have to a god is me."
I get back into my room, go the bathroom that's directly connected to it, and climb into the shower, clothes and all. I run the water until I'm absolutely, positively soaking wet, and I can't see any blood circling the drain anymore. Still, I scrub myself with a loofah, even over my clothes, and rinse until I feel as close to purity as I'll ever reach.
Only then do I start sobbing. Loudly.
I crank up the volume of my sobs with every minute that passes and slide down to the floor of the shower. How long could it possibly take my father to hear me? How many more ways could he be completely inept at raising a child?
I see the bathroom door open, so I cover my face with my hands and continue to cry. I hear the suction sound of the shower door opening. When I feel a hand on my shoulder, I'm surprised to feel the thin fingers of my mother instead of the large hands of my father. I would have thought my mother had taken something to help her sleep—and maybe she had because when I look at her, her eyes still seem unfocused.
"Sarah, honey, what's wrong?" sh
e mumbles.
"I-I can't tell you." It's a good thing that I'm in the shower because I couldn't fake tears for this long.
"Of course you can tell me," she murmurs. "I'm your mother. You can tell me anything."
I shake my head. "I heard Brianna was dead. Shot to death outside her house."
"I'm sorry, sweetie—"
"I-I was there at The Charcoal Grill. I thought she'd just been late…and I-I was worried about her, so I bugged Junior about it until he shut off his laptop and…and he finally went to go see what was going on…why she was late—b-because Birdy had been texting B-Brianna and she didn't get any reply….and we were both so worried. Everybody was w-worried e-except for Junior…"
"Sweetie, maybe he was worried, but he just didn't show it. Men are like that sometimes," she says. "They're not open about their feelings like women are."
I grab her arm, pulling her closer, so the whole bottom part of her arm gets soaked. "Mom, you don't understand. Before he went to go check on Brianna on Monday, he said he wanted to kill her."
My mother's face goes bright red.
"Honey, I doubt he really said that. That was his niece."
Her denial sparks a sharp rage in me—is that what she would say if I ever told her what her husband did to me?—but I know I have to keep it down. This has to be the performance of a lifetime.
"Mom, I recorded it."
"You…"
"I recorded it," I repeat. I try to look more teary-eyed, though honestly, I could just end up looking constipated. "I began recording Junior to document his porn watching at work and his harassment, and—"
"Wait. What do you mean porn watching? What do you mean harassment?"
"He watches porn at work and doesn't shut it off when any of the waitresses go talk to him in his office. And he has s-smacked me on the ass, which isn't horrible compared to the other things he's done to other waitresses."
My mother—bless her innocence and blind trust—looks completely horrified, her eyes wide and her lower lip almost trembling.
"I can't believe you never told me this." She grabs my arm and helps me out of the shower. She takes the towel off the hook and wraps it around me, pulling it tight around my neck, which reminds me of Nick. Poor Nick.
"You didn't believe me when I said he threatened to kill Brianna," I whisper, trying to make my accusation as soft as possible. I want her to feel guilty, not defensive. It works. Her eyes look away from me and her shoulders drop.
"I'm sorry, Sarah," she says. "I just couldn't believe that he would…that he would commit murder."
She wraps her arms around me, holding me so tightly that I might as well be back in her womb. I might as well be reborn.
"I knew Dad wouldn't believe me unless I had evidence," I tell her, my voice shaking. "So, I got evidence. I n-never thought it would include a motive for m-murder."
"Where are the recordings, sweetheart?" she murmurs.
"On…on my phone—Mom—Mama, what are you going to do?" I ask
"Shhh," she says. "Let's get you out of those wet clothes and change into some dry pajamas."
"Mom, I can change myself," I say. "But doesn't this need to be dealt with right away? What if he hurts someone else? What if he finds out that I recorded him and he comes after me?"
"Your father and I won't let him hurt you." She promises. "How about you change your clothes and I'll talk to your father? I'm sure he'll want to know."
"Mama, wait…" I say, but I stop. She said she would talk to my father, not wake him up, which means that he must already be awake. It must be my first stroke of good luck that he didn't catch me. Maybe he was too drunk to hear the truck rolling into the driveway.
"Sarah. I know you want to fix this and make things right. You're so like your dad." My mother squeezes my shoulder. I could almost vomit on her words. "But you need us now. Let us help you."
"Okay," I say because there's nothing left to say and, honestly, I'm exhausted from forcing myself to cry for the last fifteen minutes. She kisses the top of my head and then leaves the room.
As quickly as I can, I grab a pair of blue pajama pants with a snowflake design and a white tank top, and put them out. I peek out of my room, but I don't see anybody, though I hear the soft rumble of voices. I realize it's coming from my father's home office, which is across from my room. I move across the hallway and linger outside the door. I can't see my parents, but I can clearly hear them now.
"I was hoping that she wouldn't find out about Brianna," my father says.
"They go to school together and they work together. How did you think she wouldn't find out?" my mother asks.
"I'm just trying to protect her," he snaps.
I can picture my mother flinching at the harshness of his voice, preparing herself for a violent outburst. "Why are you up?" she asks, her voice curious but not intrusive.
"Walter LaPonte called. He was returning my phone call from earlier in the week."
"It's awful late for—"
"He's a busy man, Vanessa. He's announcing that he's running for governor on Sunday," he says.
Debbie, standing beside my bedroom door, scowls.
"He wanted to know if we would be coming in for the announcement. I told him yes. You didn't have plans, right?"
"Nothing that can't be changed."
"Thank you. Why do you have Sarah's phone?"
"She has some recordings she'd like you to review," she murmurs.
"Of?"
"Junior Duff," she says. "She wasn't just upset about Brianna being dead. She…she believes that Junior could have committed the murder because he threatened to kill Brianna earlier that day."
"And she recorded that?" I don't know what to think of the tone of my father's voice. There is some disapproval, but also a hint of pride in it.
"Among other things," my mother says.
"Like?"
"Junior being…sexually inappropriate with his staff."
"Hand it to me," he says.
I hear a floorboard groan as my mother takes a step forward.
"I'll take a look. Is she going back to sleep?"
"I hope so. If she can. She was so rattled that she got into the shower with her clothes on. Are you going back to bed?" she asks.
"Yeah. You?"
"After I throw her wet things in the dryer."
"When you go, could you throw this towel in, too?" he asks.
"Do I want to know why you're carrying around a wet towel?"
"I think the weather-stripping on the atrium windows is going. Some rain blew in on the back staircase," he says.
I repress a sigh. At least his mind made up a reason for why the stairs are wet and it wasn't blood that was dripping from me.
"Don't worry about putting out buckets; I'm not sure it's going to happen again tonight. I'll make some calls tomorrow."
"I love you," my mother tells him.
I take that as my cue to leave. I return to my bedroom, get onto the bed, and curl up in a fetal position under the blankets. I try to look as pathetic as possible.
A minute later, I hear my mother walk in. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. I hear her pick my wet clothes out of my hamper, and then I feel her hand on my shoulder. She kisses my cheek.
"Sleep well, Sarah," she murmurs.
My mother—a tiny bunny in sheep's clothing. Innocent, of course, but it would be the natural order of things if a predator snapped her neck.
But that will not be me. At least not tonight.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Aaron, 2015 (Late Thursday night)
WHEN I LET TERESA into the house, my anger is boiling in my chest. I haven't been able to unclench my fists and my jaw hurts from being so rigid. I storm into my living room, barely able to articulate anything.
She follows me, sits on the couch, and asks, "Are you okay?"
I begin to pace back and forth in front of my coffee table. "No," I snap. "I'm not."
"Do you want to talk about Nick?" s
he asks.
I shake my head, as she watches me pace. My body is almost vibrating from my anger, grief, confusion, and emotions that don't even have names.
"Do you want to talk about the case then? Maybe talking about it will help you calm down."
I huff, but stop moving. I sit down next to her on the couch. "I've looked over everything. I just got a call from the forensic team in Anchorage. They've check a quarter of the fingerprints they found and the only one that has a criminal record is a guy who died from a drug overdose a year ago."
"Well…how did your interview with Junior go?"
I snort. "Terrible. He didn't confess to anything and he seemed genuinely confused when I mentioned Nick. I don't think he knows that he's…gone."
"Okay…are Nick's parents still in prison?"
"Yes," I say. "I called the prison. They're still there. I would feel bad about having to tell them that their son is dead, but I have a feeling that they wouldn't care and they would just try to use it to get out of prison early."
"So…you're not going to tell them?"
"I told the warden. He'll tell them."
"Okay, so it's not Junior and it's not Nick's parents. Maybe it's one of the people he dealt drugs to…didn't you tell me he was missing when you were heading away from Brianna's murder?"
"So…what? You think he really was involved in Brianna's murder?"
"No, I think he could have been anywhere that night."
I shake my head. "I'm pretty sure he was with Sarah Latham."
"How did he even get a girl like Sarah? I mean, no offense. Nick is…was…a great kid."
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