A Time to Speak

by Riley Scott

  “I have my guesses. There are some in this place who might be crazy enough to blow a gasket and do something stupid. But it’s not my case to crack. That’s on you, bud.”

  Clayton stiffened. “Why don’t you lay some of those guesses on me.”

  “If I do, are you going to get me out of here?”

  “Not quite how it works, but I guess you’ve got nothing to lose. If you don’t want to talk, you can go back to your cell. You can call me again when you do want to talk, but I’m getting really tired of coming all the way down here just to have you jerk us around. You know things. Hell, you were there when it all happened, so you know even more than our team. But knock off the cocky attitude, because we know quite a damn bit more than you’d like us to.”

  He watched as Trent shifted his weight to his left side and hardened his jaw. They were able to finally place him at the scene of the crime, with evidence showing his truck tires were the ones at the house that night. Other than that, they still didn’t have much, but he wasn’t going to let on.

  He picked up a pencil and pad from the edge of the table and leaned it toward his chest. With nothing at all to do but wait, he started sketching.

  “What are you writing down over there?”

  Clayton didn’t acknowledge the question and continued scribbling, now with a purpose. He had observed enough to learn Trent’s triggers for talking.

  “Look, it was probably an angry girlfriend or something. I don’t know how gay things work, but I’m sure if you’ve got two crazy women in one relationship, things are bound to get out of hand and heated. I’m sure it was probably something like that. It wasn’t me.”

  Clayton nodded, pacifying Trent. “Well, it’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone. You’ve said so yourself. Who was she dating?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Trent said, shaking his head. His lips turned down in disgust. “I don’t know anyone as fucked in the head as Chloe was around here. We all kind of stick to the straight and narrow. None of her types were around here, I don’t think.”

  “Hmm…” Clayton waited, watching Trent’s eyes flit back and forth across the room before settling back into his lap. Someone needed to teach this guy how to have a poker face. He didn’t think there was much weight in whatever Trent was covering up, but he clearly knew something. “You don’t think she might have quietly been seeing someone around here? Sounds like this might not be the friendliest place for someone to be honest about dating Chloe, especially given the way Chloe was so brutally murdered.” He let his words sit for a minute, reminding Trent of what he had done.

  “I don’t know. Talk to the women around town. Maybe one of them will break down and tell you something.”

  Clayton nodded and went back to scribbling on the pad in his hand. He ticked off seconds, wondering how long he’d have to wait for an answer.

  “I’ve helped you all I can.”

  Forty-seven seconds exactly. Clayton laughed. Trent was so predictable and stupid.

  “You’re not helping me,” Clayton said, putting the pad on the table face down just in case he needed the façade of note-taking later. “Thing is, I thought you were going to at least try to take the blame off yourself today, but you’ve done nothing with this meeting other than to show me that you’re still the same bratty, spoiled son of the mayor who thinks he’s invincible.” He smiled, careful to keep his voice level, but stern. “Let me tell you something. If you keep wasting our time like this, it’s going to continue to look like you think you’re above the law. And if you really believe you’re innocent—by the way, cut the crap, we all know what you’ve done here—but if you really believe it, you’re going to have to start trying a little harder to clear your name. Yes, you’re innocent until proven guilty, but we know you were the one she got into a heated argument with right before she was killed. We have some other information saying you were at her house that night. So stop saying you’re helping me. If you want to help someone, you might as well start trying to help yourself.”

  “I don’t need help. I wasn’t there. Why don’t you try talking to Amelia Brandt? I have a suspicion that whore knows a thing or two.” Trent’s words dripped with hatred.

  “You’ve told us in previous interviews that you weren’t all that close to Chloe. How is it that, in such a tight-lipped town where no one seems to know a thing about her love life, you have a hunch?”

  “I don’t know anything else, and I am done talking to you,” Trent hissed, slapping the table and turning away from Clayton.

  “Fine. I’ll figure it out on my own.” He stood and pushed in his chair, turning back only to tip his hat in mock politeness. “Good day.”

  Smiling broadly, he stuck out his chest and walked through the office, a man on a mission. Once he heard the door of the station shut behind him, he let out a deep breath and leaned against the wall. Looking up at the sky, he smiled. He had held it together and he had been granted at least a grain of information.

  Clayton rubbed his thumb against his temple and let out a sigh. This was probably a wild goose chase, knowing how that Westwick kid liked to do business, but he figured it was worth a shot.

  He pulled out his phone and punched information into Google, before hopping into his car and setting out for Amy’s Place.

  * * *

  Amelia stretched her neck from side to side, wishing she had time or money to spend on a professional massage. Or that there was even a place to get one here in Knell. She sighed and reached over to wipe down the machines.

  She hummed a tune she couldn’t place, even though it had been stuck in her head all day, and marinated on the accomplishments of the past week. She still hurt. But she’d learned to smile and laugh again. She had told at least two people about her relationship with Chloe, and she was determined to tell someone else, even though everyone posed a risk. Her business could lose support. She could lose her family.

  Chloe’s face flashed into her mind and she knew there was no reason to stay silent. She had too much to lose if she did.

  Tell someone. Anyone. She closed her eyes, willing herself the strength to stop hiding.

  She heard the beep of her front door and forced a smile. Stepping to the side, her finger trailed along the machinery.

  As she brushed against the hot coffeepot, she jerked her hand back and winced, biting her lip to keep from cursing.

  The man walking up to the counter was broad chested and broad shouldered, his short hair neatly kept. She watched as he pulled the aviator sunglasses from his face and flashed her a smile. Glancing down, she saw his emblazoned polo. FBI. Three simple letters.

  “Good afternoon,” she said cheerily. Too cheerily. She had to stop being in her own world so much or people were going to think she’d gone mad. Gay and mad. It would be a combination people around here couldn’t deal with in the slightest.

  “Afternoon, ma’am,” he drawled. “I’m Clayton Turner. I’m with the FBI, and I’m in town to do a little business. Can I get a cup of coffee and maybe ask you a few questions?”

  “Absolutely,” she squeaked. Her heart raced as she poured the coffee. She was careful not to burn her hand again. Her hands shook as she set the mug down for a minute. So many things could have gone wrong. Maybe her conversation with Bill had drawn scrutiny. He said he wouldn’t tell anyone, but maybe he had.

  Her worst fears flashed in her mind. She was wearing an orange jumpsuit, being pinned with a murder she didn’t commit. If her family and friends wouldn’t accept gay and mad, they certainly wouldn’t accept gay and convicted of murder.

  Her prints were on the knife. Her blood went cold. She shivered. She glanced over her shoulder. Calm and collected, he was sitting on a stool watching her every move. She smiled and grabbed his coffee, turning away briefly to take one last deep breath.

  “Here you go,” she said, setting it in front of him. “What else can I do for you?”

  “You look a little upset,” he noted, raising a brow. “Are you okay
?”

  “I am. Okay, that is. I’m okay. Thank you. It’s been a long day. Several long days, actually.”

  “I can relate,” he said, motioning her over with his hand. “Come take a seat.”

  “I really shouldn’t.” She shook her head. “I do have to man the counter in case anyone comes in.”

  He shrugged but then motioned again. “If anyone comes in, you’ll have time to help them out. You look like you could use a break.”

  She pressed her lips together. Nothing pissed her off quite like a man coming in, telling her she looked upset and tired, and then insinuating that her work wasn’t important. Nonetheless she wasn’t here to make waves with the FBI when her prints were on a murder weapon.

  Taking the seat beside him, she swiveled the stool to face him. “What brings you to Knell?” She asked, even though it was glaringly obvious what had brought more law enforcement into the town.

  “I’m one of the investigators on the Stanton murder case. I’m just here to ask you a couple of questions. Someone close to the case told me you had ties to Ms. Stanton, so I wanted to see if there was anything you could tell me about her.”

  “We were all close.” She didn’t want to come out to him. Not here. Not now. “We’re both from here. We’d known each other since elementary. It’s a small school, so we all knew each other.”

  She reached across the counter and grabbed her bottle of water. He watched her every move, making her feel like a bug under a microscope. Slowly she unscrewed the cap and took a swig, making sure to divert eye contact at least for a second.

  “Okay.” He nodded and then brought his coffee cup up to his lips, downing the entire cup in just a gulp. “How did you know her?” This guy was intense.

  “Would you like more coffee?” He nodded but continued his direct gaze. She scurried to fill his cup, thankful to have a moment to stop the frenzied images in her mind of just how well she knew Chloe. She thought of Chloe’s hair, spilling over her pillow as she moaned in ecstasy. Amelia closed her eyes, warding off the onslaught of memories, and filled his cup before dutifully returning to her seat. Everything about this encounter felt like she was a little girl following orders.

  “So back to our conversation. How did you know her?”

  “We were friends. I knew her from the time I started school. She was a couple years older than I was, but I knew her. We all played together. Softball, basketball, volleyball, street dodgeball games, you name it. We were friends…” She cleared her throat. She couldn’t keep saying “friends” without it sounding fishy. “In later years, she would stop in for coffee, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoons. Some days she would come in twice. We became friends. Good friends.”

  “Did you ever hang out outside the coffee shop?”

  The question felt like a slap across the face. She was lying. He knew it. And soon everyone else would too. “Yes.”

  Again he tipped his coffee cup back and downed it in a single gulp. “Where did you hang out?” he asked without missing a beat.

  “Her house.” The admission was so simple, benign even. But it felt like she was opening up Pandora’s box.

  “And what did you do while you were hanging out.”

  Sex. Lots of sex. Having never been one to hold up well under pressure when dealing with authority, she had to bite her lip to keep the answer from coming out. “We cooked dinners, watched movies, stargazed out at the ranch. There’s not a ton to do here, so it’s really all about the people you surround yourself with. We enjoyed each other’s company.”

  “I see.” He nodded. “I just ask because…” For the first time, he trailed off, catching glimpse of the decorations around the store. She gripped the side of the stool, silently begging him to continue. In the background, she could hear the ticking of the old clock that had been in her family for generations. It intensified the chaos welling up inside of her. Sweat was forming on her brow and her mouth was dry. She reached for her water again, gulping it down with urgency. “I ask because it was mentioned to me you might know something about her love life.”

  “Her love life?” she croaked. “Who told you that?”

  He leveled his gaze at her and pushed the coffee cup away from him. “Trent Westwick said I should ask you if I was looking to find out who, if anyone, she was seeing.”

  “Me? He said to ask me? Why?” Her questions came out as a blur and she felt faint. Her stool wobbled beneath her, but she caught her balance on the counter.

  “That question obviously makes you uncomfortable. You don’t have to be uncomfortable. It’s just a tiny piece that can help us solidify this case. Was she dating anyone?”

  Amelia stared at the walls of her shop in disbelief. Her hands trembled as she pulled her weight back to the center of the stool. This place had always been her safe haven. Now it felt like hell. Tears blurred her vision. She wanted to run away screaming, but that would do her no good here. Unable to fight the inevitable, she simply nodded.

  “Okay. Good.” Clayton encouraged her by nodding slowly. “Who was she dating?”

  “Me.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but that one word took every ounce of courage she had. “She was dating me.”

  He cocked his head to the side and she looked away, not wanting to deal with him looking her up and down. She had stared in the mirror thinking the same thing when she was younger. She didn’t look gay, but she was.

  “Hmm,” he said, clearing his throat. “Well, I didn’t see that one coming. But that means we have some questions for you as well. How long had you two been dating?”

  “A few months.”

  He pulled out a pad and a pencil and her heart raced even faster. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “I made her dinner the night she died,” she said. There was no longer anything to hide. It was all going to come out at once. “I saw her that evening. I left her house around seven o’clock. I went back to my house and I never saw her alive again.”

  “You weren’t one to stay the night?”

  She fought the urge to show her disgust. “I feel like that’s a little inappropriate, but no. We did our own thing at night. I went home. I like sleeping at my house.”

  “And she never stayed at your house? You wouldn’t have known she was gone is what you’re saying?”

  “No. She never stayed at my place. This wasn’t something I was ready to go public with. It’s still not. At least not that public. I wanted to keep it a secret. I wasn’t ready to be the only other outcast in this tiny town, especially not when I own a business. I rely on people liking me. I couldn’t have them know I was dating Chloe.” Her words were coming out too quickly. She stopped and took a deep breath. “I didn’t usually stay over, and she never stayed at my place. It was either here at the coffee shop or at her house.”

  “So how did Trent know you were the one I needed to talk to?”

  “I have no idea.” She looked down at her lap, scanning for answers. “No one was supposed to know. The only thing I can think is that he might have seen something that belonged to me while he was in her house. Or he might have overheard. I don’t think Chloe would have told him. She hated Trent.”

  “Mmhmm. Well, you’re saying you weren’t there after seven that night?”

  “That night I didn’t stay. I went home. And I never heard from her again.” The admission hit her in the gut, like it did every time.

  “Was that unusual for the two of you not to talk for the rest of the evening?”

  She saw the freight train coming at her and she was powerless to stop it. Straightening her shoulders, she looked him in the eye. “Sometimes we’d talk all night. Sometimes we didn’t talk after I left. There was no set course. That night we didn’t.”

  His brow shot up in curiosity. “Were you angry at her?”

  This had taken a turn in a hurry. “Look. Have you ever dated someone?” She waited for his nod and took a deep breath. “You know there are disagreements. We didn’t leave on the
best of terms. We had a brief argument and I left. That’s what I do when we argue. I leave. She stays. We don’t talk until the next day when we’ve cooled off.”

  He took down notes. Her stomach churned. “Were you alone at your house?”

  “Yes,” she said, closing her eyes. She’d seen enough crime dramas to know what was happening. He had motive and no alibi against her.

  “I guess that bastard didn’t send me on a wild goose chase after all,” he said. He shook his head and pursed his lips, looking every bit like he might utter, “I’m not mad. Just disappointed.”

  “Why are you questioning me anyway?”

  “I was just trying to solidify a case against Westwick. But it looks like you know more than you’ve told anyone to this point. I’m not going to cuff you, but I would like you to come down to the station with me. You’re not a suspect. But you’re a person who knows deeper points of a case we’ve been trying to solve.”

  “Can I lock up?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He stood. “I’ll wait by the front door.”

  She nodded and reached for his coffee cup. As it slipped from her fingers, she didn’t even move to stop it from shattering or look to see the shattered fragments on the ground.

  “Small hands,” he noted.

  She nodded, unable to form words and followed him out the door, flipping the shop’s sign to “Closed.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The flickering of cheap overhead lights and the sounds of a stapler occasionally punching into stacks of paper would have made her head spin, if it weren’t already. Around her, Amelia could hear the shuffling of papers and feet and so many muted voices. The few people in the station moved past her as if she wasn’t even there, and she hadn’t seen Clayton since he dropped her off and told her someone would be out to see her. She wasn’t sure how long she had to wait or if she was even going to get to go home tonight.

  Was she a person of interest? A suspect? What was she, and why was she here?

  They had been kind. That much she appreciated. A woman who had to have been a receptionist had given her something to drink. She recognized the woman, but in her daze couldn’t place her. Wes had come out once to check on Amelia and assured her someone would talk to her soon. She liked Wes and wished it could have been him that she talked to about this mess. She knew Wes. She didn’t know these other people.