by Jeff Abbott
“Well, Lizbeth brought her ten pages, and another writer recognized the work as having been taken from a published novel. A very popular one. She only changed the character names. Clear plagiarism. We went back and looked at what she’d written before, did some internet searches…everything she’d brought was copied, from books that weren’t as well known. We had to ask her to leave the group. I mean, that’s just…there’s no excuse.”
“Of course not.”
“It was awkward. Lizbeth and Bethany were friends and had joined together. They were tight. But it was clear that Bethany was serious about her writing and Lizbeth wasn’t. When Bethany brought these novel pages, we were all raving about them, and yet Bethany looked miserable and Lizbeth looked happy. It was so odd. That was the last meeting they both attended.”
Then why join this kind of group, only for the most serious, and pull this inexcusable stunt?
“And then we had a get-together after Bethany’s disappearance, I mean, beyond our regular meeting. I sent Lizbeth an email inviting her. She wrote me back, declining, she said she was too embarrassed to come given what had happened. I told her that didn’t matter, we were all Bethany’s friends and just wanted to be together. She still said no. I asked her if we could do anything to help her and she said no.”
“You really didn’t like Lizbeth.”
“I didn’t like how she was in the critiques. She would smile sometimes when we were hard on Bethany—all to help her make her work better—in a way that made me feel she enjoyed seeing Bethany stumble. And here she was, everything she brought was a lie…I didn’t like her.”
“And you haven’t seen her since Bethany vanished?”
“I tried to call her, to see how she was doing, but her phone had been disconnected. I tried the email again and it bounced. The account had been deleted. Poof. She was a gone girl.”
“Were any of the other members friends with Lizbeth?”
“No, not really, and after the plagiarism, I don’t know that any of them saw her again.”
Mariah steadied her voice. “Do you have a picture of Lizbeth?”
“Um, no. I don’t. She liked to wear wigs, though. I mean, it was kind of showy. The wig was a bob, you know, the hair just down to her jawline. A blue one once, a purple one, a red one, styled the same, just different colors. But usually she was a blonde. She was one of those people who thought if she looked artistic, she would be…you know, without doing the hard work.” Yvette Suarez scoffed.
“I really appreciate your time. Thank you.”
* * *
Mariah went inside the café, got a cup of tea, and sat in the corner. She slid the flash drive with her mother’s emails into the laptop port and opened up the computer again. She searched her mother’s business emails for Lizbeth Gonzales. One result, but not an email. A text message, captured and filed. Karen must have included those as well.
Hey Beth this is Lizbeth I’m Bethany’s friend her phones on its last bit of charge and she said she’s running late so I’m texting you for her, I’m already at Tequila Joe’s. Hey we’re the Three Beths like the Three Musketeers or Charlie’s Angels or something I’ll order you and Beth platinum margaritas, the drinks are on me. Look forward to meeting you.
She read the text twice. During one of the times her mom and Bethany had gotten together for a drink, Lizbeth had met her mother.
What had her mother gotten involved in? The date was three months before Bethany left. What else had happened between these women?
41
AFTER MARIAH LEFT, Craig had reserved a rental SUV, taken a rideshare service to go pick it up, and driven back toward home. The whole time, he kept the phone the intruder had left in his house on and in his jacket pocket.
He gathered himself. He had a purpose. He had to do this.
The media was at his house. Three local news vans—it had leaked out that he had been the car hit by the rock from the bridge. He should have realized this would reignite interest in his story and the press would again be torn between painting him as the grieving husband or the guilty suspect. He drove past the news vans, deciding not to turn in, and hoped they would be impatient, go chase another story soon enough. He knew their patterns. If they saw the for sale sign and he didn’t answer the front door, they’d give up after a while, come back closer to the noon broadcast and the evening broadcast. He’d need to get the locks changed, given that someone had been in the house to leave the phone, but that could wait until the press left. No one would be walking into his home with them camped out in front.
He had a job to do.
In the old Lakehaven directory, Sean Oberst’s mom was listed as Patrice. He’d searched the property records for Patrice Marshall—the name the new homeowner at the old Oberst address had given him—and gotten another hit in Lakehaven, with a Jeffrey and Patrice Marshall owning a property in one of the older neighborhoods, on Canyon Grove Avenue.
The house was big: a McMansion on a street that looked to be half older, original homes and half teardowns, replaced with limestone homes at double the square footage. A kid sat on the wraparound porch, typing on a tablet, in a rocking chair. Next door was a teardown in progress, a large two-story home well under construction. A sign indicated COMING SOON—ANOTHER MODERN MASTERPIECE BY PLATINUM DESIGNS.
Sean Oberst glanced up as Craig drove by, and Craig thought, Oh, great, now if I drive by again I look like a predator. But he turned around at the edge of the street and drove back by, thinking I can’t worry what anyone thinks of me. I have to find this man.
Sean Oberst looked up as he parked and got out of the car. He was a tall kid, taller than Craig, probably a senior, with reddish hair and a scattering of faint freckles across his nose and cheeks. Craig was surprised he wasn’t in school.
“Excuse me,” Craig said. “Does your dad drive a silver SUV?”
“My dad lives in Houston now,” the boy said. “Who are you?”
“Oh,” he said. “Are you Sean?”
The boy didn’t answer at first. Then he said, “My stepfather drives a silver SUV.” He made stepfather sound like the squelch of a nice shoe in mud.
“Well, the other day, I scratched a silver SUV with a band sticker with the name Sean under it when I was parking. It was my fault, and I didn’t leave a note, and I wanted to apologize. Another band parent said it might be your dad. I misunderstood that it was your stepfather.”
“Jeffrey’s a bad driver,” the boy said. “He probably parked crooked.”
“It was still my fault.”
“He put my band sticker on the back of the car, even if I didn’t want him to,” Sean volunteered, still frowning.
“Could I talk to him?”
“Well, he’s not here.”
“Well, please tell him…what’s his name?”
“Jeffrey. Jeffrey Marshall.”
“Please tell him I’m sorry.”
“He’s not the kind of guy you need to apologize to,” Sean said.
“Still.”
“I won’t see him for a few days. As soon as my mom gets home, we’re driving to Dallas. For a funeral. Jeffrey’s staying here, though. You want his cell phone number or his email?”
“You know, that’s all right. I’ll contact him later.”
He nodded.
Craig drove off with a wave. OK, Jeffrey, you’ll be home alone, so I’ll see you soon, he thought.
42
MARIAH RANG THE doorbell of Reveal’s house. She thought Reveal’s parents would have already headed to work.
The door opened. Reveal was dressed in jeans and another basketball jersey, his hair spiked.
“I’m in trouble and I need a place to stay just for today,” she said.
“You have some nerve.”
“Chad, please…”
“Let me cut to the essentials. Surely you’re here to tell me what’s going on with this unexpectedly related case.”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Tak
e, take, take, Mariah. Time to give. I need details I can share. The whole story between you and Jake Curtis and Sharon Blevins. I am supposed to fly to LA for meetings on this show. This is my big chance, and you are screwing it up for me.” Chad turned away from her.
“How am I affecting your chances?”
“I told the TV producer that I could break open a high-profile case.”
“You shouldn’t have said that.”
“Well, I had to! It wasn’t quite the sure deal they promised me. I found out they were talking to two other crime podcasters. And one has a book deal already. I’m trying to compete with that. I need something big to impress them.” He lowered his voice. “I needed the support of Sharon, and that won’t happen thanks to you. The only reason you’re even on this trail for your mom is because I pointed something out to you. You owe me, Mariah.”
“I don’t know the truth yet.”
“Forget the truth! I just need some suggestive details. Give me something I can spin a pitch around these two women.”
These two women. Like they were his props. “I can’t.”
“You know, I kept my mouth shut for you when you assaulted that guy at the restaurant. How would that have looked after your little car chase, Mariah? Lakehaven white girl, endless second chances.”
“You’re from Lakehaven, too.”
“How many Asian American men are hosting television shows, Mariah? Shall I wait while you count, or even think about it? Don’t give me that. This is my big chance, my one chance probably, and you could boost me, but you won’t.” He crossed his arms. “I heard about the rock being dropped on your dad’s car. Did you do it?”
She was shocked. “How…why would you think that?”
“I went over to the bridge when I heard about your dad. There’s a small surveillance camera there. I think it’s safe to assume Chief Broussard has a video of the person dropping the rock. Was it you?”
“No, of course not.” Her voice went thin. “Maybe it was you?”
“What?” Reveal’s voice rose with shock. “That’s insane.”
“I mean, you could really want to spice up your pitch to these producers. You have to make this case more interesting. I can’t believe how desperate you’re acting.”
“Rethink your words,” he said, his voice tight. “I would never risk another person’s life.”
“But you think my dad and I are capable of this. And you’re mad at me, because I’m not lining up to help you make money on my family’s misery.”
“What?” He looked genuinely shocked.
“This isn’t just a podcast or a story or a TV show to me. This is my mother!” She was nearly dizzy with rage. “And you’re worried about…your ridiculous TV show, with your stupid bedazzled hat and your sunglasses and your nickname. Reveal! Why don’t you call yourself Uncover or Disrobe?” The words out, ugly, before she could stop them. She took a deep breath. “Chad…”
His voice went flat. “Everything I tried to do was to help you. To give you some peace, I mean. I wanted closure for you, Mariah.” Then his tone hardened. “Maybe you’re lying about your mom and Bethany Curtis being connected. Maybe this is all a stunt to distract you from your father’s guilt. Because you can’t face that your father is a killer. I know it. Broussard knows it. Everyone but you knows it.”
“Chad. I’m sorry. Please.”
“Maybe that’s what I’ll pitch,” he said. “Maybe that’s the big case to work on. How your father could possibly still be free after what he did.”
“Please don’t.”
“I don’t have time to waste on you. I have to get ready for California, okay? I have to go.”
The silence was like a weight.
“Good luck,” she said. “I really do mean that. You’re my friend, and I really do hope you get your show, but please, but you don’t have to drag my dad through the dirt.” Her voice broke with emotion. “Please.”
He shut the door in her face.
43
MARIAH HADN’T KNOWN where else to go. She pulled into Jake’s driveway, nearly veering onto the manicured grass. She hurried to the front door and rang the doorbell.
“Hey. What’s the matter?” he said.
“My father threw me out,” she said. “I don’t need a place to stay, you don’t need to worry, but I need a place where I can collect my thoughts and find a spot to stay and get my life in order.”
“Why did he…”
“Someone has attacked my dad, trying to get him to leave Lakehaven, and he wants me to go hide in Dallas and I won’t.” She didn’t want to say more.
“Mariah.”
“What? I can’t leave him.”
“Of course not. We need to call the police.”
“The police know already. I just have to figure out what to do. I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Of course, come in.” He opened the door wide.
She followed him into the kitchen.
“Is your father all right?”
“Yes.” Voice wavering, she told him about the rock. She didn’t tell him about her fight with Dad, or that she had shoved her own father in a senseless moment. She was deeply ashamed.
“Wow,” he said. “Mariah, maybe you both should get out of town for a while.”
“He won’t leave. He won’t be chased off.”
“Then…both of you, come and stay here.”
“I can’t convince him. I don’t mean to disrupt your morning. Are you still working from home today?”
“I was, but there’s been a crisis with a client, so I’m heading in for a couple of hours. Will you be all right here alone?”
“Yes.”
“And you and your dad can stay here. If you need to.”
“We also have an elderly Cardigan Welsh Corgi named Leo.”
He smiled. “Leo, too. As long as he’ll play with me.”
Her heart shifted in her chest. This was all happening fast. “No, it’s way too awkward. Thank you, though.”
“Mariah. Regardless of what happened…what we’re figuring out…I have this huge house. It doesn’t mean we sleep together again if you’re having regrets or if your dad stays here, too, obviously. I’ll hire security.”
“That’s very kind. But I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she said.
“What, you’re going to stay with Sharon? Or Reveal?” He raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t know yet. I’ll figure that out.”
“Sure. Whatever you want. But you’re welcome here.” He slid her a piece of paper. “That has the garage door code on it, so you can leave if you need to and lock up.”
“Thank you.” She slipped it into her pocket. He went upstairs to finish getting ready for his day.
She set up her laptop at the quartz-topped breakfast bar in his large kitchen, thinking this is weird, so weird, but life has been weird for a while. Online she found a hotel, cheap, in south Austin, that would accept pets—she thought of Leo, and what would her dad do about him? If someone had come into their house, they couldn’t leave Leo there. She made a reservation for herself. She felt a tug of regret in her chest. She’d rather stay with Jake. She knew that. But it was probably for the best to stay elsewhere.
Jake came downstairs. “Make yourself at home. If you’re hungry, there’s stuff in the fridge, and the pantry’s in the mudroom.” He pointed toward a door. He kissed her, softly, before he left. For a moment she sat in the quiet of the house. OK, she thought, he’s gone. You could search the house.
You can’t do that, she told herself. He’s trusted you, trust him.
Maybe it’s dumb to trust me, she thought. Maybe this is my one chance.
She made herself focus on the laptop and what she needed to do.
She sent a text to Reveal, apologizing again, asking him to call her. She left the messages window open so she could see if he responded.
She tried to find details on the suicide of Hal Blevins. The newspaper accounts of the time we
re sparse. A police detective, Eben Garza, was quoted that it was clearly a finding of suicide. She internet-searched Garza and found him on Faceplace. He was retired now, and most of his photos showed him enjoying himself with three adorable grandchildren.
She sent Garza a friend request, with a note: I’d like to talk to you about Hal Blevins’s suicide. Do you remember it? He left behind a wife and a daughter. The daughter found him. He overdosed on liquor and pills. I’m not a vulture or a ghoul, please call me.
She sent the message.
Then searched on Faceplace for Lizbeth Gonzales. There were a couple of them, neither in Texas, both older women. Not her Lizbeth.
Penny. She entered in Penny and the phone number she’d called into the search engine. No match.
Bits and pieces. A name of an old neighbor. A church in Houston. A story about a hit-and-run. A family who lied about where they lived. But none of it fit together.
She thought, and typed “Houston child hit-and-run.” But…there were dozens of results, from this year and starting to go back. “Child hit by car” was its own tag category on one Houston news station’s website. She started digging through them, hoping it wasn’t a waste of time.
Her phone rang. “Mariah Dunning.”
“Uh, hi, yeah. This is Eben Garza. You contacted me?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for returning my call.”
“I remember Mr. Blevins’s case. Who are you, exactly?”
“A friend of the family.”
“You know where Shreve Park is?”
“Yes.” It was a park off Old Travis, in Austin.
“I’m heading there with my grandchildren, I’ll be there in twenty minutes. If you want to talk, we can talk there. Otherwise, don’t bother me again.”
She said, “I’ll be there.”
44
THE PARK WAS on the south side of Austin, not far from the Lakehaven boundary. The swing sets and the playscape were new, the sunshine was bright and cheery, and at this time of day the park was busy with moms and little ones. She saw Eben Garza sitting on a bench, watching two little girls slide down a slide and run back up the steps with glee.