by N L Hinkens
Bridget scrunched her eyes shut. She didn't want her daughter’s childhood marred by ugly memories of juvenile hall, or ever even associating Henry with such a place, for that matter. “I don't know, Henry. She's so young and impressionable.”
“Is Henry on the phone?” Harper cried, running into the kitchen.
Bridget flashed her a startled look. “Yes, do you want to talk to him?”
She nodded vigorously, holding out her hand for the phone. Bridget hit the speaker button and set it on the table between them.
“Hi, Henry.” Harper said, twisting shyly to and fro while clutching the edge of the kitchen table. “Where are you?”
“Well, it’s kind of like a boarding school where you get to sleep over,” Henry said. “I have my own room here so at least I don't have to share with you at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s.”
“Lucky!” Harper stared at the phone intently. “When are you coming home?”
“I’m not sure yet. What are you doing?”
“A Barbie picnic with real peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
Henry laughed. “Sounds good. I’m starving. You better make me some when I get back.”
“Okay,” Harper said. “See you later.” She turned and skipped back outside, humming to herself.
“I think she feels better after talking to you,” Bridget said, picking up the phone. “She was really upset when I told her earlier that you weren't coming home.”
“Then bring her with you when you visit,” Henry urged. “There's nothing scary here—it’s not like prison. We might as well face it. This could be the rest of her childhood, visiting me in this place. Better get used to the idea.”
Bridget ended the call with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She could not—would not—allow Henry to spend the rest of his childhood in juvenile hall. Slipping her phone back into her purse, she frowned when it chinked against something. She rummaged around inside her purse for a moment and then pulled out Quinn’s house key. Her jaw dropped. She’d meant to give it back to him when she’d stopped by, but she’d completely forgotten about it.
As she twisted the key between her thumb and forefinger, the idea that had begun brewing in her head when she’d first found the key came back to mind. Why not pay a visit to the Carsons’ place when no one was home and take a quick look around, on the pretext of returning the key? She wasn't sure what exactly she hoped to find, but maybe there would be something there that proved Keith Carson had helped Steve escape—hotel reservations, airplane ticket receipts, perhaps?
Her mind made up, Bridget slung her purse over her shoulder and went into the family room to look for her dad. He glanced up from the newspaper he was perusing. “Is Harper doing all right?”
Bridget nodded. “Henry called and she got to talk to him for a couple of minutes. I think it reassured her that he hadn’t disappeared into thin air like Steve did. Is Mom still napping?”
“Yeah, she didn't sleep too well last night. She's upset about Henry.”
Bridget pressed her lips together and gave a shallow nod. “We all are. I need to run a few errands. Is it all right if I leave Harper here? She's playing with her Barbies in the backyard.”
“Sure,” John replied, folding up his newspaper. “I’ll go out there and keep an eye on her.”
Bridget wasted no time grabbing her coat and heading out to her car. She switched on the engine and reversed down the driveway, guilt churning in her stomach. She felt bad about deceiving her dad. Trespassing was hardly a legitimate errand, but there was no way she could tell him what she was really intending to do. He would only try and stop her. The last thing he needed was another member of his family being handcuffed and loaded into a squad car. Bridget ignored the voice of reason in her head telling her she could still turn back. If she was caught, she would say she’d gone inside to return Quinn’s key, thinking the housekeeper was home.
A few minutes later, she pulled up on the Carsons’ street and parked a short distance from their house. She didn't want anyone remembering seeing her vehicle outside. She threw up the hood of her sweatshirt, climbed out of her car and strolled nonchalantly down the sidewalk. When she reached the bottom of the brick pathway leading to their front door, she cast a quick glance up and down the street to make sure no one was around before walking briskly up to the door.
Fingers shaking, she put the key in the lock and turned it. She stepped inside and quickly closed the door behind her. For several minutes, she stood with her back to it, listening for any sounds emanating from within the house. But all she could hear was the thud of her heartbeat in her chest. Maria normally worked mornings, so Bridget was fairly certain she had the house to herself until Quinn got back from school.
Adjusting the strap on her purse, she headed to the kitchen first. After taking a quick look around, she peered into the laundry room, before checking the family room to make sure no one was there. It was an eerie feeling to be in someone else’s house, uninvited. Every house had its own aura, and this one had a decidedly gloomy one, almost as if the walls themselves had picked up on the animosity between the parties who lived here.
After taking a quick breath to center herself, Bridget padded up the stairs to the second floor. Butterflies swirled in dizzying circles in her gut as she made her way toward the master suite. She stepped inside the opulent space decorated in gray, silver and white, and checked the bathroom to make sure Maria wasn’t cleaning it, before moving on to the other bedrooms. Inside Quinn's room, she paused for a moment, leaning against the wall as she took in the menagerie of electronics, sports equipment, concert posters and teenage boy paraphernalia covering every inch of floor and wall space. She felt sick to her stomach about everything Quinn had gone through in the past week and was still going through. His life would never be the same again. She turned and exited the room, wishing there was some way she could roll back time and make this all go away.
Satisfied there was no one in the house, Bridget returned to the master suite to begin searching in earnest for some kind of evidence of a connection between Keith Carson and Steve. She worked methodically, pulling out drawers, combing through the contents, and going through the closet from top to bottom. There was a small desk in one corner of the master suite, but it was apparent from the lack of files and cabinets that Keith didn't work from home.
She reached up to a shelf above the desk and lifted down a photo album. As she flicked through it, she was struck again by how beautiful a woman Jen Carson had been. Quinn had got his luxurious dark locks from her, as well as his magnetic green eyes. Bridget’s stomach twisted at the sheer joy in Jen's expression as she held her young son on her lap in a lounge chair by the pool at some hotel. It was heartbreaking to think Quinn had lost his mother before he was fully grown.
After a few minutes, Bridget returned the photo album to the shelf and grabbed another one. She sat down on the edge of the bed to peruse it. The Carsons had traveled a lot—Egypt, Switzerland, Australia—even an African safari vacation. Bridget browsed through the photos until she came upon some Christmas pictures in which Quinn looked to be about twelve. Bridget couldn’t help smiling at the exuberant look on his face as he clutched an Xbox in his arms and beamed at the camera.
She flipped through several more pages, and then came to a sudden halt at a photo of the Carson family proudly displaying their gifts in front of an enormous Christmas tree, dripping with glittering ornaments. Her blood froze. She slipped the photo out from behind the plastic sleeve and scrutinized it.
There was no mistaking what she was looking at. The charcoal and red tartan blanket that Quinn's grandfather was holding up to the camera was an exact match to the one Jen’s body had been wrapped in.
34
The photo album slid from Bridget’s lap to the floor with an ominous thud. She stared down at it for a moment, and then covered her face with her hands, trembling all over. It was definitely the blanket Jen’s body had been wrapped in—she was sure of it. This ch
anged everything. This was enough to throw reasonable doubt on the theory that Steve had killed Jen Carson. It must have been Keith. The only remaining question was where the murder had taken place. The police had ruled out Keith’s house as a possible crime scene, but the forensic pathologist had found some kind of carpet fibers on Jen’s body—a hotel room, perhaps?
A sound outside the bedroom door startled her. Her breath froze. She got to her feet just as Quinn’s grandfather, Jack, strode into the room. When he saw her standing at the bottom of the bed, he came to a sudden stop, a confused scowl blazed across his face.
Bridget blinked at him, scrambling to come up with an excuse to explain what she was doing in Keith’s bedroom. “Hi, Jack, I … I was hoping I’d catch someone at home.” She reached into her purse and fished out the front door key. “Quinn left this at our house last week. I wanted to return it.”
Jack continued to stare at her coldly for a long, uncomfortable moment. His gaze dropped to the floor where the photo album was lying. He walked over and picked it up, studying the Christmas pictures contemplatively. His eyes radiated a chill when he asked, “Did you get what you came for?”
“I … I'm sorry,” Bridget stuttered. “I just came upstairs to see if Quinn was in his room. I decided to wait around for a few minutes in case he showed up and then I wandered in here and spotted the photo albums.” She gestured apologetically with her hands, before setting the key down on the desk. “Maybe you can return this to Quinn for me. I should get going.” She made a beeline for the bedroom door, but Jack stepped in front of her. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
Bridget gaped at him, taken aback by his intimidating posturing. “What are you talking about?”
‘’I mean I can't let you leave.”
A chilly tremor rippled down Bridget’s spine. “I … don't understand.”
Jack quietly closed the bedroom door behind him. “I think you understand perfectly. You stuck your nose in where it wasn’t wanted, took the liberty of trespassing in my son’s house, and browsing through personal photos. I have a right to know why.”
Bridget’s voice shook. “I told you already, I was waiting for Quinn to come home.”
“Is that what you normally do, let yourself in to other people’s houses when they're not home, give yourself a private tour, and root through their personal possessions?”
“I admit I was out of line,” Bridget said in a placating tone. “I was curious about Quinn's mother, that's all. Quinn’s like a second son to me.”
“But he's not your son, and you're not his mother, and your husband isn’t entitled to our money.”
Bridget wet her lips as she appraised Jack nervously. Our money. Where was he going with this? He’d founded the company, maybe he was still an invested party. “My husband has no interest in your money. He never did.”
Jack threw back his head and guffawed. “Is that what he told you? Do you really think he was only interested in Jen for her feminine charms?”
Bridget shrugged. “It wouldn't be the first time a man fell for a beautiful woman. Jen looks like a model in some of those pictures.”
Jack eyed her thoughtfully. “What else did you learn from our family photos?”
“Nothing,” Bridget said, her voice wavering despite her best attempt to sound nonchalant. “Other than that the Carson family liked to travel.”
Jack jabbed at a photo in the album with his forefinger, his voice sharp as steel. “I’ll wager you paid close attention to a particular Christmas gift in this picture, did you not?” When he looked over at Bridget again, the expression in his eyes was oddly detached.
Her knees knocked together in fear. “I don't know what you mean.”
Jack let out a snort of disgust. “Let's not play games with one another. Neither one of us is an idiot. You think you recognize the blanket in this photo, don’t you, Bridget? You desperately want to believe that your husband didn't kill my daughter-in-law, and you’re willing to latch on to any alternative theory no matter how far-fetched.”
“I’m desperate for the truth, whatever that is,” she replied defensively. “Aren't you? Or would you rather let your murdering son walk free while my husband pays for a crime he didn’t commit? I know Keith blackmailed Steve into helping him dispose of Jen’s body by threatening to expose their affair.”
Jack raised his eyebrows in a bemused manner. “You don't actually believe your husband agreed to dispose of Jen’s body in exchange for Keith’s silence, do you? The affair was no secret. Your son and Quinn followed Jen to your husband’s office on multiple occasions.” A malicious chuckle slipped from his lips. “But then they say the wife’s always the last to know. No, Keith wasn't in the business of blackmailing. Your husband was a very clever man, Bridget. He even had Jen fooled. All he was after was the money. And now he's disappeared with it.”
Bridget shook her head. “I don’t believe it! Steve was never interested in your company's money. He counseled Jen against moving any assets before the divorce. She went against his advice.”
Jack twisted his lips sardonically. “Did your husband also tell you that his company was struggling, possibly in danger of going under?”
Bridget swallowed hard. It was true Steve had admitted to money problems. But he would never steal money from another company to resolve them. And he would never have absconded with the money and abandoned his family. No, he had gone on the run fearing he would be indicted as a murderer. But the blanket in the Christmas photo proved otherwise, and Jack knew it—he was covering for his son.
“Steve didn't kill your daughter-in-law,” Bridget said, holding Jack’s gaze. “You and I both know it. That photograph proves it. The blanket came from this house. Your son’s going to face justice, sooner or later. If you don’t turn him in, I will.”
“Yeah, I was afraid you might say that.” Jack tossed the photo album onto the bed and let out a heavy sigh. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of black, leather gloves. Bridget watched with a heightening sense of terror as he put them on, meticulously adjusting each finger.
He took a step toward her, a cool smile flicking across his lips as she retreated.
“What are you doing?” she cried. “Are you insane?”
He cocked his head to one side as if weighing the possibility. “Not in the clinical sense. You, on the other hand, are insanely focused on ruining my son’s life, and I can’t allow that to happen.”
In a flash, he closed the gap between them, and lunged for Bridget. She ducked beneath his grasp and tried to make a run for the door. But, seconds later, she felt the weight of his huge hand on her shoulder, and then a violent tug as he wrenched her backward. She tumbled to the ground, scrabbling to make her escape, but he was on her in a heartbeat, pinning her arms to the floor.
“You think you're quite the clever little detective, don't you? Spying on your husband, calling the City Crime Line, stealing Quinn's key, poring through our photos and searching for evidence. In fact, I bet you were feeling pretty proud of yourself right up until the point when I walked into the room. The thing is, Nancy Drew, you’ve got it all wrong.” He paused, a feral grin sliding across his face. “Keith didn't kill Jen. Oh, he wanted to kill her all right, but he's a hothead. He would have gone about it all wrong, left a trail of evidence. Unlike your level-headed, number-crunching husband who executed a near-perfect crime.”
Bridget’s eyes widened in horror as Jack’s words sank in. She writhed beneath his weight, desperate to knock him off. But he was much too strong and muscular— a far cry from the ailing man Keith had made him out to be. Her mind thrashed about, trying to make sense of what he was telling her, lining it up with everything that had transpired since Jen’s body was discovered.
“You were never ill at all, were you?” she spat out. “That little episode at the hospital was all a ruse to distract the police from investigating Keith.”
Jack let out a contemptuous laugh. “Maybe you're not such a lousy det
ective after all. Which is why, I'm afraid, you’re too much of a threat to keep around any longer.” His lip curled as he released her arms, and then put his gloved hands around her neck and began to squeeze.
Bridget gasped and gurgled, every basic survival instinct kicking in. Her brain screamed at her to breathe, her body unable to respond. Adrenaline flooded her system as the terror of knowing she had only seconds before her body would be rendered helpless, gripped her. The pain of Jack's muscular hands squeezing her neck was lost in the agony of being starved of oxygen. Every failing brain synapse urged her to fight on for even the smallest puff of air. Her hands flailed around as she sought purchase—skin, hair, anything. Her nails made contact and she clawed wildly at Jack’s face. He roared in pain when she jabbed him in the eye, but her vision was blurring, and he easily moved out of range.
She willed her brain to direct her body to continue to thrash, but Jack managed to pin one of her arms beneath his knee. She was vaguely aware that her movements had become little more than those of a hapless fish flopping around on dry land. Her eyes felt as though they were about to pop out of her head. A sense of impending doom took over. Seconds had passed since Jack had put his hands around her neck, but it felt like she'd been fighting for hours underwater.
She was losing the battle to live, unable to speak or swallow. Every lifeline to the outside world was shutting down. All she could think about was trying to breathe. Her mind was consumed with the desperate need to fill her lungs with oxygen.
But Jack’s flushed face loomed over her, lined with an equally ferocious concentration as he directed all his energy into finishing her off.
35
Just when Bridget was sure the darkness was about to overtake her, she heard a shout. Seconds later, the chokehold around her neck released and the crushing weight was lifted off her body. She heaved in breath after agonizing breath, her raw throat gasping life back into her body as she rolled onto her side, her fingers instinctively reaching for her throbbing neck. She was vaguely aware of a scuffle of some description, a dull thud, and a muted cry, but she couldn't open her eyes to take in what was happening around her. Every muscle in her body ached. Her mind was gripped with only one thought—keep breathing. When her system was finally flooded with sufficient oxygen, she shakily pulled herself into a sitting position. Her vision was still blurry, but she could just about make out Jack prostrate on the floor.