by N L Hinkens
After composing herself, she returned to Henry's room. There weren't too many places left to look. She decided to tackle the closet next. It was a disaster zone of unwashed clothes and stinky sneakers, heaped on the floor in random piles. Tentatively, she felt along the top shelf and lifted down a couple more shoe boxes full of old photos. She took the time to flip through some of them, but they were only more innocent mementos of Henry's childhood—which should have given her some measure of relief. After all, this is what she’d been hoping to find, nothing incriminating. Nothing to suggest that her fourteen-year-old son had anything to do with the horrific murder of Jen Carson.
She regarded the discarded clothing with displeasure, and then, before she could talk herself out of it, scooped up an armful and carried it into the laundry room. Ordinarily, it was Henry’s job to take care of his own dirty clothes, but after everything that had happened in the last few days, they were all behind on their chores.
After dumping the clothing on the floor, she began sorting the darks into the first load. Her hand froze mid-air when she noticed something lying at the bottom of the pile. Shaking her head in disbelief, she shrank back in horror, willing the dark shape to mold itself into something else entirely.
But there was no mistaking the black wool balaclava lying at her feet.
18
Bridget stood rooted to the spot, staring down in disbelief at the balaclava—a perfect match to the one the figure in the footage had been wearing. She racked her brain trying to remember if she'd ever seen it before. Maybe there was a logical explanation for it. Runners used balaclavas sometimes, cyclists too, when they were training early in the mornings or on chilly evenings. But Henry wasn’t a runner, and the only time he’d been on his bicycle in the past year was last weekend when Steve had forced him to participate in a family bike ride to the park and back. She supposed the balaclava could have been part of a Halloween costume he’d worn, but none that she could recall. And of course it didn’t explain what it was doing in Henry’s laundry. The very fact that it was buried in the mound of dirty clothes on his floor implied he’d worn it recently.
Hesitantly, Bridget bent over and retrieved the balaclava. She turned it inside out and examined it carefully for any trace of blood or long, dark hairs, or any equally incriminating evidence. Nowadays, the police could find DNA in almost anything. Hugging the balaclava to her chest, she peered down at the rest of Henry's laundry. She could throw the offending item in with a load, wash away the evidence—if there was any—and no one would be any the wiser. She nibbled on her lip, torn between wanting to make this go away, and wanting to do the right thing this time.
No doubt, Henry had been terrified when he’d seen Jen’s body, scared witless for his dad. He was convinced Steve had killed her. Henry and Quinn had observed at least one secret meeting between Jen and Steve—what else were they supposed to think? Bridget blinked back tears. In trying to help his dad by getting rid of the body, Henry had become a party to the crime. He’d tampered with the evidence. It was her fault he’d felt compelled to do something this drastic. If only she’d gone straight to the police when she’d found the body, her son would never have been put in this compromising position to begin with. Would she ever be able to forgive herself for what she’d done?
The more pressing matter at hand was what to do about the balaclava. She could get rid of it entirely—stand behind Henry’s story that he’d had nothing to do with disposing of Jen’s body. They could let Steve take the fall. After all, if he’d killed the woman, what difference did it make if he was convicted of disposing of her body afterward or not? It wouldn't alter much in terms of his sentencing, but it would change everything for Henry. The press would have a field day with a story like this. She could see it now—fourteen-year-old dumps woman's body in desperate bid to protect killer dad.
Bridget frowned as another thought occurred to her. Was it possible Steve had asked Henry to help him? She immediately dismissed the notion. If Steve had killed Jen Carson, even accidentally, he would never involve his children in helping him clean up his mess. Besides, he wouldn’t have needed help. Steve was almost as tall and strong as his son, easily able to dispose of Jen’s body under his own steam. No, Henry must have come upon the body and, in a rash move, decided to get rid of it. Bridget thought back to the arguments she’d overheard between Henry and Quinn. Henry had wanted to believe that Keith killed Jen, but Quinn just as desperately wanted to believe it was Steve. No doubt, Henry hadn’t been able to live with the idea of facing his best friend after the truth came out.
Bridget took a shaky breath as she pulled out a drawer in the laundry room cabinet and retrieved a Ziplock bag. She stuffed the balaclava inside and set it on the counter. Tempted as she was to get rid of it, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She hurriedly scooped up the rest of the dirty laundry from the floor and shoved it into the washing machine. After setting it to run, she took the Ziplock and made her way to the kitchen where she stashed it at the bottom of her purse. She had to do the right thing. She would call Detective Wright and turn the evidence over to him.
But first she intended to confront Henry when he came back from volleyball practice and make him admit to what he’d done. A shiver ran across her shoulders. She only hoped it wasn't a whole lot worse than she suspected. What if Henry had killed Jen Carson in a fit of rage when he’d discovered his dad was having an affair with her? She toyed with the shocking idea for a moment. It seemed to fit with Steve's staunch denial of having anything to do with Jen’s murder. And it also fit with his relaxed manner the morning she’d driven his Mercedes into town, and he’d gone biking with the kids. Surely, he couldn't have exhibited such composure if he’d murdered Jen and stashed her body in the trunk of his car.
For the next hour or so, Bridget tracked the time on the kitchen clock in a daze, counting down the minutes until Henry got dropped off. The flicker of fear in her gut was steadily working itself into a wildfire. How well did she really know her son? Was his moodiness of late an indication of some deeper disturbance than the usual teenage hormonal riptides? Maybe she’d missed something, like all those other mothers of murderers who had no idea what their sons were truly capable of and remained in denial right up until the moment their children finally confessed.
Bridget startled at the sound of the front door opening. She straightened up in her chair and cast a quick glance at the kitchen counter where her purse containing the balaclava was tucked next to the toaster. She heard Henry throwing down his duffel bag in the hallway, and then a familiar tromping as he headed to the kitchen for something to eat.
He strode into the room and made a beeline for the refrigerator.
“How was practice?” Bridget asked, annoyed with herself for sounding like a tremulous schoolgirl. Her heart was fluttering around like a leaf swirling in the wind.
“Fine.” Henry pulled out a tub of leftover pasta and stuck it in the microwave.
“Don't stand in front of it,” Bridget said, the words spilling from her lips on autopilot. She grimaced inwardly. A few waves of radiation was hardly a consequential concern in light of the fact that her son might be packed off to juvenile hall in the next few hours.
Henry heaved out an exasperated sigh and shuffled a half-step to the right while he waited for his food to warm up. When the microwave dinged, he retrieved the Tupperware, grabbed a fork from the cutlery drawer, and slumped down at the kitchen island. Bridget got up from the table and joined him. She stood on the opposite side of the counter watching him eat for a moment.
“What?” He stopped chewing, fork halfway to his mouth, peering up at her from beneath his brows. ”Why are you staring at me like that?”
Bridget pulled out a stool and sat down. “I found something in your laundry tonight.”
Henry cocked an eyebrow and stared at her quizzically. “Yeah?”
“Henry,” Bridget said earnestly, “I found a black balaclava.”
For a moment, he didn't
react. Then, he rammed his fork into the remainder of his pasta and dropped his gaze.
“Henry, I need you to tell me the truth. Was it you in the video?”
He licked his lips nervously but didn’t offer a response.
“No more lies, Henry. This is serious. Why is there a black balaclava in your laundry?”
He shoved the Tupperware aside and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “It was me.”
The admission hit Bridget like a punch to the stomach. She shrank back in her stool and stared at her son in shock. Her child had just admitted to tossing a dead woman into a dumpster. Had she heard him right? How in the world had it come to this?
She shook her head, dumbstruck. “I … why?” She wasn't sure what she was asking him—she was too distraught to form a coherent question.
Henry looked at her, stricken, and lowered his voice. “I had to, Mom. Dad killed Jen Carson. He would have gone to prison. He might still be going there. I didn’t think they’d find the body.” He tugged a hand despairingly through his hair.
Bridget dropped her head into her hands. “We have to call Detective Wright. We have to tell him the truth.” She swallowed back a sob and then added, “The whole truth this time.”
“That is the whole truth, Mom,” Henry said, his expression anguished. “I didn't kill her, if that's what you're getting at.”
Bridget shook her head. “No, I meant I need to tell the truth too.” She lifted her head and met Henry's gaze. ”I saw Jen’s body in your dad’s car on Saturday morning when I came out of the grocery store. I drove around for a bit in shock—I guess I must have been in shock. It’s the only way I can account for the fact that I didn't go directly to the police. Anyway, I’d finally resigned myself to doing the right thing, when your grandpa called to say Grandma had fallen and broken her hip. I wasn’t thinking straight. I panicked and took off for the hospital—didn’t get back until midnight. I figured it was too late to do anything, so I waited until the morning but—“
“By then the body was gone,” Henry interjected. “I drove Dad's car to the movie theater and got rid of it during the night.”
Bridget threw him a curious look. “How did you know it was in there to begin with?”
He shrugged. “By chance. I couldn't find my history book and I thought I might have left it in Dad's car when he took us to school last week. He always makes us put our backpacks in the trunk. You know how he is about buckles scraping his leather seats.”
Bridget stood and walked around to the other side of the counter. She put an arm around Henry’s shoulder and looked at him tenderly. “I’m going to call Detective Wright now. We need to get this resolved tonight.”
“Will I be arrested?” Henry asked, a haunted expression gripping him.
Bridget winced. By all appearances, her son was a man, but inside he was still a frightened child with all the emotions that went along with that developmental stage.
“I don’t know, Henry. I might even be arrested for all I know.”
“What's going to happen to Harper if we’re both arrested?”
“I suppose if it comes to that, she'll have to stay with Grandma and Grandpa.”
Henry clenched his jaw. ”You shouldn't tell the detective you saw the body too. It won’t make any difference. It will only make things worse for our family, and for Harper.”
“Maybe,” Bridget agreed, pulling out her phone. “But that’s not my decision to make.”
19
Bridget opened the front door to Detective Wright and Officer Lopez and exchanged a terse greeting with them before ushering them inside. She led them straight to the family room where Henry was waiting and motioned to them to take a seat.
Detective Wright wasted no time pulling out his notepad. “So, Henry, your mother tells me you want to change the statement you gave us earlier.”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, it … was me in the video.”
Officer Lopez shot Bridget a glance as if seeking confirmation. She reached into her purse and pulled out the Ziplock bag containing the balaclava. Wordlessly, she set it on the coffee table between them. “He was wearing this. It was a half-baked idea, I know, but he didn't want his father—”
Detective Wright raised a palm to cut her short, a mildly irritated look on his face. “I’d prefer to hear this directly from Henry, if you don't mind.”
“Of course, I’m sorry.” Bridget leaned back in her chair and folded her arms in front of her to keep herself from shaking.
Henry jerked his knee up and down. ”Mom’s right. I didn’t want Dad going to prison.”
Detective Wright’s expression softened. “Do you think your dad killed Jen Carson?”
Henry gave a dejected nod. “Yeah.”
“Why do you think that?”
Henry looked momentarily thrown off by the question. “She was in the trunk of his car, for starters.”
A somber expression settled on Detective Wright’s face. “That’s true, but technically, anyone could have put the body there. Do you have any other reason to believe that your father might have killed your best friend's mother?”
”Quinn's dad told us they were having an affair.”
Detective Wright scratched his chin. “Do you think Keith Carson might have felt he had a good reason to kill his wife?”
Henry’s eyes darted nervously between Bridget and the two officers. “I was sure he’d killed her at first. Until I saw her body in my dad’s car.”
Detective Wright jotted down some notes. “Can you tell me what time you left your house with the body?”
“Two in the morning.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I set my alarm.”
“And your father’s Mercedes was parked in the driveway, or by the curb?”
“In the driveway.”
“Had you ever driven it before?” Detective Wright raised his brows a fraction, his lips twitching imperceptibly.
Henry shrugged. “Maybe. Am I in trouble?”
“I can let that one slide,” Detective Wright said. “But tampering with evidence is a serious crime. As you’re still a minor, it will be up to the judge at juvenile court to decide what kind of punishment should be meted out. It's a good thing you came forward with the truth before our forensics team managed to enhance the image enough to identify you. That will work in your favor.”
Detective Wright turned to Bridget. “I’m going to need Henry to come down to the station and give a formal statement.”
Bridget swallowed the hard knot in her throat. She’d suspected it would come to this, but it didn’t make the prospect of it any easier. “My daughter’s already in bed. And Henry doesn't have a lawyer yet. Can it wait until the morning?”
Detective Wright gave an affirmative nod. “Once you sort out legal representation, call me and we’ll arrange for Henry to be interviewed.”
“There's something else I need to tell you,” Bridget said, wringing her hands. “I’m entirely to blame for Henry's actions. I could have prevented him doing what he did. It was the choice I made earlier that day that compelled him to do it.”
Detective Wright frowned. “I don’t follow. What are you talking about?”
With shaking fingers, Bridget carefully tucked her hair behind her ears. “I … I saw Jen’s body in the trunk of Steve's car earlier that day. I was picking up groceries and I popped the trunk in the parking lot and—” Burying her face in her hands, she began to sob quietly.
A moment later, she felt the pressure of Henry's arm snaking around her shoulders. Drying her tears, she straightened up and blinked at Detective Wright. “I can't even begin to tell you how terrified I was. I was in shock. I couldn't think straight. I drove around for a bit trying to muster up the courage to call 911 and then my dad called to say Mom had fallen and broken her hip and was going into surgery. He needed me. It was all so overwhelming. I meant to go to the police station afterward, but by the time I got back from the hospital
, it was almost midnight. I decided to wait until the morning to deal with it. Only … Henry beat me to it.”
Detective Wright and Officer Lopez exchanged a loaded look.
“I wasn't intentionally trying to hide evidence. I just delayed reporting it, and by the next morning, the body was gone.” Bridget rubbed the tip of her nose, sniffling as she went on, “It was hard to know what to do at that point. I didn't think the police would believe me if I told them what I’d seen. I was worried I might be in trouble—that they’d think I’d gotten rid of the body, maybe even killed her.”
Officer Wright grimaced. ”This is critical information. It narrows down the timeline of when the murder could have taken place.”
Bridget pulled out a tissue and wiped her nose. “I suppose I need a lawyer now too.”
Officer Wright shot her a sympathetic look. “A good one should be able to get you off with a plea deal if you’re willing to testify. Especially given the extenuating circumstances of your mother's accident and emergency surgery. You have no prior record, and you fully intended to report it. You'll need to make a statement too. I'll expect to see you both at the station before noon tomorrow.”
“What about Steve?” Bridget bit back the whimper that rose to her lips. “Is there any news?”
“Not yet,” Officer Lopez chimed in. “We’re detaining him overnight again for questioning. We’ll know more by tomorrow.”
Detective Wright pressed his lips together as he flipped his notebook closed. ”Right, we’ll leave it there for the time being. I appreciate you both coming forward. I’m sure you agree that the sooner we get Jen Carson’s killer behind bars, the better.”
That night, Bridget barely slept, her mind whirling her troubled thoughts like an unending wash cycle. She was still trying to come to terms with what her son had done, and what her role in his actions had been. And, of course, there was the niggling question of whether or not Henry had done more than simply dispose of the body. As horrific a thought as it was, she couldn’t avoid asking herself again if he might have killed Jen Carson? Maybe he and Quinn had come up with some ill-advised plan to punish her, and it had all gone horribly wrong.