“Oh, I don’t know. I think she makes a lot of sense.” Never mind that Birdie was known for her conspiracy theories. She’d interrupted her share of city council meetings with her outlandish speculations—from chemicals in the water supply to toxic birds with cancer in their waste.
“Well, nobody in their right mind would believe her.”
“Maybe not, but they’ll believe me,” Drew said.
Davis narrowed his gaze, focusing on him. “I was wondering if you were the same Barlow who was there that day.”
“Does that make you nervous?”
“Of course not. I have nothing to hide.” Davis leaned back in his chair. “That case is twenty years old. Why drag it all back up now?”
“Because nobody ever paid for what they did to Jess,” Drew said. “And it’s about time someone did.”
Davis’s eye twitched—so slightly Beth almost missed it.
“Maybe we could speak with your son, Mr. Biddle?” she asked. “Do you know where we could find him? We’re told there’s a chance he still lives with you.”
Davis waved her off. “Not possible.”
“Why not?” Drew looked like he might come unglued.
“He’s not here.”
What if Davis was telling the truth? What if something had happened to Monty—would anyone in town even know?
The doorbell rang.
Bishop. He’d have other officers with him and a search warrant.
Beth took out a small photograph and slid it across the desk.
When Davis looked at it, irritation flashed across his face.
“That’s Jess,” she said. “She was nine when someone grabbed her out of her own yard, and her body has never been found.”
“I remember, Miss Whitaker. Why are you telling me what I already know?”
“I want you to remember her face. I want you to do the right thing. Tell us what happened to Jess.”
Davis pressed his lips together. “I can’t help you.”
“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt.” Davis’s assistant appeared in the doorway, but before he could continue, Bishop pushed through, followed by three other officers.
“Mr. Biddle, we’ve got a few questions for your son.”
Davis stood. “He’s not here.”
“I’m sure you won’t mind if we take a look around.”
“In fact, I do mind, Officer—what did you say your name was?”
Bishop took out a document and handed it to the other man. “I have a warrant, sir. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in here while we conduct our search.” He must’ve caught the glance passing between Davis and his assistant, because he grabbed the assistant by the arm and ordered him to sit on the couch in the office. Before he left, he told one of the other officers to keep a close eye on them both.
Drew and Beth followed Bishop out into the entryway, mostly because they didn’t want to sit in the same room with Davis Biddle, but also because they were curious. Was Monty hiding somewhere in the house? And if so, what skeletons was he hiding in his closet?
Bishop jumped into action. “Let’s start in the kitchen. You guys stay here.” They watched him and the remaining officers disappear down a long hallway and through a door.
Drew stood in the same spot for all of five seconds before he inched away from her, looking up the grand staircase, which no doubt led to the bedrooms.
“Maybe he’s upstairs,” he said.
“Bishop said to stay here,” Beth whispered.
Drew held a finger over his mouth to silence her, then started up the stairs.
She leaned around to look down the hallway. When she saw the coast was clear, she—against her better judgment—followed Drew.
“You know the odds of us finding anything up here are really slim.” Beth hated the way her nerves had kicked up. Hated that they’d only ever find out the truth if Monty confessed.
And after twenty years of silence, why would he do that?
Uncovering the truth might be impossible at this point.
Drew opened a door at the top of the stairs. He then opened each door down a narrow hallway. Powder room. Linen closet. Guest bedroom.
They moved down the corridor. “Everything is so perfect,” Beth said.
“Too perfect, if you ask me.” Drew closed the door to another guest room. “This place is so sterile it’s creepy.” He pulled open the door to another linen closet. “I mean, look.”
The sheets and pillowcases were expertly folded. Pristine white towels were stacked next to each other, perfectly symmetrical. Two small canvas baskets were at the bottom of the closet, holding extra toiletries.
Drew closed the door and moved toward the last room in the hallway. “Maybe we should wait for Bishop,” Beth said.
He’d been waiting two decades for answers. He wasn’t waiting another minute. He turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.
They walked inside what looked like two large bedrooms combined into one spacious loft-style apartment. An old episode of The Andy Griffith Show played on a large-screen television that hung on the wall.
On either side of the TV, rows of books and DVDs were neatly arranged on shelves. A couch and a recliner faced the television, and hanging all around the room were old, framed movie posters. Behind the recliner was a collection of Superman paraphernalia—posters, books, figurines, toys.
“What in the world?” Beth’s eyes settled on the recliner, where a man sat, engrossed in the TV show.
Monty. He’d aged, of course, but he still had the same round face and wide nose he’d had back then.
Beth reached over and put a hand on Drew’s arm. He was okay. He just wanted to get this over with—once and for all.
Drew moved toward Monty, who wore a blank expression and seemed unaware they’d come into the room. Drew cleared his throat, and the man startled.
Monty’s face went pale. “Who are you?” He held his hands up in front of him, as if to protect himself.
“Monty?”
He covered his head with his hands. “Not here.”
Now Drew remembered him. When Birdie said Monty had been behind the other kids, she’d meant he had a severe mental disability. It was why kids had made fun of him, why Harold had tried to help him. It was why he still, after all these years, seemed like a child.
But Monty was harmless—wasn’t he?
“I like your room,” Beth said, walking toward him. “This used to be one of my favorite shows too.”
“Andy?” Monty looked up at her.
Beth nodded.
Monty laughed.
So, it was Beth—not Drew—who should ask the questions. She must’ve sensed it too, because she sat down next to Monty and took the lead.
“You live here?” she asked.
He nodded. “My apartment.” Snapping the recliner to an upright position, he stood. “My TV.” He pointed to the television. “My kitchen.”
“It’s very nice,” Beth said. “Do you like Superman?”
Monty nodded, moving over to the collection behind the recliner. “Superman.”
“What do you like about Superman?”
He picked up one of the toys, a Superman action figure. “He can fly.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty cool.” Beth picked up another toy.
Monty eyed her, and for a split second, Drew wasn’t sure he was going to let Beth get away with touching something from his collection.
But she met Monty’s eyes and smiled, and the man relaxed. He towered over her—at least a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier. Drew moved closer, just to be safe. What if Monty had a temper?
“You know what I like about Superman?” Beth asked.
Monty shook his head, still eyeing the toy in her hands.
“I like that he saves people.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the same small photograph she’d shown his father.
“Monty, do you remember this girl?” she asked quietly.
He took the photo, and his
brow furrowed as he looked at Jess’s face staring back at him. “Jess.”
“Yes, Jess Pendergast,” Beth said.
“My Jess.” Monty nodded. “Not supposed to talk about Jess.” His head moved in quick pulls, back and forth.
“Do you want to help Jess, Monty?”
He looked up at Beth.
“Like Superman helps people?”
Monty nodded. “Help Jess.”
Bishop appeared in the doorway and shot Drew an irritated look, but Drew held up a hand to tell him to wait. Bishop stayed where he was, but pulled out his phone, most likely to record whatever conversation was about to take place.
“A lot of people have been looking for Jess, Monty,” Beth said evenly. “Did something happen to her?”
Monty’s nods were quick, his eyes blank, as if replaying a distant memory. “Yes.”
“Can you tell me what happened to her? We’d really love to help her if we can.”
“My Jess.” Monty started crying, as if the memory tore the stitches from a long-abandoned wound.
“It’s okay, Monty. We just want to help.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“No, of course not.” She glanced at Drew quickly, then back to Monty.
“That boy came. He came, and I lost her. I saw them laughing. I had to get her out.” Monty’s eyes went dark as his memory wandered back. “The boy fell down. I took my Jess.”
Drew swallowed, his throat dry. His eyes welled, his heart sank.
“I took her home. She screamed at me.” Monty stared out into nothing, still holding the Superman action figure. “I told her it was okay. It’s okay, Jess. It’s okay.” He pulled the toy closer and rocked back and forth. “She was my friend. It was okay.”
His voice grew louder, his eyebrows knit into one straight line.
“Quiet, Jess. Be quiet or Daddy will hear you.” His hands shook as he held the toy even closer, rocking it in his arms. He grew agitated, rocking faster—face angry, hands shaking. “Quiet, Jess. Quiet! Quiet!”
The toy snapped in his hands.
The image of Jess’s frail, lifeless body in Monty’s arms sprang to Drew’s mind. Beth covered her mouth with her hand.
“Quiet.” Monty looked at the toy, broken in two pieces.
No one moved for a long moment. No one could.
Monty had killed Jess.
Drew closed his eyes and let his head fall forward into his hands. It had been an accident—a case of Monty not knowing his own strength.
Slowly, Beth took the toy from Monty and ushered him back to the recliner.
“Monty is sorry.” He sat down, broken, a man who’d relived unbearable pain.
Drew knew a little something about that.
“Monty, do you know where Jess is now?” Beth asked.
He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Outside. Daddy put her in a deep, deep hole. She’s sleeping now. I can’t see her anymore. I’m not allowed to see her anymore. Monty did a bad thing. Monty is bad.”
So Davis did know what his son had done. He not only knew, he’d covered it up. Drew’s sorrow dissipated, and anger moved into its place. Maybe Monty couldn’t be held accountable for his actions, but his father certainly could.
Because of him, Harold and Sonya had gone to their graves still unsure of what had happened to their daughter. Because of him, Drew had lived with the ache of a million unknowns.
He had the answers he’d come for, yet part of him wondered if things had been better before he knew.
Footfalls in the hallway pulled their attention. Monty’s father appeared in the doorway. Drew turned and faced him, daring Davis Biddle to say a single word in his own defense.
“You can’t talk to my son without my permission.” His eyes fell on the large man in the recliner, who slowly rocked back and forth, a blank stare on his face. “Monty . . .”
“It’s too late, Davis,” Bishop said. “Both you and your son need to come with me.”
Davis turned in a circle like a caged animal, then rushed over to his son, kneeling down beside him. “Monty, are you okay?”
“Monty is bad.” The man didn’t look at his father.
“No, Monty. You’re not bad. It’s going to be okay, I promise.” He ran a hand through his gray hair and stood. “Please. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
“A little girl is dead, Mr. Biddle,” Bishop said.
Davis covered his face with his hands, and Drew watched as the grief of the past spilled out of him. He’d been carrying his secret for twenty years too, and it had taken its toll.
He sat down on the couch across from Monty, who still quietly rocked back and forth. “You have no idea how hard this has been.”
Heat shot through Drew like a dart, but before he could put the man in his place, Davis continued.
“I know it’s been harder for you, son.” He didn’t look at Drew. “And I know—” His voice cracked. “I know how hard it was for Harold and Sonya.”
“Then why didn’t you come forward?” Beth asked.
Davis looked at them, tears in his eyes. “He’s my son.”
Drew glanced at Monty, unsure whether the man was even aware of what was happening in his own room.
“I found him in the garage, holding her—neck snapped, arms and legs draped over him like a rag doll.” Davis looked at Monty. “It was my fault. After Monty’s mother died, I worked all the time. I was never here for him. He roamed around outside, and I guess Harold felt sorry for him and gave him a few things to do around the farm. But if I’d been here like I should’ve been . . .”
Drew didn’t have words to comfort this man. He was right. It was his fault that Jess was dead. His fault that Drew had spent his entire life shouldering the weight of his guilt.
“He wouldn’t have gone to prison,” Bishop said. “If you’d just turned him in, he would’ve been committed to an institution.”
“Monty’s mother was the love of my life. She made me a better man, and she was adamant that Monty live here with us, not in some institution with strangers. I made her a promise.”
“So you kept Monty here,” Beth said.
“He has twenty-four-hour care. He’s never alone. He’s not allowed out of the house by himself. When I go out of town, he doesn’t go out of the house at all.”
Drew glanced at Monty. In a way, he’d been in prison his whole life.
“I made sure another accident could never happen.” Davis reached over and clasped a hand on Monty’s shoulder. “My son is a good boy. He never meant to hurt the little girl.”
“Where is the body?” Bishop asked, the question coming out cold. It hurt Drew to hear them talk about Jess like that—as if she weren’t a person but a case to be closed.
Davis looked away. “I buried her out back on the hill underneath my wife’s favorite tree. I know how difficult this must’ve been for you, son, but I want you to know a week hasn’t gone by that I didn’t put fresh flowers on her grave.”
A thoughtful sentiment. Drew wished it were enough.
Chapter Forty
Drew stood in the driveway of the Biddle estate, watching as officers led Davis and Monty to squad cars whose lights shined flashes of red out into the darkness. He was weary and worn, and Beth was at his side, where she’d been the entire night.
She wound her arms around his waist and let her head fall to his chest. “It’s over.”
He liked the way she fit perfectly in his arms, as if they’d been made to go together.
Could he ever let her in the way he wanted to?
He kissed her forehead, and she lifted her chin, found his eyes.
“What is it?”
He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised she could sense that he was still unsettled. He loved her for that. He loved that he wanted to tell her instead of burying his feelings, giving them the ability to haunt him later.
“All this time, I knew Jess was gone,” Drew said. “I guess I just expected to keep on hating the man who killed
her. But now that I know who he is—I sort of feel sorry for him.”
Beth leaned into him and wrapped her arms more tightly around his torso. “Then maybe you can finally let it all go.”
How did he begin to do that? How did this singular event simply fall by the wayside, a remnant of something he used to know?
Anger. Pain. Sadness. Those things made sense to him.
But after seeing Monty’s face—hearing why Davis had done what he did—the anger had dissolved, leaving Drew with feelings he didn’t know how to process.
Beth led him back to the truck, where he went through the motions of getting in, buckling his seat belt and driving back to the farm.
Inside, he fell onto the couch, conflicted by the sorrow he felt over the lives affected that day. It wasn’t just Drew or Jess or the Pendergasts whose worlds had been turned upside down, but Monty’s and Davis’s as well.
All those lives torn apart by a secret hidden for too many years.
Had it lost its power now that it was out in the light?
Did he really have the closure he’d been searching for?
The next morning, sunlight poured in the living room window, waking Drew from the soundest sleep he’d had since he was ten years old. Not a single nightmare had shaken him from sleep. He’d forgotten how it felt to be rested.
He didn’t remember lying down last night, but someone had covered him up, given him a pillow, taken off his shoes. Someone had taken care of him.
Probably the same someone who’d brewed a fresh pot of coffee in the next room.
After brushing his teeth and splashing cold water on his face, Drew made his way to the kitchen.
He watched Beth as she stood over the stove, cooking bacon and eggs. Unaware of his presence, she moved without any trace of self-consciousness, humming along with the tune playing from the portable speakers connected to her iPod. He watched her from the doorway, trying to find words to thank her for everything she’d done for him. She might not know it, but because of her, he wanted to move beyond his past for the first time in his life.
Because of her, he could.
Words didn’t come—he supposed some things would still take time. It didn’t change the way he felt about her. Every part of him wanted her, and he wanted her to know it.
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