by R. J. Jacobs
Love is in every song.
Love makes you do things.
“But it’s over?” I ask. After all, he’s been off her security for three weeks.
He nods.
“A few weeks ago, she stopped picking up. Then three weeks ago, she sent me a text saying that she couldn’t see me anymore. Just like that. I know I should have just walked away, but after a year that seemed insane. I couldn’t just show up at the house, so I called and texted. I know Shelly; she can’t be alone. I followed her once, and Metro knows that. I left her a voice mail Metro played back to me.” He looks at me then, right in the eye. “I said I was willing to do anything to keep her.”
He sounds like a stalker.
Neither of us has to say it.
“Could Owen have found out?” I ask. I don’t know everything about marriage, but I don’t see how Owen could have been functioning as a husband and as a business partner while knowing that Shelly was cheating on him.
Marion bites the inside of his cheek the way I’m learning he does. “Believe me, I’ve wondered about it a lot in the last days. But the answer is, no, I don’t think he knew, and I definitely don’t think he killed her. Owen has a temper but he wasn’t abusive. I think they were both lonely for a long time. He wanted her to be something she wasn’t, and she was so young when she married him that she didn’t know who she was in the beginning. No, if Owen had found out, it’s more likely he’d want to kill me.”
“I saw something between the two of them once.” I tell Marion the story about the time I saw Owen grab Shelly’s arm.
I hear the low-pitched buzz of the old tires on the road for a moment before he eventually says: “I saw a few moments like that, too. I don’t want to say it made it easier for me to get close to her, but it probably did. They fought, true. But if I’m looking for a motive, there isn’t one. Even if there was insurance, it’s not like Owen needs money. She even said they talked about divorcing once Finch was out of the house. Plus, on a practical level, I don’t know if Owen was away from people at any point last night. He was busy hosting the party, after all, because Shelly wasn’t there.”
The way he describes their relationship fits what I saw between the two of them at the Petersons’ party: Owen calm but distant, going through the motions as a party guest, while Shelly seemed restless and lost and unhappy—and probably drunk.
I think Marion must be right. Owen was busy all last night, and even if he did somehow slip away, Finch would have recognized her own father. She would have known. She would have never gone back home. It has to have been someone else.
I ask very carefully, “Do you think … the person she was … seeing, was the …?”
“Maybe. But I’ll tell you what, if it wasn’t him, I guarantee you he knows something that will help put everything together. Metro already went through her phone, of course. Her communication is hard to track because half the time Shelly used burner phones for privacy. If anything ever leaked, she didn’t want it tied to her number. Seemed shady, but I understood. The one that she was using last night was on the ground beside her. And Metro knows Shelly was sending texts from one of her burner phones to a burner phone for the entire last week. But we can’t see what was in those messages, at least not yet.”
Maybe he knew he and Shelly would never be a couple but kept seeing her anyway. I think about how love was in every one of her songs. I think about how they say love makes you do things. Then I remember something.
“Robert told you about the other car he saw.”
“Yeah, he said it was a sports car, but that’s not much to go on. Shelly lives in Belle Meade. Half the people in 37205 drive sports cars.”
I picture the parking lot of the Belle Meade Country Club and know he is right.
“He said it was white,” I remind him. “I know someone who owns a white P-O-R-S-C-H-E.” As I tell Marion it’s Brian Peterson, I see sweat form on his forehead.
“You’re sure?” he asks, as the car’s tires graze the curb on my right.
“One hundred percent.”
I tell him about working the Petersons’ party and going into the dark garage for Lane Peterson to get the sparkling water for Shelly—feeling my way through the garage to the refrigerator, my fingers touching the letters along the back of the car. The P-O-R-S-C-H-E letters raised up from the creamy paint.
We stop at a red light. A car beside ours is playing music so loudly I feel it through the seat in the backs of my legs. I hear paper crumple as Detective Marion reaches behind me. His hand comes forward with a can of Red Bull that he pops open with one hand. He drinks before grimacing at what I know is warm liquid.
I replay Brian’s body language during the party in my mind—the glances he cut toward Shelly, the calm but cool handshake he’d given Owen. And Lane Peterson’s nervousness, especially when she asked if I could get the water for Shelly. Lane had wanted Shelly to be steadier, less impulsive, and out of their house as quickly and quietly as possible.
I remember the way the cooks agreed that everyone in Nashville was in love with Shelly—but why would Brian have wanted to hurt her? Did he and Shelly have an argument about whether or not to leave their partners? Did she reject him?
Brian was so composed at his party. Such a family man. Could he have gone that crazy? Driven to a murdering rage by … an argument?
I don’t know.
But there is another part too—an action that my suspicions can’t explain: The man on top of the hill didn’t run away. He chased me. I wonder if what happened in the park was somehow an accident.
Nine blows to the head, I think. That’s no accident.
Marion shakes his head slightly as we start moving again.
“Let’s just say that white Porsche belongs to Brian Peterson, and that Shelly left to meet him last night. There would still have to be some proof to justify a search warrant to collect other evidence either from the car or the Petersons’ house. Tire tracks could help. The scene was pretty washed out, but you would be amazed what they can find. If they could match his tires to tracks left at the scene, then potentially Metro could get a warrant to search his car and the house. What I really would need—what the police would need, I mean—are things they can’t currently get. Dirt from the bottoms of Brian’s shoes, for example. Sometimes police get lucky and find a car parked in a public place and can get a visual of the tires for a match, then try to make a case for a warrant. In this case, I don’t know.”
My thoughts spin with everything he just told me. My hands fidget in my lap as my mind tries to keep up, but my gut is churning, and I’m curious about why he is telling me anything at all. But he keeps on talking, maybe more to himself than to me, and I listen intently.
“Metro pinged that phone they got the 911 call from and nothing came back. It might be long gone, but it may just be turned off. If that phone was found, in either Brian’s car or anywhere in the house, it would be enough to get a search warrant, and maybe enough to make an arrest.”
The car slows and Marion pulls into an alleyway that runs beside the mental health center parking lot. I see my car as Marion creeps to a halt. The same trees sway above the same gold roof, but the light reflecting off it now looks dull and different. He adjusts the column shifter and the old car idles heavily.
Marion rubs his eyes like the meeting with Robert took something out of him and points to the road ahead with the bottom of the Red Bull can.
“I’ve asked enough of you already, so I don’t want to ask for anything more, but if you can forget that you’ve seen me for the next few days, I would appreciate that.”
“Forgotten.”
I remember how I felt getting into Detective Marion’s car, and how quickly everything had changed—the panic over thinking he was attacking me had become a kind of pride for being helpful. For the most part I trust him.
“Where are you going now?” I ask. “You’re going to arrest …”
“I can’t arrest anybody right now. I can
’t even collect evidence.” He takes another sip of the warm Red Bull and makes a face like he wants to spit it out. He closes his eyes. “Tell me one more time about the man you saw last night. The man you saw up on the trail.”
I know what he wants to know.
“It could have been Brian,” I say. “It was dark, but he was tall. He wore a baseball hat I think.”
My memory—no one ever seems to think it is accurate, but it is. I always remember right.
“Finch told you the man chased her too. Did she describe him?”
I search my memory. “No.”
She’d been running away, as fast as she could, from the man who murdered her mother.
Marion makes a fist. “I haven’t heard about funeral arrangements yet, but I assume you know there’s an impromptu function in Shelly’s memory downtown tonight.”
I nod, reluctantly. Of course I know about it.
“A lot of people will show up, I’m sure. There will be a stage, a band or two, but the safest place for you is at home. Don’t give Williams or anyone in Metro a reason to pick you up, okay?”
I want to say I hadn’t planned on going, but my history of decision making is pretty poor. I answer him with a look that says I understand. I reach for the door handle again but stop.
“How do I contact you?”
“You don’t. I want you to keep talking with your counselor, okay?” He motions toward her office.
“What if I need to talk to you? What if I think of something else?”
He nods solemnly when he sees fear in my eyes. I shrink back against the seat as he reaches to the glove box, his shoulder nearly touching me—so close I register his sweat and shampoo smell. He pulls a small black bag from the glove box and empties it, dropping an old flip phone into his lap. I wonder: Was this the phone he used to talk to Shelly?
Marion sees me noticing the bag.
“It’s called a faraday bag. It keeps a phone from being tracked. Copper wiring lines the inside, as fine as hair. Most electronic devices—phones, even newer cars—can be pinged, but this is like a black hole that signals can’t hit.” He leans back and pops open the phone. “Here. What’s your number?”
I tell it to him and he punches the keys. My phone buzzes a second later. “It’s untraceable,” he says, turning off the phone again. He returns it to the bag and then sets the bag back in the glove box. “It’s not optimal, but I’ll check it, okay? My best advice is to just go home and stay there for now.”
Because there’s a killer among us.
“Are the police still looking for you?” I ask.
“They have their eyes on me, sure. But most people won’t do what it takes to stay hidden,” he says. “I know how to not be found.”
If anyone else had said it, I might have laughed.
I start out the door, then twist my mouth as I remember I have no idea how much gas I have. I can’t remember when I last calculated my mileage.
“What is it?” Marion asks.
“I’m just thinking … I don’t know how much gas I have.” I don’t want to tell him about Ken and my job and my last few dollars, but I see in Detective Marion’s eyes that he puts it together. He reopens the glove box, finds his wallet, then hands me two twenty-dollar bills. I shake my head but he sets them in my lap.
“Get some gas, something to eat,” he says.
I tell him “thank you” as I get out, already folding the bills inside my pocket, like making them smaller will keep them safe. From the parking lot, I watch him pull away, the sound of the old car eventually fading.
I drive back to my apartment with my head full of thoughts. The encounter has left me disoriented enough that if something else crazy happened right then, it might not even register. My throat feels like I’d tried swallowing food before chewing it. The hum of my car tires on the road sounds the way anticipation feels. Learning the extent of Marion’s relationship with Shelly surprised me some, but it fit with the other side of Shelly I was starting to understand. I wonder what Marion thought would happen between the two of them. Did he picture her moving out of the mansion and in with him? Did he see Finch in their lives? Did he imagine staying together, having more kids? Or maybe he was love-blind and made her into something she wasn’t.
Even if I don’t like how they became involved, my heart trusts him. I start daydreaming a scenario that might have been his—Marion and Shelly walking hand in hand through the tall grass in an East Tennessee field, Finch nearby. Maybe the three of them would have rented a cabin for a long holiday weekend together.
Did Marion dream about that? About parenthood?
If so, Shelly had ended that dream when she stopped her relationship with Marion.
“Someone was with her,” Finch had told me. “A man, standing over her.” Shelly had started seeing another man, but she kept who it was a secret.
She went into the woods to meet him, but never came back out.
12
I have to have quiet to sort through what just happened. I head to my apartment to be alone. I’m so shaken up I run a red light without noticing, and a horn sounds angrily beside me. I slow down and tell myself to be smarter. As I crest the small hill before reaching my complex, I see three police cars circled in the parking lot. The hedges that line the lot are bleached white by their headlights. The door to my building is propped open, and dark uniforms pass in and out.
I hit the brakes, but not quickly enough, and my car rocks over the lip of the road. A tall cop turns around as my headlights splash over the scene, his head pivoting like a crane’s. I know it’s Detective Williams just by the way he stands.
Light explodes as I begin to turn the wheel—flashing police blue, so bright it reflects off every surface. A siren chirps so loudly I jump in my seat. Detective Williams’s hands are resting on his hips. His face is in shadow, but I picture his satisfied expression—a look that says he’s been waiting for me. He holds up his hand like he’s saying halt, then points to the empty space where he wants me to park.
I’ve come home to a trap that I somehow baited myself. I’ve driven right into it. Someone called the police, but who? Robert? Of course, I think.
I consider the distance back to the road with a quick glance in the rearview mirror. I wonder for half a second if the cars parked at the end of the row would block me from turning around—from gunning it. But I see clearly there is no way out. Time starts to slow down again.
Williams moves behind my car. His eyes look hungry, like those of a starving person finally being offered a meal. Two other officers bound down the apartment steps toward us. Some of my neighbors appear on their porches, watching everything unfold. A girl in a long-sleeved shirt wraps her arms around her waist. Her boyfriend looks on grimly beside her, his arm around her shoulder. I see him bend down to her, whispering something in her ear.
“Go ahead and turn off your car, Ms. Duval. I need you to step out of the vehicle and leave your keys inside,” Williams says.
I realize what is happening is not the ending of a story but the start of another story entirely. And I have no idea where it will go. I ache to return to a week ago, even two days ago. I know I could stop everything bad from happening. I could and I would. But now I have to listen to Detective Williams. A small part of me holds on to the hope that I can somehow explain everything to him, that maybe he will want to hear about what I’ve learned. It’s a wish I’m not ready to give up on entirely.
I get out, my shoes slipping on the wet pavement.
“Ms. Duval, we’re executing a search warrant into your residence at this time. Come with me.”
Another police car pulls into the lot. I blink the headlights away, shaking it out of my vision while Detective Williams follows me up the steps. In the hallway everything is the same—same dusty smell, same flickering light overhead—except everything feels like we are in a movie now. Like we’re on a screen being watched by an audience that is somewhere else.
The front door of my apartment i
s open. From inside a radio crackles. My lungs seem to press into my ribs as pressure builds in my chest. Every light in the apartment seems to be turned on. The shadow of someone moves across the kitchen wall. I want to rush forward to see, but Detective Williams’s presence is like a dragging anchor behind me.
At the door, I see my fears are justified. Five policemen are inside. Only one looks up as we enter. The others go about their jobs, busily picking apart my space. One crouches under my sink like a plumber, his flashlight making the clear plastic bottles around him glow.
Part of me is furious at this intrusion, but I know I can’t show it—not now. Act normal, I tell myself, as normal as possible. You will get your chance to explain everything. Maybe Detective Marion will show up and help untangle this mess.
The vacuum lines on my carpet are a blur of their dark footprints. I understand the police mean to find evidence against me, but it looks like what they really want is to destroy as many of my things as possible. They’re wearing uniforms, but I feel like I am being robbed. The word for when you can’t protect yourself … The helplessness is the worst part. I want to shout for them to stop, to scratch at their clothes, to call for help, but I can do nothing except watch.
Detective Williams pulls one of my chairs away from the kitchen table. It screeches across the linoleum. “Have a seat here, Ms. Duval,” he says in the same horrible, patronizing tone he used earlier, then goes into my bedroom to speak to whoever is in there.
I try not to watch the man under my sink as I wonder if the police know where Detective Marion is. If they want to know if I’ve seen him, what will I tell them? Or about confronting Robert at the studio? I try to breathe in the way Ms. Parsons showed me, but my lungs feel like they’ve shrunk. When I inhale, they can’t hold any air. My head buzzes with wanting—to run again, for things to make sense. My thoughts are like angry, fighting things, clawing their way on top of one another.
