by Ranae Rose
“You’ve been spying on me.” She felt vaguely nauseous as the words tumbled out, true and bitter.
“What are you doing in my room?” he finally asked, looking delighted to have found her there.
“This photo… Delete it, you freak!”
Though his arrival had been unnerving, she hadn’t expected him to shove her, nearly knocking the wind out of her and forcing her against the wall, pinning her there with his body. That was exactly what he did, though.
“What, that?” He tipped his head toward the computer, simultaneously setting his beer down on the desk. “I’ll delete it if you pose for some new ones.”
The smell of his breath, stale and beer-suffused, made her want to gag. “Get off of me!”
Her anger was so absolute that panic didn’t grip her in earnest until the moment he slipped a hand beneath her white eyelet lace tank top – the one she’d bought the week before, thinking Donovan would like it.
Apparently, Trevor liked it too.
“Don’t be a baby,” he said when she slammed her fists against his chest, calling him a fucking pervert and trying to shove him away. “You’re about to go off to college – it’s gonna happen to you anyway. You’ll go to a few parties, have a few drinks and…” He squeezed one of her breasts with his disgusting, beer-dampened hand. “At least I’m someone you know.”
She nearly threw up. Humiliated, she clung to what small shreds of self-control she had left, swallowing the bile burning in her throat.
It was a natural reaction to try to drive her knee between his legs, but he predicted her move – maybe he was practiced at molesting girls during parties – and kept her legs pinned tight against the wall. So she threatened him. “Stop it or I’ll scream. I’ll scream at the top of my lungs and everyone will come running in here!”
There were dozens of guests at the barbeque, most of them milling around outside, but maybe a few inside the house, looking for a bathroom or admiring Robert’s disgustingly large McMansion. She was ready to scream, but it would be a last resort – the second to last thing she wanted was for half the town to witness her being molested by her step-brother, privy to her shame. The very last thing she wanted was to be trapped beneath Trevor for another minute.
He laughed and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Nobody’d hear you anyway. Music’s too loud.”
He kept his hand clamped there, sealing her mouth shut and nearly blocking her nostrils, too. Afraid of suffocation, she panicked – writhed, tried to kick.
Trevor’s inebriation saved her. He stumbled, maybe out of surprise, and that moment of weakness was all she needed. Throwing herself at him, she clawed his face, dragging freshly painted nails – another touch she’d added in preparation for her date with Donovan the next day – from his hairline to his jaw.
He swore and raised both hands to fend her off.
One of his elbows struck her across the face, and the blow filled her mouth with the coppery tang of blood.
That kicked her into survival mode – she shoved him hard, sending him toppling onto the floor. Then she kicked him while he was down, driving the toe of her sandal into his shin with all the force she could muster.
“Bitch!” he said. “Hypocritical little bitch! Everyone knows you’re fucking that piece of trailer trash from Shady Side. It’s not like you have any pride to protect!”
“Fuck you, Trevor!” Stomach churning as she thought back to the evening before at the quarry, she fled the room.
* * * * *
Winged creatures circulated in Clementine’s belly as she stood at the end of the driveway, listening for the whine of Donovan’s bike. He’d gotten a new one, a real motorcycle, a few months ago, and every day he’d promised to pick her up on it, she’d looked forward to the ride with relish.
Not this time. The creatures fluttering in her middle weren’t butterflies – ravens, maybe, circling and slowly tearing her to pieces. As the waited-for noise of a motorcycle came from a distance, she breathed a hard sigh.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about mom. Don’t think about stupid fucking Robert. Definitely don’t think about… Her own advice whirled uselessly inside her head, lending her nervousness a sharper edge.
“Hey.” Donovan pulled up in the driveway and quickly dismounted his bike, coming toward her in long strides, looking perfect in jeans and a t-shirt, his sun-browned muscles taut and defined beneath the short sleeves.
Just like always. Her frayed nerves were soothed a little as he approached her, reached for her.
“Missed you.” He bowed his head, brushing his lips across hers as he pulled her close with a hand against the small of her back.
As the pressure of his mouth against hers increased, a spark of pain flared in her lower lip, a quick sting that incited a deeper ache. She pulled back instinctively, stiffening.
Donovan froze, his breath still flowing warm and minty against her face, and slowly raised his head. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes narrowed as he searched her face, and she could feel his gaze shifting to her mouth, settling there. “Why’s your lip swollen?”
The seconds that passed in silence seemed to stretch on forever.
“Trevor…”
Awkwardly, haltingly, she told him what had happened, never moving from the spot where she’d stood for ten minutes, waiting for him to arrive. The photos, the unwanted hands on her body, where only Donovan had ever touched her, the taste of blood in her mouth – everything. No sooner had she finished than the front door swung open.
Trevor seemed to be headed for his car. Maybe he was going out to meet with friends, or for lunch – wherever he’d been destined, the look in Donovan’s eyes made it clear he’d never make it there.
Donovan crossed the space between himself and Trevor in a few strides and knocked him down with a punch that connected to his face with the sound of crunching cartilage, maybe even breaking bone – in that terrifying moment, she wasn’t sure. Trevor’s boat shoes were separated from the gravel by several inches as he went airborne.
The violence that ensued was one-sided and lasted maybe a minute. Clementine watched, frozen, as Donovan pummeled Trevor with punishing blows, the muscles in his arms hard and tensed, incredibly effective. It was sort of like watching him that one day with the Ford Taurus; he dealt each blow deliberately, inflicting unmistakable damage. Before Clementine could move, before she could say anything, Trevor was spitting out his own teeth on the front lawn.
They were more red than white.
Donovan turned, eyes blazing – how could irises cast in shades of grey look like they were on fire? – his mouth set in a hard line. His knuckles were bloody. He was her hero. And he was in so much trouble that she was sick with fear.
CHAPTER 15
“I’m sorry.” Clementine gripped her phone, letting the warm plastic press into her cheek as she leaned with an elbow on the kitchen table. “Yes, I understand.”
And the conversation was over. She placed her phone in the middle of the table, the ringer volume on high, just in case.
Maybe there would be a call from Donovan, or a call from the police. Maybe the colossal mistake that had landed him in jail would be resolved quickly on its own. Until then, she’d have to play detective. The fact that she’d just lost her new job hardly mattered – she’d expected to be replaced when she’d called in to let them know that she wouldn’t be showing up to work today or any other day until an emergency personal situation was resolved. You just didn’t get to make calls like that after one day of work.
What was the loss of her position at Kellogg-Hart compared to the loss of Donovan? The thought of spending her days in an office while he sat in a jail cell was unbearable. She wouldn’t – couldn’t – focus on anything else until he was free.
Brewing a quarter of a pot of coffee – she would’ve made at least half a pot if Donovan had been there – she proceeded to clean up the kitchen. A pot of spaghetti noodles and a pan full of sauce sat cold and c
ongealed on the stove – she’d discovered the abandoned meal when she’d finally left the police station and returned to the house. How Donovan had managed to cook the meal with one arm she didn’t know, but pressure stung the backs of her eyes as she scraped the food into the trash.
After rinsing the pans and wiping the stove clean, the coffee still wasn’t done, so she pulled on her shoes and arranged her hastily-brushed hair into a ponytail. As soon as she had a cup of coffee – something told her she’d need the energy – she’d get started.
Too bad all she knew about solving crimes was what she’d picked up watching the occasional police or detective show – so basically, nothing at all. It wasn’t like TV networks were known for dazzling viewers with realism. Shoving thoughts of Hollywood detectives from her mind, she tried to think logically.
She’d spoken to Detective Wagner again before finally leaving the police station the night before, and he’d informed her that the murder weapon had been a tire iron. The murderer – allegedly Donovan – had struck Trevor several times across the chest and head, killing him with blunt force trauma to the skull.
The tool had been discovered in the field that stretched behind the ditch Trevor’s body had been left in. Supposedly, the murderer had dumped Trevor’s corpse and then thrown the murder weapon as far as he could, out into the field where it had initially remained undiscovered in the tall grass, covered in prints at one end and blood at the other.
Donovan had never been fingerprinted by the police, but like all military recruits, his fingerprints were on file with the government and the police had accessed that data to compare after discovering the weapon.
Clementine had asked whether anyone else’s prints had been on the weapon, whether it might have been stolen from his garage.
According to the police, there had been no other prints and there were no reports of a break-in or theft at the garage.
Maybe there had been no crime reports, but that didn’t mean someone hadn’t taken the tire iron, which was exactly why as soon as Clementine finished a breakfast of coffee and cream, she left the house, heading straight for the garage.
Mike was there, as she’d hoped he’d be. When she walked in, he was just emerging from his paint booth. When he saw her he signaled to her, and ten minutes later he joined her by the front desk. No one else was present in the shop – they had total privacy.
“Mike, I need to talk to you about something.”
He nodded, his green eyes sober beneath his close-cropped dirty blond hair. He was young – maybe a couple years older than her, at most. She barely knew him, but she liked him, if only because she knew he’d helped out Donovan when he’d needed it, like the night Donovan had gone drinking and he’d given him a ride home, and when he’d driven him to the airport.
“I heard about Donovan being arrested,” he said. “The police came here yesterday to ask me twenty-thousand questions about a missing tire iron.”
“So one is missing from the shop?”
“I never used them, but I know Donovan had two that hung on the wall over there.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder, indicating Donovan’s work area.
Through a window in the wall that divided the reception and work area, a cross-shaped tire iron was visible on the far wall.
“The other one was different – shaped more like a crowbar, only had two ends.”
“When did you notice it was missing?”
“Yesterday when that detective showed up to ask me about it. Guess it never really registered before then – if I saw it was gone, I must’ve figured Donovan had taken it, maybe to use on his truck or something.” He frowned. “Wish I’d paid more attention now.”
Clementine suppressed a sigh. “Well, I know Donovan didn’t take it, because whoever did killed Trevor with it and I know for a fact that Donovan isn’t guilty – I was with him all night. He never left the house.”
Mike nodded. “You don’t have to tell me – I know he’s not a murderer. What would he even have against Trevor Grier, anyway?”
Mike’s rhetorical question was a relief. Obviously Donovan had never expressed his hatred of Trevor to Mike, which was for the best. “So you believe what I believe – that someone else must’ve stolen the iron and then used it as a murder weapon?”
Mike appeared to mull it over for a few seconds, then nodded. “What other possibility is there?”
“Okay, so…” Her mind worked a million miles a minute as she glanced around the shop, trying to figure out how it could’ve happened – when and why. Her old theory of an assaulted female fighting back against Trevor didn’t seem fit to hold water. If a woman had been cornered like she had, she would’ve fought back immediately with whatever weapon she’d had at hand, not stolen a tire iron from a garage to wield against him later. Right?
“The police told me no one broke in here,” she said, going over what she already knew.
“No break-in,” Mike confirmed. “I would’ve noticed if that’d happened.”
“Does anyone else have a key?”
“Just me and Donovan. And I keep mine on my key ring – never share it with anybody.”
“Did you ever leave the shop unlocked overnight? Or maybe during a lunch break?”
He shook his head slowly, frowning. “I always lock up any time the garage is gonna be empty. It’s Donovan’s rule. But… I don’t know. Shit. What if I forgot? Left it unlocked while I went over to Ann’s or something and never realized? I’ve been thinking about it ever since the police came by. Anyone could’ve come in and out of here. Lots of people have been coming by wanting work done, especially since we’ve been so backed up with Donovan being hurt.”
“What about while you were actually in the shop – could anyone have come in and taken anything then?”
“Doesn’t seem very likely that I wouldn’t have seen them – we don’t let customers in the work area. Safety hazard.”
“And nothing else is missing?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Nothing.”
What did a tire iron cost? Not much, especially not compared to some of the other equipment in the shop. Which made it look like whoever had taken it had taken it for a specific reason, like murder. Which would explain the lack of prints besides Donovan’s – the real killer could’ve worn gloves.
“Sorry,” Mike said. “I feel like shit over what happened. If the iron was taken while I was the only one here…”
“Are you going to keep working while Donovan is in jail?”
He nodded. “No reason not to. I figure he’ll be out soon, right? I mean, the tire iron can’t be enough to keep him locked up for good. Not when anyone could’ve taken it.”
Clementine’s heart sank. “It was enough to get him arrested and held without bail.”
“Shit, no kidding?”
She shook her head. “If I was kidding, he’d already be home.”
“So what are they gonna do … keep him locked up until his trial?”
She hadn’t budged at all during her conversation with Mike, but her heart was beating fast, making her head ache. “That’s the plan. Unless something comes up – something to take the blame off him, or incriminate someone else.”
Damn it … pressure was welling behind her eyes again. She blinked it away, blaming it on lack of sleep. She’d tossed and turned all night, limbs sprawled over the empty side of the bed where Donovan belonged, then cradled close to her body.
“Listen, if the police come by again, I’ll tell them this is bullshit. Anyone could’ve taken that iron … this isn’t exactly the Pentagon. People steal shit.”
“Thanks,” Clementine said, oddly glad to have someone on her side, even if it was only Mike, “but I don’t think that’ll make a difference. Trevor’s father – my step-father – is the chair of the County Commissioners’ Board, and he has a lot of money, too. I’m sure that’s why Donovan’s being held without bail. It’s going to take something concrete to get them to let him go.”
“Some
kind of evidence that proves he’s not guilty – is anyone even looking for that?”
She donned a wry smile. “I am. So let me know if you think of anything else.” She pulled a scrap of paper out of her purse and wrote on it. “Here’s my number. Who knows… Maybe the thief will return to the scene of the crime.”
* * * * *
Trevor’s memorial service was held on Tuesday evening at Willow Heights’ only funeral home. Not a viewing – the murder had been too brutal for that – just a service. The announcement had been in the paper, and Clementine couldn’t help but notice the crowd outside the funeral home as she drove through town, more frustrated than ever after a brief meeting with Donovan’s attorney. Her talk with him had been about as useless as the talk she’d had with Mike earlier that morning.
While she had no doubt that the lawyer intended to argue against the evidence, to fight for Donovan’s freedom based on the fact that someone else could’ve stolen the tire iron, there was still no one else to rightfully shift the blame to. No other suspects, as far as she knew. The police seemed content with Donovan.
Meanwhile, the real killer ran free.
While she couldn’t claim to be heartbroken over Trevor’s death – though she wouldn’t have raised a tire iron against him herself – the murderer’s freedom grated on her because Donovan had been left as a scapegoat. Right now, he was trapped like an animal among the criminals that filled the county jail. He didn’t belong there, never should’ve been taken there. And someone was letting him take their place, presumably thrilled at the prospect of him serving their sentence.
Her jaw ached, and she had to concentrate on unclenching it as she left the town behind. Donovan had been in jail for nearly 24 hours and she still hadn’t found so much as a speck of evidence to contradict what the police were accusing him of. Worse, she didn’t have a damned clue what to do to collect said evidence. A day of trying had left her feeling useless, deflated … and more determined than ever. Because she had to be.