by Edie Claire
Before her stood an unfamiliar middle-aged man in slacks and a button-down shirt. Behind him stood two uniformed policemen.
Chapter 26
Sarah’s response surprised even her. For nearly a decade she had lived in fear of precisely this moment. She had imagined it unfolding countless different ways, but the upshot was always the same. Her secret was out, and her life was over. Perhaps it was this ceaseless practice that allowed her to absorb the situation before her with so little emotion. Or perhaps it was the depth of her fatigue, both mental and physical. However it came about, she found herself facing the visitors not with the expected guilty panic, but with all the detached studiousness of a theater director watching an oft-practiced, yet still unsatisfactory, scene.
"Hello," she greeted.
The man in plain clothes offered a tight smile. "Hello. My name is Thomas Mayburn. I’m an investigator with the Alabama State Police. These two gentlemen are with the Allegheny County PD. Are you Sarah Landers?"
She allowed her eyebrows to rise. Her brain raced to play the part she had assigned herself. She had never acted in front of an audience, but she was familiar with the methods. She must become who she wanted them to think she was. She must allow her every expression and gesture to match. Not force it, but believe it.
"Yes, I am," she answered, her voice faltering. "What’s wrong? Is this about my grandparents?"
The tight smile returned. "No, ma’am, I’m not here about a family member. I came to discuss an issue relating to your former property in Lee County. Can we come in?"
What issue? What could they be talking about? Sarah pushed herself into her role. She could do it.
"Of course." She admitted the policemen and directed them to her living room. She sat on the couch, and the detective joined her. The two men in uniform settled silently into her armchairs.
"What’s the problem with the property?" she asked. "I thought the sale was finalized."
"It was, ma’am." The detective opened a notebook and pulled out a pen. He was an unremarkable man, of medium height and weight, with brown hair and nondescript brown eyes. His air, if he gave off one, was of beleaguered competence. "I’m sorry to disturb you about this, but I’m afraid it’s very important. I’ll explain in a minute. First, would you mind telling me how long that property had been in your family?"
He launched into a long series of benign, factual questions about her family and their history with the farm, and she cooperated with what she judged to be an appropriate amount of impatience. But he got to the point all too soon.
"I understand that it was your reluctance to sell that held up construction on the new bypass. You mind telling me why you were so intent on hanging onto the place?"
Sarah’s heartbeat surged, but an answer came to her quickly—a better answer than she’d given Adam. She feigned a slight embarrassment. "That was stupid of me, I know. I spent a fortune on attorneys fees and still got nowhere. But I felt like I had to try. I knew I could never live in that house again, but I did want to keep the land in the family, because that had been my father’s plan when he bought it. He was very sentimental about the place. I suppose he affected me."
The detective watched her closely. Sarah sensed neither disapproval nor suspicion in his reaction, but she was not at all sure that precluded their existence.
"What is it?" she repeated, acting out the anxiety she knew she should feel regardless. "Did something happen with the house? I was just there last weekend—I know it’s probably some kind of safety hazard. Is that what this is about? Did someone get hurt?"
"Please," the detective said calmly—almost maddeningly calmly. "I promise I’ll explain everything in a just a minute. But I would like to know a little more about your family first. I understand your parents were killed in an accident?"
Sarah answered the next string of questions as she had always answered them. Her parents’ plane had crashed. She and her sister were both devastated. Dee, who was already emotionally disturbed, had been unable to cope and had overdosed. Sarah had gone to live with her aunt and uncle for the summer, then enrolled in college the next fall. She had not lived in Alabama since. She had visited only rarely.
The detective nodded, seeming satisfied. Then he reached into a pocket of his notebook, extracted a small square of paper, and held it out toward her. It was a copy of a photograph. "Do you recognize this person?" he asked matter-of-factly.
Sarah did. She would recognize that person anywhere, under any circumstances. His every feature was burned into her memory like a cattle brand. But she could not allow the detective to know that. The picture was an old one, obviously a class photograph from high school. Rock looked young—fifteen or sixteen. He had probably dropped out before any more were taken.
Sarah concentrated. To a less jaundiced eye, the boy in the picture would look little like the man she had met. The boy's hair was softer, not so greasy. His cheeks were still puffed with baby fat, and he offered an impish grin suited to an even younger child. If her only exposure to the adult Rock had been a few insignificant encounters, she was certain she wouldn’t recognize him.
"I don’t think so. Should I?"
The detective didn’t answer. He extracted another piece of paper. "How about this one?"
She peered into the small mug shot, most likely gleaned from a driver’s license application. Her heart skipped despite herself. The image was dead on. Oily black curls. Dark skin, long nose. Half-squinted, hostile eyes. A smirk where a smile should be.
Her pulse quickened. She was not at all certain she could mask the surge of adrenaline his hated visage could evoke. But perhaps she wouldn’t have to. "Maybe," she answered, allowing her voice a fitting amount of tumult. "What’s his name?"
"His name was David," the detective offered. "David Andrew Rockney."
She looked up. She hadn’t missed the change in verb tense. She had been careful to watch her own. "David?" she repeated meaningfully. She disliked hearing his given name. It made him seem, somehow, more human. But the man who had raped her sister, an unbalanced teenage girl who had been orphaned only days before, had had no humanity.
She looked again at the picture. Then she decided it was time. "Rock," she announced. "Did he go by Rock?"
The detective nodded. He seemed pleased. He also seemed to be hoping Sarah would say more without prompting. She decided she would cooperate.
"My sister dated him. At least I think that’s him. I only saw him a few times."
The detective sat up. "Can you describe your sister’s relationship with him? When it started, when it ended, that sort of thing?"
Sarah hesitated. She had to be careful not to divulge any more information than was necessary, but she also wanted to appear helpful. She covered her lapse with a shrug. "They weren’t seriously involved. She met him shortly before my parents died; he didn’t come to their funeral or anything. The only reason I remember him is because he was such an—"
She broke off. She was speaking ill of the dead, and she didn’t want to seem callous. But was she supposed to know she was speaking of the dead? Surely any halfwit would suspect as much by now.
The detective offered no particular reaction. "Go on."
She took a breath. "He showed up at the house right after my aunt and uncle went back to Georgia, as soon as Dee and I were alone. I don’t think he’d even talked to Dee since the accident, but then he waltzed in like the two of them were an ongoing item and starting harassing her about using the house for a party. Dee told him no, and they ended up in a shouting match."
The detective scribbled on his pad. He looked up. "And then what happened?"
Sarah covered her thumping heart with another shrug. "Nothing. He left. That was the last we saw of him." She swallowed. "Why is all this significant? What happened to him?"
The detective said nothing.
A sharp ache accosted her middle. The last thing she had wanted was for her story to implicate Dee, but if she wasn’t careful, that was
exactly what would happen. She opened her mouth, but quickly shut it again. No—the story was sound. Rock had come over that night to talk Dee into giving a house party, and Dee had gotten furious with him. He just hadn’t left afterward. Sticking as close to the truth as possible had to be the best course—in fact, any incidental inclusion of incriminating information about Dee would probably make Sarah’s story all the more credible. She shouldn’t feel like her sister had anything to apologize for. If she felt the need to defend her, the detective would wonder why.
He stopped writing and looked at her again, his mouth drawn. "Are you certain that your sister didn’t see this man again, after that argument?"
Careful, Sarah. She pretended to consider. "I wasn’t with her every minute, but if she did see him again, she didn’t mention it. She wasn’t—"
She stopped to think. Every word was so important. Too important. "You have to understand. Those last few days, guys and dating were the farthest things from her mind. She was depressed; she hardly left the house. She was in a spiral from what happened to our parents, and she never got out of it."
The detective was silent a moment. He tapped his pen on his notebook. "And did you see Mr. Rockney again after the night he and your sister argued?"
"No," she replied, realizing she’d already answered the question once. Don’t expound. Why would you?
He allowed another uncomfortable silence. Then he caught her eyes and held them. "Mr. Rockney’s remains have been uncovered at the bottom of a pond on your former property, Ms. Landers. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on how that could have happened."
A look of shock was not difficult to feign. If she hadn’t known until now, how would she feel? She took several seconds to find her voice. "My pond?"
"Yes."
She paused again, staring out into space. Then she asked another question. "How long had—" she stammered. How did one refer to such a thing? "How long have the remains been there?"
"We don’t know for sure," the detective answered. "That’s one of the things we’d like to pin down."
"Did he drown?"
She couldn’t help but be pleased with herself. She had no reason to suspect foul play, and she wasn’t going to show any.
The detective remained coy. "We’re not sure about that yet, either. We’re still waiting for the autopsy report."
He proceeded to have Sarah walk him through a series of specific dates—when Dee had met Rock, when the Landers had died, when Rock had come to the house, and when Dee had died. Last but not least: when Sarah had moved out, leaving the house and grounds vacant. When he finished, he leaned back into the cushions of the couch, his expression contemplative.
He said nothing else, and as the silence grew increasingly awkward Sarah longed to say something herself, to further explain the things she wanted to get across. But she managed to hold her tongue. Nervous, babbling suspects were a gold mine for an investigator. He was probably being quiet for just that reason. She had to act as if this were all just a curiosity—and a nuisance.
"Is that all?" she asked finally. "Is there anything I need to do?"
He sat back up suddenly. "Did Mr. Rockney own a car?"
Sarah blinked. "I don’t know. I think he had a motorcycle."
"Do you know where he lived?"
She shook her head. She could offer that she remembered he was a relative of the Martins, but that would be going too far. If her story was true, she wouldn’t remember because she wouldn’t have cared.
The detective allowed another uncomfortably long pause. The two uniformed officers, other than shifting in their seats occasionally, might as well have been mannequins. Sarah was certain she was being watched for nervousness, and she was determined not to show it. Increasing agitation, however, would seem appropriate.
"Do you know if Mr. Rockney had any enemies in Auburn?" The detective spouted suddenly. "Did your sister mention any of the people he hung around with?"
"I don’t remember," she answered. "But he must have had friends. He wanted to invite somebody to a party."
"Were you present when Mr. Rockney and your sister had the argument?"
The detective was talking faster, throwing out questions without segue. Sarah resolved she would not get flustered.
"I heard the beginning of it, but then I went upstairs to my room. My sister had a habit of ranting and raving at people; I was used to tuning her out."
"Then how do you know that a party was all they argued about?"
"Because that’s what she told me."
"When?"
"Right after he left. He slammed the door so hard the house shook—I remember that." Nice touch, Sarah.
"So you don’t know for a fact that a party was the only thing they argued about, other than that’s what your sister told you."
She looked at him as if the question were silly. "I guess not."
Yet another silence followed. Sarah decided that even an innocent person would be getting upset by now. "Why is all this important?"
The detective’s voice was calm again. "It might not be, Ms. Landers. We’re just collecting all the information we can."
"Well, I don’t know what else I can tell you," she said irritably. "I can’t believe this. When did—" She looked pointedly at the detective, allowing her voice to assume a new sense of horror. "Just when do you think he died?"
The detective offered a half smirk. "As far as we can tell, Ms. Landers, the last people to see Mr. Rockney alive were you and your sister."
She allowed her eyes to widen. But she remained careful. "You mean it could have happened while we were still living there?" Appearing sickened wasn’t difficult. Today, the response had been her status quo.
The detective merely shrugged.
She looked down at her feet. Real nausea swelled. Don’t implicate Dee. Don’t defend Dee. Just keep your mouth shut.
The detective watched her for a long time. Then he rose.
"I think that will be all for today, Ms. Landers. But I may need to ask you some more questions later. Will you be staying at this address?"
The uniformed officers rose also. Sarah joined them. Her legs were unsteady. "Yes, I just moved here."
"Thanks for talking with us."
"Of course. Is there—" she faltered. "Is there a problem with the county now, I mean, about the sale? Does this put me in any legal trouble? They didn’t notify me—"
The detective smiled. He was a hard man to read, but Sarah could swear that his amusement was real. "Well, you are supposed to declare human remains when you sell, but that’s kind of hard if you don’t know about them." He tucked his notebook back under his arm. "Don’t worry, Ms. Landers, I don’t think the county will come after you. They’re plenty annoyed about the construction being held up again, but I don’t imagine they’re anxious to go another round with your lawyers."
Sarah held her breath. They were leaving. He had believed her, and they were leaving.
But the detective hadn’t gone anywhere yet. He remained standing in place, glancing around the room.
A thought struck. What if they asked to search the house? Was there anything incriminating in Dee’s keepsake box? Sarah didn’t think so. Dee’s legitimate suicide note had said plenty, but Sarah had flushed that, as instructed. Dee had been clever enough to write two of them. Dee had always been clever.
But Sarah was not. Because all the policemen had to do was walk into her bedroom and they would find three books on road construction and one on underwater investigations.
No.
She could not let them search. She would demand they get a warrant. Then she would look guilty anyway.
"Thank you again, Ms. Landers," the detective reiterated. The uniformed policemen moved toward her front door. The detective followed. "I appreciate your cooperation. You have a good day, now."
Sarah let out her breath with a gush. Don’t act so relieved! "Will you keep me informed?" she asked, sounding nervous again. "I would like
to know what happened."
The detective stopped in the doorway, handed her a business card, and stepped out. "If you don’t hear from us again, give a call."
And then, as suddenly as the men had come, they were gone.
***
Sarah stood for a long time, her weight braced against the back of the closed door, her breathing shallow and jerky.
She had done it. She had pulled it off.
She should feel relief. Maybe even elation.
Instead she felt dead inside.
All the fear, all the guilt that had haunted her for so long had at last reached a terrifying crescendo. And still it wasn’t over. She had merely shifted her suffering into a new phase. A phase in which she had even more to feel guilty about.
She had lied to the police, and she had done it to save her own skin. Her sister’s memory might have been protected in the process, but she had done it for herself.
Her nightmares last night had not been of ponds and corpses. They had been of prisons. Of her being forced—at long last—to face the consequences of her actions. She deserved to be punished. What made her think that she had any right to escape? To be happy?
She had always envisioned herself standing up to the truth—someday. When that time came, she had promised herself, she would admit exactly what had happened, and she would accept whatever punishment justice meted out. As long as she suffered eventually, it hadn’t seemed so wrong to switch the timetable, to enjoy her young life as a free woman—put off the rest until later.
But she hadn’t stood up to anything. The time had come, and she had lied again. She had changed her mind, broken the deal. She was a coward.
She returned to the couch and sat down, then fell on her side, her face buried in the cushion.
What would happen now? Would this be the end of it?
That seemed unlikely. The detective might have believed her; but then again, he might not. Who else had he questioned? Had he already talked to Rock’s cousin, Tommy Martin?
A hot wave of nausea rolled through her middle. Tommy. Dee had only just dumped the guy to be with his cousin—and he had hated Rock even before that. Sarah remembered how angry he had been at Dee's funeral, as if he blamed his cousin for that, too, without even knowing why.