by Wendy Tyson
Bibi sat back, away from the table. “I’m not an expert in child psychology.”
“But you’ve seen a lot in your eighty-five years, Bonnie.”
“Sadly, yes, I have. And people never fail to surprise me—for the good they do, and the evil.”
Denver said, “Please. What do you think?”
Megan reached across the table and took Denver’s hand. His former friend was dead, his aunt’s foster son a potential murderer. Megan sensed he didn’t know in what ring to toss his hat, if any at all.
“I think a young man capable of such an angry, heinous act would either be fully without conscience or would have given some indication of severe mental illness or anger issues before now. I don’t know him, but I know Eloise. We haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I respect her as a doctor and a person. If she believes this boy, I believe her. And from what I have heard in Winsome’s version of Whisper Down the Lane, the boy is no psychopath.”
Denver nodded. “Aye, I would agree.”
Bibi leaned forward, eyes on Denver. “With all he went through, he’s an easy answer to a hard question. But while the town and press are focused on him, someone else may be getting away with murder.”
Denver didn’t want to talk about it, so Megan kissed him goodbye and let him go. It broke her heart to watch him climb into his 4Runner, but she knew any pressure would be resented and result only in his retreating further. This was his way: stew until ready to talk. She understood; it was her way too.
Back inside, Megan brought the laptop downstairs and set it up on the kitchen table. She could hear the murmur of Bibi’s game show coming from the sitting room. Sadie and Gunther lay at her feet, one next to another, and Gunther was snoring gently. The window was open, and the air flowing in was cool and welcome.
Megan pulled up a search engine and typed in what little she knew about Dillon’s family. It didn’t take long to find the headlines: major news in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, a minor blip on the national radar.
Former pro-wrestler injures wife in household incident.
Pro-wrestler indicted for domestic abuse.
And the saddest: Child looks on as mother takes fatal fall.
The facts were stated pretty consistently. Randy “Titus” Brown, former pro-wrestler, was arguing with his wife. She fell down the stairs, landing at the bottom, near her then thirteen-year-old son. He called 911. Her neck was broken. She died at the hospital hours later.
What was at issue was whether the father pushed the mother. The boy said no, but he didn’t see the actual fall. He came running when he heard her scream. Angry text messages leading up to the incident swayed the jury that Susette Brown was, at best, pushed by her husband in anger, and that it was possible her death had been premeditated. Titus got life in prison, and with no relatives willing or able to take the boy, Dillon went into the system.
Not only was Dillon viewed as a problem child, but he was the son of a pro-wrestler. No wonder the media was all over this one. His name had been leaked by someone, and despite his age, the press was bringing up his parents’ ordeal again. What a hell to have to re-live.
Megan was about to close the laptop when she remembered her chat with Martine. She wondered what Xavier’s fight with Jatin had been about…and what had him so angry he’d shouted in public.
Too tired to do much else, Megan looked up BOLD Pharmaceuticals. The “About Us” page read just as she’d expect a relatively new start-up to read. Lots of glossy promises, lots of caveats in small print. It looked like they were working on some encouraging new drugs for Multiple Sclerosis and Parkinson’s disease. Megan expanded her search, looking for BOLD in the news. A few press releases, many scholarly articles in medical journals. Again, what she would expect.
She expanded further, using each of the people who worked at BOLD. Chase’s name brought up articles on his murder—so many that she switched to Jatin out of sheer frustration. Nothing on Jatin, Xavier, Barbara, or Martine jumped out at her—just the normal work profiles, and for Chase, Barbara, and Martine, private social media pages.
Bibi came in to say good night, and Sadie followed her upstairs. Frustrated, Megan turned off her computer—it was time for her and Gunther to do night rounds and go to bed. On impulse, she switched her laptop back on and searched for Dillon Brown. Not an uncommon name, and her search turned up with many hits. She started to narrow it, and finally found his Instagram account under DDBrown—Dillon David Brown or, as his profile stated, Dungeons and Dragons Brown.
Dillon had uploaded four photos: two of Eloise’s dogs, one of a horse, and one of him standing by a tall, brunette woman with broad shoulders and a tired smile. There was no mistaking their relationship—this was his mother, Susette Brown. He had been younger in the photo, maybe twelve. They were standing arm-in-arm outside. The multi-colored leaves in the background said it was autumn. Both wore long-sleeved dragon t-shirts. Dillon was grinning, a plastic sword in one hand, a wand in the other.
The Renaissance Faire?
A young boy playing fantasy. Hardly the profile of a murderer.
Gunther put his great, white head on Megan’s lap and whined. He wanted to check on the goats and Camilla, his internal body clock as well-tuned as any instrument. Megan shut off her laptop, for the night this time.
But as she slipped on her sneakers, she thought about Bibi’s wise words. Psychopath or anger management issues? The boy in that photo clearly loved his mother. Could that have been enough to trigger an outburst? But why Chase? Photos of Titus Brown bore no resemblance to the handsome Chase Mars. Titus was tall and thick, with a barrel chest and pockmarked face. Chase was all-American handsome. Personality similarities? She didn’t know.
Megan opened the door, and she and Gunther slipped out into the breezy night. She paused on the step, hearing something from afar. The hair on her neck stood at attention, and she felt Gunther stiffen beside her.
She heard it again and relaxed. Just an owl, hooting from deep in the woods.
Thirteen
The news came with a phone call from Denver the next morning. The psychiatric evaluation was complete, and Dillon Brown was deemed well enough to be released from the hospital. Eloise was picking him up later that day, and Denver would be accompanying her. Did Megan want to go too?
Yes, she did.
Megan spoke with Clay and Porter and reviewed the farm chores for the day. It was time to plant the fields of organic corn seed, a labor-intensive job. She’d help until she had to leave, and after that, Porter and Clay would finish. Raising corn without pesticides or herbicides meant clean beds and plenty of attention, but the result was worth it. Fresh, sweet, crisp ears, and because organic corn was harder to come by and harder to raise, a premium price.
Clay had invented a small seed-dropping motorized car that he would use once the bed was ready. Bibi loved watching it roll over the soil, and she’d no doubt pull a lawn chair up for the fun. In the meantime, the three of them would be out there making sure the beds were weed-free and well nourished.
At noon, Megan went inside for a sandwich and a shower. She changed from jeans and a t-shirt to a pair of pressed black pants and a plum-colored wrap shirt. She gave Bibi a kiss on the way out, but her grandmother grabbed her arm gently to stop her.
“Your Aunt Sarah called,” she said. “She mentioned that she’d like you to come by later.”
“She could have called me directly.”
“She knows how busy you are.”
“I am pretty tied up, Bibi.”
“I know. I told her that.” Bibi pushed a piece of hair away from Megan’s face and studied her granddaughter. “You look like your mother,” she said—warmly. Then she changed the subject again quickly. “Sarah has some information she thought might help. She’s working on a book and will be around all day. Go when it’s convenient.”
“Information that wil
l help with what?”
Bibi shrugged. “She didn’t say, but I’d guess it has something to do with Denver’s friend and that boy, Dillon.”
Sarah Birch, Megan’s great-aunt on her father’s side, was an enigma in Winsome. A famous mystery author with numerous awards to her name, Sarah chose to live quietly in her cottage on the outskirts of Winsome. Some called her a modern-day Agatha Christie, and while everyone in Winsome knew who she was, they were willing to keep her identity and whereabouts secret—all the while relishing having a celebrity in their midst.
Megan had just discovered her aunt a few years ago. Their relationship had been a rocky one, but the more Megan let her guard down, the more she came to respect—if not like—her aunt.
“Fine,” she said, kissing the top of Bibi’s head. “I’ll swing by later this afternoon.”
“Here.” Bibi handed Megan a flat Tupperware container. Inside, Megan could see the swirled tops of chocolate-frosted cupcakes. “I know the boy is going home.” She shrugged. “All kids like cupcakes.”
“These look amazing.” Megan hugged her grandmother as tightly as she dared. “Maybe you could visit him once he’s home,” she said. “I have a feeling Dillon might like that even more than these cupcakes.”
Megan and Denver waited in the visitor’s lobby on the psychiatric wing of the hospital while Eloise met with the hospital staff and the placement agency. Denver was quiet, but his knee bounced up and down, and his hand gripped Megan’s own. They stared at a muted talk show on the television, neither of them talking.
“Is this a good idea?” Megan whispered.
“I can’t say I’m thrilled.”
“Where are the police? Is Bobby here?”
Denver shook his head. “Dillon hasn’t been arrested, the hospital says they have no reason to keep him, and the only other alternative is a group home or a different foster home. Eloise put her foot down and said she wants him back with her.” He let go of Megan’s hand. “What do you think, Megs?”
“I’m not sure having him at Eloise’s home is wise. What if he acts out? Can she handle that?” Alone, Megan thought, with the boy on ten acres. It was one thing to believe in his innocence. It was another to bank on it.
“I know. That’s my worry too.”
“If you want to stay with her, your dogs can stay with me.”
Denver smiled. “Eloise will have none of that. She wants the home as normalized as possible for Dillon.”
“Eloise never struck me as the maternal type.”
“Aye, I know. This boy has struck a chord with her.”
Megan watched as a couple walked into the visitor’s room. They both looked worn and pale. They sat together on a couch, entwined around each other, their blank expressions reminiscent of refugees. Megan felt a surge of sympathy. How quickly life can turn.
Eloise walked in and waved to Denver and Megan, her mouth set in a stern line. Denver and Megan rose and followed her to Dillon’s room, past the uniformed officer that still stood guard outside his room. “For his protection,” Eloise whispered. “Not because he’s dangerous.”
They found the boy standing by his bed. A small duffel bag, open on a chair, had been stuffed with pajamas and a blue terry robe. One arm and the head of a Teddy bear stuck out amidst the clothing.
Dillon’s eyes were half closed. His shoulders slumped, his head was hung nearly to his chest. His entire persona screamed of dejection. Megan brushed aside a deep urge to go to him, to hug him. When she and Denver entered the room, he looked up from underneath his mop of hair and nodded ever so slightly.
“Hello, Dillon,” Denver said. “Are ye packed and ready to leave this place?”
Dillon nodded. Eloise zipped up the duffel bag and turned toward the nurse, a young man in his thirties.
“Do we have a safe way out of here?” she asked.
To avoid the press, was the part she left out. But the nurse seemed to implicitly understand what she was asking, and he nodded. “We’ll take the service elevator. If you want, you can have someone pull a car around back, near the dumpsters.”
They all agreed this was the best plan. “It’s why we took Denver’s SUV,” Eloise explained to the nurse. “The press have seen me coming and going. They don’t know my nephew.”
The man smiled. He turned that smile to Dillon and said softly, “Will you be okay, son?” He meant the words kindly, but at the mention of the word “son,” Dillon flinched. The nurse frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said to Eloise. “That was insensitive.”
Eloise’s smile was wan. “It’s okay—you meant no harm. Dillon has a lot to deal with.” She turned to Dillon. “Dr. Finn will get the car. Megan, Nurse Anderson, and I will escort you out the back door. It’s just for your privacy, Dillon. When we get home, you’ll get to see the dogs. They’ve been waiting for you.”
At the mention of the dogs, Dillon’s face relaxed. Just a little bit.
Denver left the room. The psychiatric wing was a locked area, so he wasn’t worried anyone would follow him from the room. To be careful, though, he told Megan he’d planned a circuitous route back to his car.
Megan and Eloise grabbed Dillon’s insubstantial belongings. As they left the room, Eloise stopped. Dillon was wearing a black hoodie, and she faced him and pulled the hood up, shielding his face from public view. Before she turned to leave again, she tilted his head back slightly with her hand and forced him to look her in the eyes.
“I know you didn’t do anything wrong,” she said quietly but firmly. “You’re safe with us, Dillon.”
Dillon blinked twice, his eyes watery.
Eloise smiled. “Come on.”
He walked between the two women, out to Denver’s car. He slid in the back next to Eloise, his duffle bag clutched like a shield. He was silent for the entire drive to Eloise’s farm.
“Look at that,” Eloise said, “Those dogs love him.”
The adults watched from the kitchen window as Dillon played with Eloise’s three dogs. He threw a ball. One retrieved it while the other two danced dog circles of joy around his feet.
“How will you cope, Aunt Eloise?” Denver plopped down on an island stool. “With the press. With his emotional needs. With school.”
“School is out for the summer break, so it will just be tutoring and therapy appointments. I’m retired now, so I can get him where he needs to go.”
“And his other…issues?” Denver held his aunt’s gaze. “Even if he had nothing to do with what happened, he found Chase. That has to have made a deep impression.”
“Are you asking about counseling?” Eloise asked sharply. “I think I know what he needs emotionally. I said he has therapy, and they have him medicated. Too medicated, if you ask me.”
“You may not be in the best position to make those decisions. It requires a degree of objectivity that a parent—including a foster parent—may not have.” Denver glanced at Megan for confirmation, but she wasn’t so sure he was right.
“I appreciate your candor, Denver, but I’m not in the mood to have you questioning my decisions as well. Dillon has therapy with the school psychologist twice a week, and a weekly psychiatric appointment. If he requires more, I’ll procure those services.”
Eloise was a tidy, well-dressed woman whose cool reserve was well known in Winsome. That reserve was on display now, but her nephew seemed nonplussed.
“As long as you have help,” he said.
“I have all the help we need.”
Megan watched as Dillon rolled on the ground with the dogs. His entire demeanor had changed, and in that moment, he looked like an average teen boy.
“Eloise,” Megan said, turning her face so she could both watch Dillon and talk to Denver’s aunt, “it will be hard getting him out, won’t it? With the press in town and so many people interested in his whereabouts.”
“Perhaps�
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Megan, hearing the defensive tone creep into Eloise’s voice again, raised her hand. “I just had an idea. Why don’t you bring him to the farm for some visits? He’ll be free from reporters’ watchful gazes. I’m watching him with the dogs, and I think he would be good with my dogs and the goats and now the pig.” Megan told Eloise about their newest household member. “We could use some help, and maybe time with the animals would be therapeutic.”
Eloise’s expression brightened. “I think it’s a fabulous idea.”
Denver looked less than enthusiastic. “Megan, do you think that’s wise?”
“I think it will be good for him. And for the animals.”
Denver’s frown said he thought otherwise. Megan knew he was thinking about her safety. If Dillon came to the farm it meant he’d know where she lived. Megan just wasn’t buying Dillon Brown as murderer. The boy she was watching would benefit from the animals—and Bibi.
“It’s settled, then.” Eloise clapped her hands. She lifted the lid off Bibi’s Tupperware and stared into the container of cupcakes. “Your grandmother always was thoughtful.”
“I think she agrees with you about Dillon. What he needs right now.”
Eloise shot Denver a caustic glance. “I’m glad someone is on our side.”
“What is your problem?” Megan asked Denver on the way back to Washington Acres. “You were pretty surly with your aunt. Where’s that fighting Scottish spirit.”
“Eloise may be living with a dangerous boy. I say boy, but he has the size and strength of a man.”
“Eloise is a grown woman and a doctor. I think she can take care of herself.”
Denver turned onto Canal Street, his jaw clenched.
“You’re that worried about her.”
“I don’t know what to think, Megs, and it’s driving me crazy. I had dinners with Dillon before all of this, and he was quiet but mannerly. Not someone who would do such a terrible thing. Chase could be obnoxious at times, sure, but he had no enemies, Megan. Someone went out of their way to kill him, to stab him with his own knife.” Denver glanced at her. “The only person who makes any sense is this kid. And now he’s living with my aunt. I don’t want to think he could be guilty—just the notion is making me ill—but I have to think of Eloise.”