Keep Her Safe

by K. A. Tucker

  I can’t see myself living there again. Ever.

  “Make sure someone is checking in at the house regularly. You don’t want it looking abandoned. That’s when places get robbed.”

  “Yes, sir. We have a security system.”

  “Are your mother’s guns there?”

  “Yes, sir.” My born-and-bred Southern manners have crept back into my daily life. I lost them for a time, living in Seattle, where people just don’t say “sir” and “ma’am.”

  “They’re in a safe?”

  “Yes, sir.” It took two days of searching, but Silas finally found the combination in one of her files.

  “I can help transfer ownership over to you. May as well add them to your collection. You don’t want to be selling those.”

  “Right.” I scan the wall behind him, at the array of mounted animal trophies quietly gazing down over us with their glass eyes. The thought that I don’t actually have a gun collection wouldn’t even have crossed Hal’s mind. Had I not moved to Seattle with my father during my impressionable teenage years, maybe I would. Mom had insisted I start carrying four years ago, during a rash of muggings, so I do have a Glock locked away in a gun box under my passenger seat whenever I’m driving. I don’t need or want more.

  I guess I should keep the Colt Python, though. More out of nostalgia than anything else. That’s the one Mom taught me to fire with when I was eight.

  “And let me know what you decide about the house. You can sell it as part of the estate, or we can transfer the title over to you and you can do what you want with it down the road.” He puts his pen down. “Aside from that, we’re in good shape to get this all settled quickly. You’re going to be set for a few years.”

  “Is that all?” I move to stand. Sitting in this office, talking about my financial windfall because my mom committed suicide, is the last thing I want to be doing.

  Hal holds a finger up. “There’s one more thing.” Clearing his throat, he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a white letter envelope. “She asked me to give this to you.”

  The air in the room has suddenly grown thick.

  I stare at the envelope, my heart hammering in my chest as all kinds of questions crowd my mind. I manage to force out the most important one. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. She dropped it off the afternoon before she passed.”

  The afternoon before she passed.

  I glare at it with renewed understanding, the sight of my name printed across the front in Mom’s tidy handwriting weakening my knees.

  This is why she mentioned Hal Fulcher’s name the night she killed herself. Not because she had been getting her affairs in order.

  The hell if Hal doesn’t know what that letter is. Or at least suspect. And the somber look on his face says he strongly suspects.

  He holds it out for me, but I’m frozen. There’s only one thing that envelope could hold.

  Answers.

  “I don’t want it,” I mutter, even though I do want it. I need it. I just don’t know if I can handle it. “What does it say?”

  “She didn’t tell me to open it; she told me to hand it directly to you and to make sure you were alone when I did it.” His outstretched arm falls to rest on his desk. “Listen, I don’t hold envelopes for clients unless it’s a documented part of the will. This was a personal favor.”

  “Why’d you do it, then?”

  “Because your mom was the chief of police,” he says matter-of-factly, but adds in a softer tone, “and a friend.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised that she’d leave this with Hal Fulcher. Mom was convinced that he was the only honest lawyer in existence—aside from Silas, of course. Plus, she’d never want such a private letter entered into evidence for all of her subordinates and colleagues—and God knows who else—to see. “Do I have to report it?”

  “I’m not a criminal lawyer, so I can’t advise you on that. But . . . if this were me and my mother was the chief, and what’s in that envelope is what I think it is, then I’d consider if anyone else needs to see it. That’s not legal advice, though.”

  The APD and the insurance company are convinced of suicide. The DA’s office reviewed the police report and are comfortable with the findings. The media sure as hell is. They’ve had a field day with this, everything from the somber albeit lean accounting from the respectable papers to the crude, almost barbaric retelling from the Texas Inquirer, a tabloid paper who must have stellar contacts in the department because it released details the police were trying to suppress. “Blown brains” made it into their piece. So did mention of Abe.

  Would I want to submit this letter to the police, so it could end up on the front page of a newspaper? Hell no.

  And it’s not like I’d be hiding crime scene evidence.

  I eye the envelope, my name and the words Confidential. Open this in private scrawled across it. “What exactly did she say when she dropped it off?”

  “That you’d be by to pick it up soon, and that it was important I give it directly to you. It was important that you opened it.” He stares at me for a long moment, like he can hear what I’m really asking. “There were no signs that I could see, Noah. She was her usual self. I did not see this coming.”

  We didn’t see this coming. We’re so shocked. If I had a nickel . . . Of course, no one else saw Jackie Marshall at night, behind closed doors, drunk and rambling nonsensically. Only I did.

  And I still didn’t see this coming.

  With a shaky hand, I finally accept the envelope and turn to leave.

  “Noah?” When I lift my head, he simply offers me a nod.

  I leave his office quietly. There’s nothing left to say. You can offer your condolences only so many times. Three seemed to be the magic number for the majority of people, as far as my mother is concerned—once at first contact, the second time as they greeted me at her closed-casket funeral, and the third as they said their farewells at the cemetery before continuing on with their life.

  It doesn’t matter how many times I hear it, though.

  It’s been eight days since I leapt down the stairs at the sound of a gunshot, shampoo suds in my hair and a towel hastily wrapped around my waist, only to find my mother’s lifeless body.

  That’s eight days of shaming myself for not putting her gun out of easy reach, for not forcing her upstairs to bed before taking my shower. Eight days of blaming myself for not doing something about her drinking sooner. Eight days of kicking myself for not understanding what she meant when she said that I was going to be “fine.”

  “Fine” after she held a gun to her temple and pulled the trigger. That’s eight days for this festering guilt to build. Now it sits squarely on my chest, and it’s impossible to shake off, no matter how many people are “sorry for my loss.”

  All that guilt coupled with a healthy dose of anger as I try to wrap my mind around how she’d go and do this. Why she’d do it. To herself.

  To me.

  And now I have those answers sitting between my fingertips.

  Maybe.

  I wait until I’m in my Cherokee before I dare look down at the envelope. I weigh my ability to handle reading my mother’s suicide letter while sitting in the parking lot of Fulcher & Associates under the shade of a blooming apple tree for a good ten minutes.

  And then I set it on the passenger seat, unopened, and crank my engine.

  * * *

  I don’t notice the navy sedan parked on the street until I’ve pulled into the driveway and am stepping out of my SUV.

  “Noah Marshall?” A blond guy in his early thirties, clad in cargo pants and a casual golf shirt, approaches me, his black-haired companion trailing close behind.

  “Yes, sir.” I can tell before they’ve flashed their golden badges that they’re law enforcement, but the moment I see the eagle I grow wary. Why is the FBI here?

  “I’m Special Agent Klein; my colleague is Special Agent Tareen. We have a few questions for you.”

 
“About?”

  “Jackie Marshall.”

  This is not good. I wish Silas were here.

  His gaze drifts over the house. “Mind if we come inside?”

  The last thing I want to be doing is answering the FBI’s questions about my mother, only steps from where she killed herself. I fold my arms across my chest, hopefully making it clear that I have no plans on inviting them into the house. “What do y’all wanna know?”

  The two guys share a glance behind dark sunglasses.

  “We’re sorry for your loss,” the other agent, Tareen, offers coolly. A formality, nothing more.

  “Did she ever talk about work?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like cases, or trouble she was having with officers . . . anything like that.” Agent Klein grips a pen and notepad in his hand, poised to take notes.

  “No.”

  “Any internal investigations that may have left her unsettled?”

  “She never talked about cases with me, internal or otherwise.” That, I can answer honestly.

  “Did your mother ever mention anyone by the name of Dwayne Mantis?”

  I frown. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. “No. Who is he?”

  “The night she died, she spoke to you not long before. Is that correct?” Tareen asks, ignoring my question.

  I clear my voice. “Yes, sir. Briefly. The police have my statement.”

  “Yes. We’ve read it,” Klein says.

  Unease slides down my back. If they’ve already read it, why are they asking? What does it say? Did Boyd make note of how I couldn’t stop my hands from fidgeting? That my recounting of the night seemed light, or that I seemed to be stumbling over my words?

  Boyd asked me three times if I was sure she hadn’t said anything else. It was as if he knew I was lying.

  I’ve been dreading the day when someone asks me about all the words hidden behind those pauses and caught in those stumbles, all the things I didn’t share.

  I press my lips together and wait quietly, a trick my mother taught me when you’re in a situation you don’t want to be in. Too often, people feel the need to break awkward silences with words. You end up saying too much, showing cards you’d rather keep concealed.

  Stay quiet and let the awkwardness stand. Eventually, someone will break. Don’t let it be you.

  Unfortunately, these two play this game well.

  The silence lingers on until I can’t handle it. “If there’s nothing else . . .” I take steps toward my door.

  “Did your mother talk about Abraham Wilkes?” I can feel Tareen’s eyes dissecting me from behind those sunglasses.

  I wonder if they noticed my misstep, just now. “Abe?” I force a casual tone; meanwhile, inside I’m screaming. What do they know about Abe? “No.”

  “Nothing at all? About his death . . .”

  “No.”

  “Have you had contact with his family?”

  “He broke Dina. Ran her and that beautiful little girl out of town.”

  “I haven’t seen or talked to anyone in the Wilkes family since shortly after Abe died.” At Abe’s funeral, to be precise. It was the last time I saw them.

  “Thank you for your time,” Tareen says abruptly, turning to leave.

  But Klein isn’t finished. “Did she leave anything for you?”

  Besides the note in my back pocket? Thank God they can’t see my heart hammering through my chest. “Like what?”

  Klein shrugs nonchalantly, though there’s nothing nonchalant about his question. “Like . . . anything.”

  If I tell him about the note, I’ll have to show it to him, and there’s no way I’m letting on that I have it until after I’ve had a chance to face it alone. “A fridge full of food that’s gone bad,” I mumble dumbly. I remember seeing a stack of empty Trader Joe’s bags in the kitchen the day before. Who goes grocery shopping the day before they plan on killing themselves?

  Klein’s lip twitches and I can’t tell if that’s the beginnings of a smile or a sneer. He produces a business card from out of nowhere, holding it out for me to take. “If you think of anything, give us a call.”

  Before arriving, I was dreading stepping inside this house. Now I can’t unlock the door fast enough, feeling the gaze of the two FBI agents on my back long after I’ve closed the door behind me.

  * * *

  In the spring, this backyard was her happy place.

  There was a time when I’d come home from class and find her perched in her lounge chair under the shade of a tree, a sweet tea in one hand and a book in the other. Seemingly at peace. When she’d notice me, she’d smile and lay her book open-faced on her lap. She’d point out the latest flowers that were peeking out from the dirt and then chuckle when I rolled my eyes at her, because I don’t know the first thing about plants.

  Now I sit in her chair, under this tree with the fragrant purple flowers, and I try to recall their name. Did she write this note while sitting under this tree? Was she sober when she wrote it?

  My fingers tremble as I hold the envelope. What if she admits to whatever was causing her so much guilt? What if she spells out what she meant when she said she sold her soul? I’d have to tell someone. It’s one thing to leave out the cryptic ramblings of a suicidal drunken woman from my statement, but not to go to the police with a handwritten confession?

  I can’t bury that.

  And yet I can’t shake her comment that someone was waiting for the perfect time to use something against her. Silas maintains that she would have told him about being blackmailed, but he’s the DA and he’s as straight and law-abiding as they come. The man has never had so much as a speeding ticket. If she did something to deserve that blackmail—something that made her a bad, bad person, as she claimed—I can’t see her running to him. She wouldn’t want to put him in that position.

  The envelope is thin, so whatever she had to get off her chest must be to the point. That was my mom, though.

  Taking a deep breath, I tear the corner of the seal.

  “Noah?”

  Uncle Silas’s voice startles me. I look over to find him standing in the kitchen window. The same window Mom reminded me to lock that night. The police investigation concluded that there was no evidence of anyone slipping in through there, or anywhere, and no signs of a struggle. The only evidence they found was the gunpowder residue on her hand.

  Tucking the envelope in my back pocket, I make my way around the pool and through the French doors. “Hey.”

  He turns to offer me a weary smile as he leafs through the stack of mail I left on the counter, unopened. The sun’s rays highlight the dark circles under his eyes. They’re only mildly better than when I last saw him a few days ago. He’s taken his sister’s untimely death hard. Couple that with the fact that he’s been working at least sixty hours a week, and he could use a few days’ worth of sleep.

  “You seemed intense out there. What were you doing?” He glances at my empty hand, and I know he saw the envelope.

  If I tell him about the suicide note, he’ll convince me it’s best to read it right here, right now. I will tell him about it—I’ll show it to him—once I’ve had a chance to deal with it in private. “Just . . . opening a bill and I guess I got lost in thought.”

  He nods to himself. “I’ve been doing that a lot lately, too.”

  I almost don’t want to tell him. “The feds were here.”

  His hands freeze mid-shuffle. “What’d they want?”

  “They asked me if Mom had said anything about Abe.”

  “And what’d you tell them?” he asks carefully.

  “I said no.”

  He sighs with relief.

  At least he can feel relief in all this. Me? I feel like the concrete block already sitting on my chest has gained a hundred pounds in one afternoon.

  “Why is the FBI asking me about Abe? Did you tell anyone about that night?”

  “No. I have no idea, Noah.”

  The more I dwell
on it, the more unsettled I feel. “And you’re sure there’s no way that what my mom said could be true.”

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” Silas’s voice rings with confidence, and yet a worried frown crosses his forehead. “Did they ask you about anything else?”

  “They asked about problems with officers at work. And then they mentioned some guy.”

  “Who?”

  “Dwayne Mantis?”

  There’s a delay before his eyebrows spike, which makes me think he’s not entirely surprised by that name.

  “You know him?”

  “Of him. He runs the Internal Affairs division. He was here the night your mom died. He was the one talking to the officer who took your statement.”

  I frown, vaguely recalling the surly-looking man with the sloped forehead standing on the porch. That was Dwayne Mantis?

  “Your mother and Mantis knew each other well.”

  “What do you mean ‘well’? They weren’t dating, were they?” As far as I know, she hadn’t dated anyone since the divorce. She’d been too wrapped up in her career, and claimed it was too hard to meet men outside work. I brought up online dating once, and she laughed it off, asking how a person in her position could even think about doing that. Plus, she’d seen horrible results of blind dates in her field of work.

  “No.” Silas chuckles. “From what I recall, Jackie wasn’t too fond of him. Said he was bullheaded and manipulative.”

  And now the feds are asking me what I know about him. And Abe.

  “Could he have been giving my mom problems?” The feds don’t walk around throwing out names for the hell of it. It must be part of an investigation. And Silas is the DA, which means he hears things.

  His delay in responding tells me he’s heard something. “Silas?”

  He sighs. “There were allegations made around IA investigators falsifying evidence to clear police officers. Mantis was said to be a part of it.”

  “What came of that?”

  He shrugs. “They were investigated and cleared.”

  “Could the FBI be looking into it?”