To Write a Wrong

by Robin Caroll

  Hayden shut the file and stared at Officer Bob Travis. “You’re right . . . I don’t believe this. A freak accident?”

  Bob leaned back in the chair sitting in front of Hayden’s desk. “These kinds of things do happen. Sometimes.”

  “Are you serious? You believe this was a freak accident?” He needed some antacids. The shrimp po’boy he’d had for lunch now caught in his chest, burning.

  “I don’t know. On one hand, because of Nichols’s method of death, I say no. But on the other, the investigators found no evidence of foul play.”

  He couldn’t help but wonder how hard they’d looked. If they had no reason to suspect anything but an accident, would they have given any other consideration?

  Hayden handed the file to Bob. “Check with the investigators. Find out what their impressions were. If they noticed anything odd about the scene. Find anything you can.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bob shut the office door behind him.

  Accidental bathroom electrocution. It was just too out there for him to buy. Not on the heels of seeing Matthew Nichols’s body hanging from a hook in a cypress tree.

  A knock jerked his attention to his office door. Officer Edward Gaston handed him a file. “The file you requested on Mack Thompson.”

  “Thank you.”

  Edward exited as quickly as he’d entered while Hayden opened the folder. If Thompson had died from something as freaky as electrocution . . .

  Not quite as freaky, but close.

  According to the police report—this one from Brusly PD—Mack Thompson, forty-eight, married, no children, had been out walking his dog eleven months ago and was struck by a vehicle, killing him instantly. The accident was a hit and run. The vehicle was never found, the driver never identified. He was survived by his wife, Ethel, and their poodle, Silly.

  The case remained open at the Brusly Police Department.

  Hayden shook his head and shut the file. The case details swarmed his mind for attention. Eleven months ago, Thompson killed by a hit-and-run accident. Five months ago, Coleman died in freaky accident. Last week, Nichols was murdered and left for gator bait. Each death more gruesome and odd. Each escalated from the previous.

  Three coworkers, the only men on their team. Nichols had felt something was wrong with his teammates’ deaths. So much that he’d taken early retirement.

  But that hadn’t saved him.

  Thompson dead in his own neighborhood, on the street where he and his wife lived. Coleman dead in his own apartment. Nichols dead . . .

  Why Davis Ellington’s land?

  Hayden flipped through the case file on his desk. There was no connection between Matthew Nichols and Davis Ellington. But what about the land?

  He turned to the notes from his conversation with Ellington. There. He’d inherited the land from his father who died a couple of years ago.

  Hayden buzzed Bob’s extension and spoke as soon as Bob answered. “Davis Ellington. Get the name of his deceased father, date and cause of death.” He hung up, his blood rushing.

  Same feeling he got every time he was about to get a break on a case.

  His intercom buzzed. “Yes?”

  “Sir, there’s a lady out here to see you.” Officer Bubba Fontenot’s breath hissed against the phone. “A Riley Baxter.”

  Riley? Here to see him? “Bring her back.” He closed the files scattered across his desk and placed them in a neat stack in the corner. Was something wrong with Emily? His mom?

  He stood as the door opened and she stepped inside his office. “Riley, how nice to see you.” He nodded at Bubba, who looked disappointed to be sent away.

  “Come, sit down.” Hayden guided her gently by the elbow. He caught a whiff of her perfume as she passed him. Tangy. Fruity. Gut tightening.

  “I’m sorry for just dropping by like this.”

  “No, that’s perfectly all right.” More than all right, it made his whole day. “You look lovely, by the way.”

  She blushed in that cute way of hers. “Um, thanks.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear as she studied the floor.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s great. Well, I have a little problem I’d hoped you could help me with.”

  “Sure, if I can.” He moved to his chair. “What is it?”

  “The warden at Angola. He’s denying my request for an interview with Jasmine’s father.”

  “Does he say why?”

  “I’m not on some list or something.”

  The visiting list. “Upon incarceration, each inmate submits a list of people he’d like to visit. The prison does a check on everyone listed. Once approved, only visitors listed on his current approved visiting list are allowed to visit.”

  “But I didn’t know him when he was incarcerated, so he couldn’t submit my name on any list.” She wrinkled her nose.

  Riley looked cute when she was annoyed. Hayden thought it best to keep that observation unsaid. “You can ask his wife to tell him to request your name be added when she visits.”

  “How long does it take to get approved?”

  “Usually a couple of weeks, on average.”

  “I need to interview him this week for my article.”

  “Did you mention to the warden you’re press?”

  She nodded. “He wasn’t impressed.”

  Hayden could imagine. “I bet not.”

  “So, I was wondering, and I understand if you don’t want to and if you don’t, I promise there’ll be no hard feelings, but I’m just asking if you could maybe call the warden and put in a good word for me?” She looked like an angel sitting there, smiling at him.

  How could he say no?

  “I promise he would only take shots you tell him that he can.” Riley sat at the rickety kitchen table in the Wilsons’ shabby-but-neat trailer, all but begging Peggy to allow her to bring a photographer for some candid shots.

  The rain beat down on the tin roof, sounding out an interesting rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap.

  “Mikey’s too young. I can’t allow him to be exploited like that.”

  She’d been afraid the single mother would balk at that. “Okay, even though we could photograph him from behind so no one could recognize his face, I understand. Just you and Jasmine.”

  “She’s so young.” The indecision ran the curve of Peggy’s face.

  Riley shook her head. “I disagree. She’s been very mature in all her dealings with me. It’s her story that initially grabbed the hearts of my readers.” Wow, that had a nice ring to it—my readers.

  The rain continued to pelt the mobile home. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Thunder rattled the kitchen window.

  “I feel like I’m failing at protecting her. Like I’m using her to help my husband.”

  “Jasmine wants to help her father. That’s why she’s doing this. She said so.” If Peggy didn’t let a photographer come around, Riley would have to do some serious persuading to keep Jeremy from sending someone on the sly. She had seen him employ such tactics before.

  If he did, and Peggy figured it out, which she would as soon as Jeremy ran the photographs, Riley’s series would be dead in the water.

  Lightning lit up the stormy sky. A clap of thunder shook the trailer. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap.

  “I don’t know . . . it feels wrong to me. Like I’m a bad mother.”

  “You aren’t a bad mother, Mrs. Wilson.” What was it with the women in this area second-guessing their parenting? First Ardy and now Peggy.

  “Thank you for saying so.”

  The front door of the trailer opened.

  Peggy reached for a towel. “How was school today? Come on in and get dry.” She passed the towel to Jasmine, who still had the hood of her Windbreaker over her head. “It’s really coming down. If it
doesn’t stop storming soon, we’ll have to pick Mikey up from the bus stop.”

  Jasmine turned, shrugged out of her jacket, and hung it on the rack beside the door. She rubbed the towel over her head.

  “Honey, Ms. Baxter came back to ask our permission for her magazine to take some photographs of us to use with the articles. How do you feel about that?”

  Riley chewed her bottom lip.

  “I think it’s a great idea.” Jasmine faced them and lowered the towel.

  “Oh, merciful heavens, what in the world happened to you?” Peggy was on her feet and to her daughter in a flash.

  “It’s no big deal, Mom. Don’t freak.”

  “Don’t freak? Have you seen your face?”

  Riley couldn’t blame Peggy. Jasmine’s left eye was nearly swollen shut. Already, the skin under her left eye socket to the cheekbone had turned a deep purple. It was ugly and would get uglier.

  “What happened?” Peggy opened the freezer and grabbed a bag of frozen peas and carrots. She slapped it on Jasmine’s face and shoved her into one of the kitchen chairs.

  “A girl at school and I disagreed.” Jasmine shrugged as she held the bag of vegetables against her eye.

  “You got into a fight?” Peggy fisted her hands on her hips.

  “Fight is such a harsh word. More like we had a minor altercation.” Jasmine grinned at Riley from the edge of her mouth. The edge Peggy couldn’t see. She winked with her nonswollen eye.

  Riley pressed her lips together. She had to admire the girl’s spunk and gumption.

  Wind gusted outside the cheaply insulated walls, shoving and rocking the trailer. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Peggy ignored the weather. And Riley.

  “Jasmine Jean Wilson, don’t you be cute with me.” Peggy gripped the back of the vinyl kitchen chair. “I would suggest you tell me exactly what happened before I call the principal and ask him.”

  The girl ducked her head. “He sent home a note.”

  “A note? You get in a fight with another girl at school, and the principal sends me a note?”

  Riley could feel Peggy about to explode but was powerless to do anything more than watch. A silent observer.

  “More like a suspension notice.”

  Peggy turned and threw the towel on the counter. “Suspended. Like I need to deal with this right now. Jasmine, what were you thinking? How could you act so immaturely?” Her face had gone beet red.

  Jasmine’s shoulders straightened and her head came up. “It wasn’t like I went out looking for a fight, Mom. The girl started it.”

  “I raised you better than to fight like a common thug. Your father and I taught you to walk away from violence.”

  “I said I didn’t start it.”

  “Even so, why didn’t you just walk away? Would that have been too difficult?”

  Jasmine shot to her feet. The chair scraped against the bubbled linoleum and crashed to the floor. “Yes, it would have. She called us trash. Said you and Dad were sappy and stupid. Said my daddy should rot in prison. So, yeah, Mom, it would have been too difficult for me to walk away.”

  Riley went as still as a corpse.

  “This girl read the magazine article?” Peggy’s tone was level.

  Riley wanted to warn Jasmine, but she couldn’t. All she could do was pray Jasmine would weigh her response.

  Jasmine must have recognized her mother’s tone as well. She locked gazes with Riley over the table.

  The rain didn’t slack up. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap.

  “This is all because someone read these stupid articles and confronted you.”

  Jasmine didn’t answer.

  “I warned you this would happen. That people would know all about you and your feelings. I told you they’d make fun of you.”

  “I don’t care if they make fun of me, Mom. I care that they made fun of you and Daddy.” Jasmine lowered the peas and carrots. Her eye was still swollen, but at least she could open it a centimeter or two.

  Peggy turned to Riley, shaking her head. “I knew it. I felt this was a bad idea, but I ignored my gut.”

  Her stomach tightened into a tight ball, squeezing her insides.

  Another flash of lightning popped against the black sky. The air crackled outside the trailer.

  “No. No photographer. No pictures. No more interviews. No more articles. We’re done with all of this.”

  “You can’t mean—”

  “Mom, don’t do this. We have to help Daddy. Please.”

  Peggy shook her head even harder. “No, this doesn’t help him. Seeing you like this . . .”—she gestured at Jasmine’s face—“doesn’t help him. This will only make him worry.” She looked back at Riley. “I’m sorry, but no more.”

  “Mrs. Wilson, please—”

  “No, that’s it. I’d like you to leave. Now.”

  Riley stood, unsure what to say. She’d never had someone ask her to leave before.

  “Mom, don’t do this.”

  Peggy snapped. “Jasmine Jean, go to your room. And keep that bag on your eye. I’ll deal with you in a moment.”

  Jasmine shot Riley an apologetic look, then stomped down the hall.

  Peggy faced her. “Again, I must ask you to leave. We have nothing else to say to you. It’s nothing personal, but I must insist that you not run another article where me or my daughter are the subject.”

  Riley stepped out into the raging storm but didn’t so much as feel a raindrop. All she could feel was her career crashing around her feet.

  Chapter Twelve

  “If you see the poor oppressed in a district, and justice and rights denied, do not be surprised at such things; for one official is eyed by a higher one, and over them both are others higher still.”

  ECCLESIASTES 5:8

  It’d been one of the worst days she’d had in . . . well, since Simon Lancaster’s parole hearing. Her muscles tensed just to think of his name.

  More pressing at this moment was that she now had no choice: She had to get an interview with Armand or her series was dead. If it was dead, her career at the magazine ended, and she’d have to start all over again.

  Riley flipped onto her side, placing a pillow between her knees. Her eyes settled on the clock—11:00.

  She tossed onto her back, pulled the covers up under her chin, then peeked at the clock again—11:48. She pinched her eyes closed and willed herself to fall asleep. Visions of standing in the unemployment line haunted her.

  Midnight.

  Her muscles tensed. She mentally attempted to make each body part relax. 12:17. Counting sheep? Not hardly.

  She crunched herself into the fetal position on her right side and punched the pillow under her head. 1:10. Where was the relief? Peace? Rest for the weary?

  Popping her knuckles, she rolled over onto her back. 1:33. Her eyes began to grow heavy.

  Plop. Plop. Plop.

  Riley jerked into a sitting position. What was that noise? What had awoken her from her hard-to-come-by sleep? If some stupid tree frog had robbed her of slumber . . .

  Plop. Slurp. Plop.

  There it was again. It sounded like footsteps in the mud outside. In the flower beds lining the patio.

  Maybe she’d imagined the whole thing. Like a dream that cusped on reality just enough for belief. She strained to hear the sound again.

  Slurp. Plop. Plop.

  The sound definitely came from along the patio. Her heart raced. Faster and faster. She slipped out of bed and crawled across her floor to the door. Easing herself into the hallway, she crept along.

  Creak. Scrape.

  Was that somebody opening a window in the living room?

  She had to move, had to check on Ardy. Riley tiptoed across the hallway until she reached Ardy’s bedroom door. Wit
h the stealth of a cat burglar, she lifted a shaking arm toward the doorknob.

  Creak-creak.

  Fear welled in her throat. She had to hurry. Turning the knob as silently as she could, Riley eased open the door. From her kneeling position, she could see Ardy lying on her bed, facedown.

  Swoosh.

  Was that air coming in through an open window? She needed to get help. Now.

  She crept forward, pulling Ardy’s door closed behind her. She rushed to the bed. “Ardy. Ardy.”

  Hayden’s mom bolted upright. “Who’s there? What?”

  “Shh. It’s me, Mrs. Simpson. Riley.”

  “What’s wrong?” Ardy reached to her bedside table, fumbling with the lamp.

  “No, leave the light off. I think someone’s outside—or maybe inside now.”

  “The house?” Ardy grabbed a scrunchie and wound her hair into a makeshift bun while slipping out of bed at the same time.

  “Yes, ma’am.” She hoped she hadn’t imagined the whole thing. She’d be beyond embarrassed if it was just the wind. Or that stupid raccoon.

  The way her day had gone, it probably was the raccoon.

  “My gun’s in a safe in the closet.” Ardy headed to the closet.

  A gun? Well, her son was a cop.

  “I’ll see if I can hear anything.” And make sure it was more than a varmint set out to scare her on a regular basis. Even though the critter was a nuisance, Riley would hate for Ardy to mistakenly shoot an animal.

  Outside the door, she paused, trying to discern any sound from inside. Moments passed. Silence. She trembled as fearful images built in her mind.

  Carefully, she continued down the hall and slipped into the den. She fumbled around in the dark until she reached the bedside table and grabbed her cell. Just in case it wasn’t a raccoon.

  Swoosh.

  The air dropped by at least ten degrees. Her pulse raced. No animal could open a window.