by Amy Stuart
“Well, I figure you don’t know what that feels like—to have so few options that even bad ones start to make sense. You’re not deciding between good options and bad options, you’re picking the lesser of two evils. I know it made little sense to take the job. I knew that. But I took it anyway. Because if I had another choice at the time, I didn’t know what it was.”
Somers is nodding, arms crossed, sizing Clare up. “I get it,” she says.
“Anyway.” Clare tucks her loose hair behind her ears. “This is only my second job. I worked one other case before coming here. I really fumbled through the first case. It didn’t end well. I mean, it did, in a way. I solved it. But I didn’t go about it the right way. I got hurt. I thought this time I’d do better. Study up on Sally. Learn what I could. Go undercover. Come up with a backstory that would get me in. But I can’t say I’m doing any better a job this time. And Sally is still missing, so—”
“Why didn’t you just tell me this from day one?” Somers asks.
“Because you wouldn’t have given me the time of day.”
“I’ve worked with PIs before. I don’t love it. Feels a bit like dabbling in amateur hour, to be honest. Like babysitting. But hey, I’m not above it if someone else wants to work the case. As long as they stay out of my way at the right times and work with me at the right times too.”
The waiter arrives with their plates. Clare’s oatmeal is beige and sodden. The smell turns her stomach. Somers collects a piece of toast from her plate and bites off the corner.
“So what now?” Somers says, chewing slowly. “We share what we know, properly this time?”
“You know everything I know,” Clare says.
Somers makes a show of eating her eggs, eyes never dropping, a standoff. Clare hugs the warmth of her mug and fights a wave of nausea. From what Clare can glean, Somers has her life together. Marriage, children, a job she loves and does well. You need more friends like Grace, Clare’s mother would say in the early days of Clare’s troubles with drugs. More friends on the straight and narrow. But even then, Clare felt mostly jealousy towards Grace, as she does now towards Somers. Envy over a life on track. Amateur hour, Somers said. Clare takes a spoonful of her oatmeal and forces herself to eat it.
“This job is never boring,” Somers says finally, setting down her fork. “It’s always a jumble. You know, you start out clear. The details are clear and you just have to work every angle. Right off the bat, you get the forensics and the facts of it. The science is the easy part. But then you get in there and start dealing with people and everything gets jumbled. It’s people who screw up police work. No one tells the whole truth. Every stone you turn over reveals a whole new layer of rot. Some of it is related to the case, and some of it isn’t. But it’s all rot. Markus and Rebecca and that whole shit show yesterday. Sally’s pregnant, or so they say. And then there’s Raylene.”
“What about her?” Clare asks.
“Her husband’s missing.”
“Her ex-husband,” Clare says.
“Right.” Somers frowns. “Yeah. Of course. Anyway. Her story came through in our briefing last night. Her husband—ex-husband—disappeared a couple of hundred miles from here. He didn’t show up for work. His parents called in. No one thought too much of it. Maybe he just went on a bender to Vegas or something. But a few days later they found his car on some lane a few hours away. No signs of anything else nearby. It seemed suspicious, so the local detachment sent out an APB. Our sergeant gave us all the case details, those two beautiful kids who died, the court case where he was charged and then acquitted, the whole background story even though we all remember it. We started talking about how he was let off and his ex-wife couldn’t cope and took off, no one’s seen her or heard from her in a few years. And my sergeant passed around the picture. And who is it but Raylene from High River. A character from this whole other story. Like I said, the layers of rot, right? The crazy thing is, I passed Rourke the picture and he glanced at it, but he didn’t recognize Raylene. He’s seen her, spoken to her. I’m pretty sure he even interviewed her, but it didn’t click. Some cop, right? So, do I tell my superiors? Hey, want to hear something superfunny? We’ve actually got this Raylene woman booked at a hotel and we’re paying for the damn room. Or do I stay quiet? Because do I really want five more cops on my case?”
The girl next to them bangs the shakers again, stopping wide-eyed when Somers glares at her.
“Are you going to arrest Raylene?” Clare asks.
“I was up all night asking myself that same question. Kids, you know? I love my husband, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. But let’s say he was a bad man and he laid a hand on my kids. I’d shoot him right between the eyes. So do I turn in this woman who ran away from the guy who probably killed her kids and got off? And there’s another problem. She happens to be friends with Sally, the woman whose disappearance I’m actually supposed to be investigating. Or do I wait for some birdbrained officer to put two and two together and do the dirty work for me? You still with me? It’s a shit show, like I said.”
“Raylene’s been at High River for months.”
“Yeah. I know. Maybe she’s got an alibi. Maybe her husband’s guilt just got the best of him. Maybe he drove himself off a cliff.” Somers scratches her head. “Or maybe not. I’m going to have to talk to her. But I’ll give it a day. I’ve got a new warrant to get.”
“My last case was hard,” Clare says. “I faced a lot of questions. I turned up in this remote town and everyone had an eye on me. In High River, I fit in. I’m like these women. Weirdly, I fit in.”
“Maybe you’re learning how to do the job,” Somers says.
“No. I still have no idea what I’m doing. I feel like I’m walking in circles.”
“That’s how it always feels,” Somers says. “And I’m good at my job.” Somers smiles. “My mom wanted me to be a nurse. I have four brothers who are either cops or firefighters. I’m the baby girl. I was her chance at something calmer. She put me in Girl Guides, ballet. She tried so hard to keep me soft around the edges. Imagine her disappointment when I joined the police academy.”
A silence passes between them. The waiter comes to collect their plates but Somers waves him away.
“Sally’s son was sick,” Clare says. “That’s how he died. His blood showed bacteria but no antibiotics. He didn’t drown. That’s what Rourke told me. He didn’t drown.”
“Rourke shouldn’t be telling you anything.”
“Neither should you,” Clare says.
Somers shrugs. “Fair comment.”
“Like you said,” Clare says. “Rourke thinks I’m the key. But he’s obviously off track. I think Rebecca is the key. Markus.”
“Rebecca did say some pretty interesting things on our drive into town yesterday,” Somers says. “I’m quite sure I can get her to talk.”
“Talk about what? Did you let her go?”
Somers waves a finger at Clare. “Really? I’m not about to give up all my case secrets. I’m not under the same spell as Rourke.”
What Clare wants to say is that Rourke’s spell has nothing to do with Sally or her case. She thinks of Malcolm yesterday. He’s not working this case, he said. That’s not why he’s here. Somers stabs a home fry with her fork and pops it into her mouth. Clare should know better than to trust her. Then again, Clare thinks, she should know better than to trust Malcolm.
“You’re staring,” Somers says. “You have something you want to say to me?”
“Ginny told me this story yesterday,” Clare says. “This story about Markus taking her to the hospital when he was looking after her. She had a reaction to something.”
“So? She’s nineteen.”
“No. This was when she was a kid. What if something—or someone—was making her sick?”
Somers frowns and sets down her fork. “Sick like William’s blood work?”
“Right,” Clare says. “I saw a documentary about that once. I Googled it this morning at the hotel. People
who make their kids sick on purpose. It’s a disorder. Think of the ways you’d benefit if people thought your kid was sick.”
“I guess,” Somers says.
“What if someone was making Ginny sick? And what if that same person was making William sick too? Or even Willow? Rebecca and Markus’s daughter?”
“Who would do that?”
“I don’t know,” Clare says. “There’s more than one adult who had access to both William and Willow. Who would have had access to Ginny. To all of them. The whole family seems to be fighting, but they’re covering for each other too. I don’t understand it. How could they cover for someone when there’s a dead boy on their hands?”
“You’d be surprised,” Somers says. “If fifteen years of police work has taught me anything, it’s that people will go to extreme lengths to absolve their children or their parents or their partners or sisters or brothers or frigging second cousins of wrongdoing. No matter how horrific the crime. I’ve listened to mothers of sons who’ve confessed to murder argue their child’s innocence. I’ve seen fathers hide damning evidence to avoid seeing their son charged with rape. Wives giving husbands false alibis when their guilt is clear as day. You’d be amazed.”
Clare thinks of her own father. The year she was twenty, Clare was arrested at a party with a purse full of unlabeled prescription bottles. Her father had claimed the bottles as his own, called in a favor with the sergeant, a high school buddy of his, to have the charges dropped and a stern warning issued instead. And Clare remembers walking out of the detachment into the stark morning light, her father’s grip on her arm as they descended the stairs to the car. We won’t tell your mother, he said, opening the passenger door. Clare was supposed to feel gratitude, thankful that he’d sprung her, saved her from a trial and a sentence that would certainly have landed her in jail. But instead she felt helpless, angry even. The four hours she’d spent in the cell was the first time she’d considered the prospect of cleaning up, something she might have been able to do had she been left to pay the consequences of her crime, left to languish in jail.
“You’d have to be really evil to poison a kid,” Clare says.
“I worked a case once where the mom was doing it. She’d had all kinds of troubles in her life and this was a way to be perceived as a hero. Caring for her own sick kid. That’s another thing you learn in police work. Sure, some people are evil. You know, the serial killers who chop up children and leave them in their freezers or pluck women from the side of the road, then bury them naked in a swamp?”
“I try not to think about people like that,” Clare says.
“Those are the crimes we hear about the most,” Somers says. “The obvious psychopaths. But the vast majority of the time, lawbreakers are sane people, people who might even possess a reasonable moral compass. Like I said, your nice neighbor. But somewhere along the line, something’s gone askew, and they’re now motivated by a handful of things. Money, power, guilt, revenge. Love, even. The desire to protect something or someone they love. Sometimes purely one, sometimes all of the above. People will do profoundly stupid things, will commit the worst kinds of crimes or hurt innocent people, if one of those motivations is blinding enough. And if you throw in some hypnotic emotion like jealousy or anger, then all bets are off.”
Jason, Clare thinks. Revenge mixed with anger and, should she feel generous, should she look deep, maybe even a tinge of love. Somers rubs her forehead and gestures for the bill. When her phone beeps she lifts it and squints to read a message. She gives Clare a curious look before typing her response.
“That was from Rourke,” she says. “Asked if I was with you. He says he needs to see you. Says he has some things to clear up.”
The room spins behind Somers. Clare grips the table to steady herself.
“Interesting, though,” Somers says, laced with sarcasm. “He never mentioned the autopsy report or visiting you last night. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Clare says.
“Let’s walk. The station’s only a few blocks from here.”
Once the bill is paid they both stand.
“Somers,” Clare says. “I don’t want—”
“I’m not going to give you away,” Somers says. “Can you trust me?”
No, Clare thinks. The churn in her chest makes it hard to breathe.
“Listen.” Somers takes Clare’s arm, reading her fear. “I promise I’m not going to make anything worse for you. Maybe I can even help you. Can we keep this little breakfast meeting between us?”
“Sure,” Clare says.
Outside Clare follows half a step behind Somers, the heat like a fog she must pass through. They pass a large convention center. Clare ducks under the awning to escape the blare of direct sun. Somers walks with her eyes on her phone, somehow still navigating the stream of men in suits, women in blouses and skirts. When they reach a revolving door Clare pauses to catch a blast of air-conditioning, watching the crowd. Then she sees the poster. Her. She sees her. Life-sized Grace, her white lab coat on, arms crossed with authority.
Today’s Keynote Speaker:
Dr. Grace Fawcett
Support Patients’ Addiction Recovery in Your Family Medicine Practice
2–3 p.m.
Does Grace look older? The photo stares back at Clare. Has she aged in the months since Clare last saw her? Clare’s breathing picks up. Grace has been the worst, Jason wrote in the letter he sent her in Blackmore, the letter still at the bottom of her bag. Telling the cops to come after me and question me.
“You okay?” Somers says. “You seem off.”
Clare points to the poster. “I know her.”
“That doctor in the ad?”
“I know her from home. She’s a friend.” Clare squeezes her eyes closed. “She was a friend.”
“Did you know she was here?” Somers asks.
“No,” Clare says.
“That’s a coincidence,” Somers says.
Bile rises to Clare’s throat, nothing a coincidence anymore, everything converging, blurring. Without answering Clare starts walking again, fast enough that Somers must jog to catch up.
The interrogation room is a sweaty box. Clare rolls the water bottle in her hand, slamming it to the table and collecting it again, looking up to the one-way glass with as piercing a look as she can muster. The door opens and Rourke steps through, a thick folder tucked under his arm.
“Sorry about this. The AC is broken but there’s not really anywhere else to go. It’s just the easiest way to talk.”
“Where’s Somers?”
“I asked her to give us a minute.”
Why would Somers have allowed this, have agreed to leave Clare alone with him? This small betrayal feels like a punch to the stomach.
“Listen.” Rourke takes his seat. “I’m sorry I showed up at your hotel last night. That was inappropriate.”
“Yeah.”
“Believe me, Somers has made it clear that I was way out of line. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to fill you in on the boy.”
“Because I’m Sally’s friend,” Clare says, surprised by her own biting tone.
“See? That’s where we need to talk.”
The change in Rourke’s expression is immediate, a frown that borders on distress. Did Somers tell him the truth about Clare just now? How far will her betrayal go?
“I’ve told you everything I know,” Clare says. “I’ve told Somers everything I know.”
“Right. But I haven’t told you everything I know.”
Rourke rests both hands flat over the folder on the table.
“It isn’t the Proulx file,” he says.
The smell of Rourke’s coffee is too strong. He opens the file and hands her a large black-and-white photograph. She holds it facedown on the table, her hand shaking.
“Look at it,” Rourke says.
“Who are you?” Clare asks.
“I want to be honest with you. I think I can help you. I think you can help me.”
Clare turns the photograph over. It takes her a moment to process it, the tall man standing behind a woman, his arms wrapped around her. Clare feels it, the tectonic shift beneath her, this photograph changing everything. The woman bears a strong resemblance to Clare, smaller and slighter, her hair curly and long, her hands raised to grip the man’s arms where they cross over her chest. Though he is younger, though he wears a smile brighter than Clare could imagine him wearing, though his arm does not yet bear the jagged scar, she knows this man as if he were here in the flesh. Malcolm.
“Where did you get this?” Clare asks.
“I’ve been tracking him for a long time. Trying to track him, at least.”
“Malcolm Boon?”
“Yes,” Rourke says. “That’s not his real name, but yes. The man you know as Malcolm Boon.”
Something in the photograph fills Clare with sadness, the way Malcolm’s chin rests gently on his wife’s head, their matching wedding bands. Rourke sizes up Clare so that she must carefully fix her expression.
“Who is he?” Clare asks.
“His name is Malcolm Hayes. The woman in the picture is his wife, Zoe. They were married for seven years, until she disappeared a little more than a year ago. Presumed dead.”
Under the table Clare’s legs shake. Rourke offers her a strange smile.
“Disappeared how?” Clare asks.
“You tell me,” Rourke answers.
“Malcolm’s never told me anything about his past. Except that he had a wife and that she disappeared.”
“So he’s told you a lot.”
Clare’s neck goes cold. She pries open the water bottle but can barely sip it.
“You didn’t think to dig?” Rourke asks.
Clare shrugs.
“How long have you known him?” Rourke asks.
“A month or so,” Clare says.
“And you work for him?”
“Yes.”
Rourke taps his fingers against the file. A file that likely satisfies every question she’s ever had about Malcolm, every detail filled out by her imagination, his tastes and his flaws, his family, his wife. Zoe. A month ago she might have dreamed of a file like this, its contents leveling the playing field between them, shifting the power to her. But now she feels an acute need to shield Malcolm. Why would she want to protect him from this man in front of her?