by Joy Fielding
“Not yet. At the moment he’s merely a person of interest.” The sheriff lowered himself into a chair across from them.
“I’ve always loved that expression,” Melanie said, remaining stubbornly on her feet and hovering beside the sheriff’s chair. “As if the rest of us are of no interest whatsoever.”
“If he’s not under arrest, then why is he here?” Blake asked. “Why the police escort?”
“He didn’t leave us much choice,” Prescott answered. “It appears that he was on his way to Canada, judging by the fact that he had his passport with him and a considerable amount of cash.”
“Since when is it a crime to carry money and a passport?” Robin said.
“What has he told you?” Melanie asked.
“He hasn’t told us anything,” the sheriff replied. “Your brother is being most uncooperative, I’m afraid.”
“Which is his right,” Blake reminded the sheriff.
“Yes, but if he’s innocent, why be difficult?”
“Maybe your so-called person of interest isn’t interested in doing your job for you,” Melanie said.
“Look—” the sheriff began.
Robin could hear the constriction in his voice when he said the word, as if he was struggling to keep his cool, as if the very act of keeping his voice down was an effort of almost superhuman proportions. You’re not alone, she wanted to tell him. Melanie has that effect on many people.
“I understand he’s your brother and your instinct is to protect him,” Prescott continued. “But he’s not doing himself any favors by refusing to talk to us. I was hoping you’d be able to convince him that it’s in his best interests—”
“A person of interest’s best interests,” Melanie interrupted. “Interesting.”
The sheriff looked toward Blake, as if to say, “We’re both men here. Help me out.”
“Have you advised him of his rights?” Blake asked.
Sheriff Prescott ran his hand over the top of his head. “We have.”
“And has he asked for an attorney?”
“He has not.”
“Well, it appears he’s got one, anyway,” Blake said, rising to his feet. “I’d like to see my client now, if you don’t mind.”
Sheriff Prescott pushed himself out of his chair, sighing in defeat. “You didn’t mention you were a lawyer.”
“I was hoping it wouldn’t be necessary.”
The sheriff turned toward the reception counter. “Mike, could you have Mr. Davis brought out, please?”
The deputy relayed the request into his phone.
“What happens now?” Robin asked.
“That’s up to you,” Prescott said. “And your brother.”
“But he’s free to go?”
“Provided he doesn’t leave town, yes.”
“So you’re not going to arrest him?”
“Not at this time. No.”
“They don’t have enough evidence to arrest him,” Melanie said, her tone stopping just short of a sneer. “All they have is his car on tape.”
“We have motive,” Sheriff Prescott reminded them. “As well as opportunity.”
“Pretty weak as far as motives go,” Robin said. “It’s been almost six years since he saw Tara or my father. The rest is strictly circumstantial.”
“Juries have convicted on less.”
“There are at least a dozen people in this city, myself included, with both motive and opportunity to shoot them,” Melanie said. “I’d say that’s more than enough to create reasonable doubt in a juror’s mind.”
“And I haven’t eliminated anyone as a suspect. Including you,” the sheriff said pointedly.
And then there Alec stood, appearing before them as if by magic, to the left of a uniformed deputy in front of the reception counter, trying to look defiant and unflappable, but instead looking shell-shocked and exhausted. His narrow face was in need of a shave, and his soft gray eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, as if he’d been crying. He was wearing faded, loose-fitting jeans and a wrinkled white T-shirt, the front of which was spattered with a sweeping arc of coin-size coffee stains.
“Alec!” Robin cried, rushing into his arms.
“Hey, you,” he replied, his fingernails digging into her sides as his chin sank heavily onto her shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Hi, there, little brother,” Melanie said, joining them, although she made no move to hug him even after Robin took a few steps back. “Long time no see.”
“Melanie,” he said, glancing at her only briefly before shifting his attention to Blake. “And Blake. Wow—the man himself. Didn’t expect to see you here in Red Bluff.”
“I could say the same about you,” Blake said, patting Alec’s arm.
“Let’s get out of here,” Melanie said.
Sheriff Prescott stopped them before they could take a step. “A word, if I may.”
“Sure thing, Sheriff,” Alec said, although the straight line of his lips made it clear he wasn’t about to say anything.
“You understand that you’re not to leave town…”
“Understood.”
“…and that should you try, you will immediately be placed under arrest.”
Alec began rubbing his jaw. “Also understood.”
“I’m hoping that after talking to your lawyer here, you’ll decide to be more cooperative.”
“My lawyer.” Alec’s lips curled into a half-smile.
“Are we done here?” Blake asked.
“For now.”
They walked toward the parking lot, Robin holding tight to her brother’s hand, Melanie and Blake flanking them on both sides, Sheriff Prescott following.
“Nice car,” Prescott said as they approached Blake’s Lexus, a standout among the half dozen police cruisers.
“You can get in front with Blake,” Melanie directed her brother as she climbed into the backseat. “Robin will sit back here with me.” She patted the seat beside her.
“I’ll be in touch,” the sheriff called as Blake pulled out of his parking spot.
“Looking forward to it,” Alec said with a wave.
“What is it with you two?” Blake snapped, looking from Alec to Melanie and then back at Alec. “May I remind you that you’re a suspect in a murder investigation? That man you just blew off so cavalierly is a sheriff. Don’t deliberately antagonize the people with the power to throw your ass in jail.”
“They don’t have enough evidence to arrest him,” Melanie said, as she’d said earlier.
“Since when has that ever stopped anyone?”
“Since when did you start doing criminal law?” Alec asked, sounding genuinely interested.
“I didn’t. But I’ll do for now. If and when the time comes…” Blake looked around the mostly barren landscape, the mountains shimmering in the distance. “Where the hell am I?”
“Turn left at the next intersection,” Melanie said.
There was a moment’s silence and then everyone spoke at once.
“Thanks for doing this.” Alec.
“You must be exhausted.” Robin.
“What happened to your car?” Blake.
“So, did you do it?” Melanie.
“Wow,” said Alec, answering their questions one at a time. “Yes, I’m exhausted. The San Francisco police seized my car. And no, I didn’t do it. Thanks for asking.”
“But you were here in Red Bluff on the night of the shooting,” Melanie said.
“I don’t think I have to respond to that, do I, counselor?”
“What were you doing here?” Melanie persisted.
“How’s Landon?” Alec asked in return, ignoring the question.
Beside her, Robin felt Melanie’s body tense.
“Don’t do this, Alec,” Robin said, as exasperated as her sister. “Our father is in a coma, Tara is dead, and a twelve-year-old girl is without her mother. The police have proof you were in Red Bluff on the night of
the shootings. This is not the time for evasions and obfuscations.”
“Wow—‘evasions and obfuscations.’ Impressive words.”
“How about ‘glib’? You like that word better?” Melanie asked.
Alec twisted in his seat and peered over his shoulder into the back of the car. “Look. I understand your concern and I’m grateful for it.”
“We don’t need your understanding or your gratitude,” Melanie said.
“And I don’t need to be cross-examined.” Alec turned back to face the windshield.
“For God’s sake, Alec,” Robin said. Why was he being so damn difficult? Was it possible he was guilty? “We’re family. We just want to help.”
“You can’t. Trust me, the less you know, the better off we’ll be.”
“What does that mean?” Robin and Melanie asked together, their voices overlapping.
“I think we’ve all seen enough Law & Order to know that anything I tell you can and will be used against me in a court of law. If I’m arrested and this thing actually goes to trial, you could be subpoenaed and compelled to testify against me. Am I right?” he asked Blake.
“That’s right. On the other hand,” Blake said, “I’m your attorney. At least for the moment. And anything you tell me is strictly confidential.”
Alec let out an audible sigh, nervously massaging his jaw as he lay back against his headrest and closed his eyes. “Then we’ll talk later,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Okay, who needs a drink?” Melanie asked as soon as they stepped inside the house.
“Beer for me.” Alec made a beeline for the kitchen, as if it hadn’t been almost six years since his last visit and this were still his home.
“Me, too,” echoed Blake, tossing his key fob onto the side table by the front door.
“I’m okay,” Robin said.
Except she wasn’t okay. She was in the midst of a full-blown panic attack, knives of anxiety stabbing her chest with each step, flailing at her carotid artery. If she wasn’t careful, she’d bleed out in front of everyone. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the bathroom.”
“You all right?” Blake asked.
“I’m fine. The Chinese food…” Robin hurried up the stairs, hearing Landon rocking behind his closed door as she raced for the bathroom. “Damn it,” she muttered, locking the door behind her. Damn it, damn it, damn it. “Okay. Settle down. Take deep breaths. You’ll be fine.”
But every time she tried to breathe, newly sharpened daggers pierced deeper into her flesh.
“Calm down. Calm down.”
Except how could she calm down when Alec refused to answer any questions about what he’d been doing in Red Bluff on the night Tara was murdered and their father and Cassidy shot, which meant that at the very least he had something to hide? How could she calm down when the only Tom Richards from Red Bluff who’d moved to San Francisco had been dead for two years, which meant that her brother and Tom Richards were likely one and the same? How could she calm down when there was a good chance Alec had been one of the shooters?
Was it possible?
No, it couldn’t be possible.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
She splashed cold water on her face, staring at her reflection in the mirror over the sink. “Damn scrunched-up face,” she muttered, pushing at her skin, trying to smooth away the telltale signs of her anxiety. “Alec did not do this,” she told her reflection. He did not do this.
There had to be a rational explanation for his refusal to explain his actions. “What? What possible explanation can there be?”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Shit! Goddamn it! Fuck!”
There was a knock on the bathroom door.
Robin froze.
Another knock, stronger than the first. “Aunt Robin?”
“Landon?” Landon? She unlocked the door and pulled it open, the shock of seeing her nephew standing on the other side temporarily interrupting her panic attack.
He was wearing a bright orange T-shirt with a Harley-Davidson logo, his shoulder-length hair uncombed and falling into his eyes, eyes that shot to the floor the instant she opened the door. “I heard yelling,” he mumbled, staring at his bare toes protruding from under the frayed hem of his too-long jeans.
“Oh, sorry,” Robin said, following his gaze. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I…I stubbed my toe.”
“Ouch,” Landon said without looking up. “That hurts.”
“Yes.”
He turned to leave.
“I like your T-shirt,” she said quickly.
Landon smiled and patted the shirt’s logo.
“You like motorcycles, huh?”
No response.
“Can I ask you something?”
He shrugged, looked toward the stairs.
“I saw that you went for a motorcycle ride the other night.”
Landon’s head bolted up, his eyes boring into hers for half a second before returning to the floor. He began swaying from one foot to the other.
“Who do you know who drives a motorcycle?”
Silence.
“Is it anyone I know?”
“His name’s Donny.”
“Donny Warren?”
“He’s my friend,” Landon said, speaking into his chest.
“Your friend,” Robin repeated.
“He takes me for rides on his bike.”
After midnight?
“My mom says it’s okay.”
“It sounds like fun. Where do you go?”
“To his ranch. He has horses. I like horses.”
Robin nodded. It was the longest conversation she’d ever had with her nephew. “Can I ask you something else?”
Landon glanced back at the stairs.
“I notice you spend a lot of time looking out your bedroom window.”
He began rocking back and forth on his heels.
“And I was wondering…if maybe you happened to be looking out your window…on the night…of the shootings…”
“Landon?” Melanie called from the foot of the stairs. “Is that you up there? What are you doing? Come on down. Your uncle Alec is here.”
“Landon, did you see anything that night?” Robin asked.
But his back was already to her, and in the next second, he was halfway down the stairs.
* * *
—
Robin remained in the bathroom doorway for several seconds before proceeding to her bedroom and closing the door. She lay down on the bed and stared up at the overhead ceiling fan, questions circling her head like flies. Had Alec killed Tara? Had he tried to kill their father and Cassidy? Had Landon? Maybe it had been Alec and Landon together. Or Landon and Donny Warren. Maybe Melanie had planned the whole thing.
“Shit.”
What a family.
What a mess.
Why wasn’t she better equipped to deal with messes like this? Wasn’t family dysfunction something she encountered on an almost daily basis? Wasn’t her own family history at least part of the reason she became a therapist?
She tried to think of how she would advise a client.
“Take it one step at a time,” she would say. “One issue at a time.”
There was certainly no shortage of issues: her anger, her disappointment, her defensiveness in the face of Melanie’s nearly constant attacks. But perhaps all these issues were the result of an even bigger issue—guilt.
For not telling her mother about her father’s infidelities.
For abandoning her mother during her illness.
For abandoning her best friend.
For believing Melanie could be capable of murder.
For believing Landon could be capable of murder.
For believing Alec could be capable of murder.
“That’s a shitload of guilt,” she said out loud.
She shook her head. She was always telling clients that guilt was a useless emotion whose only purpose was to keep you stuck in the past and preve
nt you from moving forward. That it was easier—less scary—to feel guilty than it was to make positive changes in your life. That guilt was the coward’s way out. “Am I really such a fucking coward?” she asked out loud.
There was a gentle tapping on the door. “Robin?” Blake called softly.
And what about Blake? she wondered, sitting up in bed. Was he the man he claimed to be or just a younger, more polished version of her father? Could she really trust him?
“Robin,” Blake called again, opening the door a crack, then stepping inside. “Sorry. Were you asleep?”
“No.”
He walked to the bed and sat down beside her, the mattress dipping slightly with his weight. “How’s your stomach?”
“Better. What’s happening downstairs?”
“Not much. Your brother has decided he’s going to sleep in the mudroom.”
“The mudroom? It’s a mess.”
“Says he likes it that way.”
Robin looked toward the window opposite the bed, catching their reflection in the glass and thinking that they complemented each other well. “Do you believe that guilt is the coward’s way out?” she asked.
He seemed puzzled by the question. “I’m not sure I even understand what that means.”
She smiled. Her father would never have admitted to not understanding anything. “There’s nothing the matter with my stomach,” she told him. “It was a panic attack.”
“I thought it might be.” He squeezed her hand.
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not telling you the truth in the first place.”
“I’m the one who owes you an apology.”
“My turn to ask for what?”
“For thinking you were exaggerating when you talked about your sister.”
She laughed. “Thank you for telling her to fuck off earlier.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“In her defense, it’s been difficult—”
“She doesn’t need you to defend her.” He shrugged. “I guess everybody has a story.”
“I guess.” She paused. “What’s yours?”
Robin waited for him to smile and say that she already knew his story, that all things considered, he’d enjoyed a life of relative ease and rare privilege. He was smart and good-looking. His family was both wealthy and well connected. True, his parents were divorced, but the divorce had been amicable and both were now remarried and settled comfortably on the East Coast, his mother in New York, his father in Connecticut. She knew he had an older brother who was off teaching English in China and a younger brother who’d died as the result of an asthma attack in his early twenties. They’d discussed all that when they first started dating. She’d assumed that because he rarely spoke of his family, there wasn’t much else to say.