Burning Proof

by Janice Cantore

  “Well, just think about it. Olivia says men need to be married. There are lots of websites to help you.”

  “Wait; what do you know about dating websites?” Luke was anxious to change the subject.

  “Everyone knows about them, Dad,” Maddie said matter-of-factly. “I’ve never been on one, but Olivia’s older brother has. That’s how he met his girlfriend. It’s just a thought if you decide to move forward.”

  He stared at his daughter from the corner of his eye, vowing to listen more carefully when Olivia and Madison were talking. Holding his breath for more advice, he exhaled with relief when it didn’t come.

  Abby Hart popped into his mind. Looking out over the lake, he frowned, and butterflies fluttered in his stomach like a fish on the line. He was attracted to Abby, no two ways about it. But she was promised to another man. When he’d heard they’d postponed their wedding to go through counseling, hope had sprung inside his chest. He’d actually thought about Abby as the woman who would fit in his and Maddie’s life. Then guilt bit like a vise as he realized he needed to pray for God’s best, and if for Abby that was Ethan, he needed to step back.

  Even if Ethan weren’t in the picture, Luke remembered how his marriage to Maddie’s mother had ended: in a telephone screaming match that concluded with her so distracted she ran her car into oncoming traffic and died instantly. Over the years the horror of that moment had faded, but from time to time he felt a pinch in his heart—guilt, regret, a mixture of both—and embarrassment about how he’d been so wrapped up in himself he’d not seen how his wife needed him, how she was begging for him to hear her.

  All he’d heard, all he’d cared about then, was his own ego, his own desires. He’d come home to a motherless daughter and vowed to hear her, to be there for her, and to somehow make amends for the loss of a mother. Would he be different if there were another wife in the picture? Reeling in his line to check the bait, he realized he wasn’t sure.

  Biting the inside of his cheek, he doubted there would ever be another marriage for him. He couldn’t fail a woman like that again. Ever.

  CHAPTER

  -10-

  ABBY ENDED UP STAYING AWAY from work for the whole week. As for the court case she’d been concerned about, the DA and the defense attorney had worked out a last-minute plea, so that was one thing she could remove from her plate. By Sunday, her last day home, Abby was still having nightmares and wondered if she was foolish to rush back to work. During their last conversation on Friday, Dr. Collins, the police psychologist, had suggested she take an additional week off.

  “I know that you witnessed a suicide several months ago. You were not required to come talk to me and you didn’t, but that was a traumatic event. This second incident occurring in such close proximity is problematic. You have nothing to prove. There is no stigma in saying you just need a little more time to process events.”

  In the end, though, she didn’t heed his advice. Collins was happy with Abby’s attitude and the support groups in her life. He suggested she spend time in church, or with the people she played volleyball with, and call him if she had any issues. He also gave her a list of official help groups if she felt she needed that.

  While working hard to assure herself, she convinced him she could function. He signed off on her return to work, but her universe felt out of sync, like when you watch a video and the words don’t match the lip movement. She still had a grip on normal, but it was far from a firm grip.

  The case against Javon Curtis in the murder of ten-year-old Adonna Joiner was strong. But by the end of the week, Abby had heard that while Curtis had made incriminating statements to both Bill and Abby the day he was arrested, once he’d been arraigned and lawyered up, he’d decided to plead not guilty. The lawyer requested a psych exam for Curtis. A trial was a long while away. Abby knew that the inevitable court battle could dredge everything up all over again, but she had time to prepare. This odd, off-balance feeling couldn’t last forever, could it?

  Protests over the shooting had grown. It bothered Abby when she saw a news report showing the sign-carrying, chanting mob. They wanted her badge without due process. But Abby’s union rep had been as supportive as Collins. “You’re in policy,” he’d said. “By the book. Ignore the media circus and take care of yourself.” Abby knew he was right and tried to take his advice. Joiner had fired twice, thankfully both bullets impacting the roof fascia, bare inches above their heads, before her bullets stopped him. She had no obligation to let herself or her partner be shot. But that didn’t stop Abby from continuing to second-guess herself. And tomorrow, thirty-five-year-old Clayton Joiner would be laid to rest next to his daughter.

  In her nightmares, Abby relived the shooting over and over. It all happened so fast. Her first shooting and she hadn’t killed a violent criminal; she’d killed a grieving father.

  “I would have done the same thing,” Bill told her. He’d had his hands on the suspect and could not draw his weapon fast enough. “Joiner could have easily shot one or both of us. I’m glad you reacted so quickly and only sorry that Joiner tried to take the law into his own hands.”

  Even the local police beat reporter, Walter Gunther, had called her and, in his cigarette-roughened voice, told her not to be too hard on herself. It was a tough situation, a choice no cop should ever have to face, and he was glad she and Bill weren’t hurt.

  Abby knew Bill and Gunther told the truth, perceived it in her head, but in her heart she ached. She understood Joiner, recognized the pain and loss that had driven him to do what he did, and wished with all her heart the outcome could have been different. He’d waited three long months to discover that his daughter’s killer lived next door and called himself “friend.”

  The only conversation she’d had with anyone that helped a bit was the brief one she’d had with Luke Murphy, the day he and Woody had left for Idaho. She’d called to thank his mother for the dinner and got Luke as he was putting his stuff together for the trip. The PI seemed to understand her on every level.

  “I was involved in a lot of firefights in Iraq; it was war. But one engagement that sticks with me was when a young kid rushed us. He had a bomb vest on. If he’d reached my position, he would have taken out my whole team. I did what I had to do, and you did what you had to do.”

  They’d spoken only a few minutes. Abby wanted to talk more, but the wanting of more time with Luke left a cloud of guilt over her heart.

  Now, though time was supposed to heal all wounds, she felt as if she were still sleepwalking. She fed Bandit, started a pot of coffee, and walked outside to pick up the newspaper. Ethan always teased her about her newspaper subscription.

  “Everything is online quicker than on the pages of a newspaper,” he said often.

  “Maybe, but I like spreading the paper out while I drink my morning coffee.”

  Today she might agree with him. The only story that had kicked her and Clayton Joiner off the front page was the headline announcing something she knew was coming, but it nonetheless smacked her between the eyes.

  Governor Rollins Officially Tosses His Hat in the Ring.

  She scanned the story about Rollins’s announcement that he was running for a senate seat. It recapped how the governor had bounced back after some bad press related to a cold case, the most famous cold case in Long Beach history, the Triple Seven murders. The story regurgitated how the governor’s personal secretary, Gavin Kent, had partially confessed to committing a twenty-seven-year-old murder and then taken his own life. The murky details of the cold case and the stain of Kent’s confession had failed to impact the governor and his plans in the least. Abby knew it was likely that the popular governor would be elected to the senate, and that twisted in her gut along with the festering guilt over Joiner.

  I could have done without seeing this story, whether in print or online, she thought as she folded the paper and walked outside the house to toss it into the recycle bin.

  It was Abby’s mother Kent had confessed to killi
ng all those years ago, when Abby was only six years old. Left unanswered was why, and what had happened to her father. Abby had always believed he’d died next to her mother. But a wild theory thrown out by George Sanders, a man in custody for an unrelated murder, had given her a reason to suspect he could have survived. Abby suspected that the governor and his wife were somehow involved with the crime, but so many years later, the lack of proof forced her to back off, try to put everything behind her, and trust God that the guilty would be dealt with, if not in this life, then in the next.

  If only Clayton Joiner had been able to do that—trust God and the justice system.

  Abby went back inside to poach some eggs. Ethan would arrive to take her to church in a couple of hours and she wanted to be ready. Ever since that first uncomfortable day, when she had avoided speaking with him, Ethan had become extremely helpful. He’d prayed with and for her often and had just been there for her in a way she’d never felt him be there before. A few months ago they’d cancelled a planned wedding date because differences in their individual visions for the future had become glaring. Before the shooting, Abby had begun to think it was over, that they’d never recover and reset a wedding date.

  But now she wasn’t sure about anything, much less their future.

  Ethan was a world traveler, a missionary, and he’d been trying to persuade Abby that the impact they could have in the world as a missionary couple was worth any sacrifice either could make. Initially Abby had bristled that she would be the only one who would have to sacrifice her career and the life in Long Beach she’d come to love.

  But the shooting changed a lot. For the first time in her career, Abby felt lost, uncertain. Was Ethan right? Should she quit and follow him?

  Abby sat down with her eggs, toast, and coffee. She bowed her head. Prayer did not come easily these days for reasons she could not fathom. Several seconds passed before any words came to mind, and even then, the prayer was brief and to the point.

  “Lord, I want to be where you want me. I just don’t know where that is anymore. Please help me, and bless this meal. Amen.”

  CHAPTER

  -11-

  “YOU’VE BEEN AWFULLY QUIET this morning.” Ethan reached across the car and gripped Abby’s hand. They were on their way to lunch after the service.

  “Just thinking.”

  “I saw the headline too.”

  She turned to look at him, but he had his eyes on the road.

  “What makes you think that’s what’s on my mind?”

  He gave a half shrug. “I know you. I think the situation with Governor Rollins still bothers you. It’s unresolved.”

  “Of course it still bothers me.” She sighed. No, it wasn’t the main thing right now, but she had no energy to change the subject. Ethan was generally right on about the present, but he never did truly understand her past. They’d more or less grown up together; Abby met him shortly after she’d moved to live with her aunt in Oregon when she was ten. He was in a youth group her aunt oversaw. Ethan never understood what losing her parents at six and spending four years in the custody of social services had done to her. Even years later, after she’d become a cop and he moved to Long Beach to work with a local church and they’d actually kindled a relationship, her past was a door he didn’t want opened. When he’d proposed to her, he’d also asked her to stop looking into her parents’ case. “There are so many unanswered questions. Do you really want a man like Rollins representing the state at a national level?”

  Ethan squeezed her hand. “I won’t vote for him. But you know as well as I do that there is no proof connecting him to anything illegal. The only people who’ve claimed to know what happened that day are dead, and what they each had to say could be construed as completely self-serving.”

  He turned at the parking lot for River’s End, which was packed. It was a beautiful Sunday, still warm for October. She could see kite surfers soaring in the distance and a line of people waiting to be seated at the restaurant.

  For a second she bit her tongue. It was true. Gavin Kent and George Sanders both claimed to know what happened the day her parents were murdered, and after saying so, they both died by their own hands. Self-serving, selfish liars, screamed in Abby’s head and made her want to stomp her feet and chastise Ethan for reminding her. But that would solve nothing, and Ethan was not the enemy. He just didn’t understand her like he thought he did.

  “I won’t vote for him either, but that’s not what’s bugging me today. I’m still thinking about Clayton Joiner.” She opened the car door and got out, feeling claustrophobic, closed in. She wrapped her arms around herself as a cool ocean breeze hit. It felt good in spite of the shiver it prompted.

  Ethan didn’t say anything after that, and Abby was thankful. She was certain she had to work this out herself.

  He held his hand out and she took it. She did love the solid reliability in Ethan right now. No matter what the problems were that had prompted them to postpone the wedding, Abby could never say that Ethan was not there for her when she needed him.

  “I wish you would take some more time off,” Ethan said as he settled onto the couch. They’d come back to Abby’s with a DVD to watch—one she picked out, an old movie: The Courtship of Eddie’s Father.

  Abby sighed and sat next to him. Bandit joined them a second later, sitting on Abby’s lap. “I’m ready to get back to work. You know I hate hanging around here doing nothing when there are cases on my desk.” She hoped he didn’t hear the indecision in her voice. It’s just butterflies, she thought. I am ready.

  “I don’t think anyone would hold it against you if you took a few more days off.” He pressed Play. “I’m set to be in Butte Falls for that church project I told you about. I want to be sure you’re okay before I leave.”

  “Ethan, I’ll be fine,” she said more stridently than she meant to. Sitting up, she turned to look at him while the opening credits played on the TV screen. “I’m sorry; that was harsh. I love how you’ve been there for me lately, but I don’t need a keeper. I need to feel useful.”

  He smiled, but not before she saw irritation flit across his brow. “I like taking care of you. Sometimes I fear that homicide work will destroy you. I’ve told you that before.” He reached out and put his hand over hers. “Maybe this shooting is highlighting a door marked Exit.”

  He moved his hand to her lips, stifling the protest there. “I’ll be leaving in the morning and be out of your hair. All I ask is that after I go, you seriously consider the possibility, okay?”

  Abby held his gaze, seeing the warmth and concern there. Before the shooting, what he’d just said would have had her back up and her anger simmering. But right now she was walking a tightrope of emotion about returning to work and she couldn’t spare a thread to lash out at him.

  Besides, what if he was right?

  She gripped his hand, kissed it, and then said, “Okay, fair enough.” She returned to his side and snuggled close as Eddie’s father filled the screen, and she let herself get lost in a funny, heartwarming window into romance in the 1960s.

  CHAPTER

  -12-

  BLOOD.

  “Ouch!” The knife clattered down on the counter as Molly brought her finger to her mouth, the coppery taste of blood hijacking her thoughts, taking them back to another time and place, a time when the knife was at her throat, held by an evil man, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  “Ahh.” She turned on the kitchen faucet and plunged her finger under the water, watching blood from the cut run down the drain.

  She’d worked so hard not to go back to that place, the place the traffic accident had sent her. Tearing off a paper towel, she wrapped it around the cut, hoping that would stanch the blood flow. Squeezing the finger, she stared at her wrists and remembered the cuts there.

  Suddenly she was back in the trunk. It was dark. Her wrists burned and bled, and she couldn’t get free. When she finally ripped the bonds that held her wrists apart, blood from
the cuts on her wrists ran down her hands. And when she scrambled out of the trunk, the blood dripped down her legs and splattered on the dirt as she ran for her life.

  She smacked her uninjured hand on her thigh three times, forcing herself back to the present, her kitchen, safety. For a second, the scars were back; her wrists were cut and scabby and painful. Molly pulled her arms to her chest to stop the sobs. They racked her body, burned her throat, and she slid down the front of the dishwasher and sat on the floor, leveled and destroyed by memories that would not release her.

  CHAPTER

  -13-

  MONDAY MORNING, as Abby fed Bandit, she was still unsettled about the prospect of going back to work. Ethan had left for Butte Falls at 5:30 a.m. They’d exchanged texts, and he promised to call once he arrived in Oregon. She already found herself missing him but was relieved when there had been no further mention of her return to work. If Ethan had suggested one more time that she take another week off, she might have lost it. She’d convinced the psychologist she was ready to return and he’d agreed. Were they both wrong?

  “Should I call him again?” she wondered, pausing to look into the mirror at bloodshot eyes.

  Woody had called Sunday evening, after Ethan left, to see how Abby was doing regarding the shooting. He was the only person she’d almost shared her complete indecision with. She danced around the fact that the thought of going back to work made her sick to her stomach.

  For Woody’s part he seemed to sense something because he’d said, “It’ll do you good to get back into harness, to get back to doing what you do best—fighting to give a voice to the dead. It’s like getting back on the horse after he throws you, something you need to do.”