by Cara Putman
The woman shook her head. “I can’t do that. He has Jon, and he won’t let me see him if I leave.”
“Jon is . . . ?”
“My ten-month-old.” A tear tracked down her cheek. “He’s the reason I stay. I don’t make enough to take care of us, and Reggie knows that. He’s the smart one.” She touched her cheek, and Emilie could feel all the self-loathing that simple gesture contained.
“We can help you, Nadine.” Emilie met Rhoda’s gaze, and she felt the strength of resolve rising within. Nadine needed someone who could speak for her, who could help protect her. Emilie would give her best for this woman. Today that would have to be enough.
CHAPTER 5
All night and into Friday morning, Emilie’s mind was a cauldron of spinning thoughts. Nadine needed her help now, as did the other women represented by the files, but could she help anyone until she understood what had gone wrong with Kaylene? About four in the morning she sent an e-mail requesting an all-staff early meeting, but she couldn’t loosen the panic her fears wrapped around her heart.
She scanned headlines, but they were empty of any new information.
She still couldn’t believe Kaylene had shot her girls. But if she hadn’t, who did? As far as she knew, only family had been in the home, but just because the media hadn’t mentioned another presence didn’t mean there wasn’t one.
When she arrived at the office, she sent an e-mail to Taylor asking her to order the police report. After a time of staring at a file but not seeing the contents, she glanced at her watch and then gathered her notepad, pen, and phone. It was time to head to the conference room. Her fellow employees straggled in, curiosity or boredom on their faces as they took seats at the oval laminate table. Black-and-white photos of DC landmarks softened the beige walls and carpet. It would be nice to have more color to warm the room, but the reality was the work they did at the Haven wasn’t warm and fuzzy. It often had an edge of life and death and utter chaos.
Rhoda was the last to file in, a slightly impatient look on her face as she settled into her usual chair at the head of the table. “Looks like we’re here. Mind telling us why you asked for this meeting?”
Taylor shifted in her seat, her coral top and bright turquoise beads a nice contrast to Rhoda’s sterile suit. “I’m curious too.”
Emilie launched into her theory quickly, before her boss could grow more impatient. She glanced at the people filling the chairs at the table. Several worked as caseworkers, meaning they were responsible for helping a portfolio of clients receive the support they needed. A couple filled counseling or other specialized roles like her own.
Her gaze stopped when it landed on Shannon Riaz. “I can’t stop thinking about Kaylene Adams. I realized I didn’t know her as well as some of you may have. Shannon and any others who worked with her, I’d like your impressions of her and her story. Did she have friends she confi—”
Rhoda interrupted her. “Why are we spending time on a woman we can’t help when there are dozens in need of our assistance?”
“What if the story as we know it isn’t correct?” Emilie leaned forward. “The Kaylene I knew could not have done what the police say.”
Taylor nodded. “I agree. I can’t imagine her with a gun.”
“She could have had one.” This came from Shannon, the recent graduate who filled a social worker role and had been Kaylene’s caseworker. “She asked me how to get a permit and where to purchase one.”
Emilie’s heart sank. “Why would she ask you that?”
“She noticed the photo I have behind my desk.” Shannon shifted against the chair. “I was on my college rifle team, and she was interested.” She raised her hands defensively as Rhoda groaned. “What?”
“This is exactly the kind of information that cannot get out. We do not need anyone suggesting that we helped arm a murderer.” Rhoda looked at each person around the table with unflinching intensity. “I am absolutely serious about this. I see this information in the news, I find out who leaked it, and you will lose your job.”
Her gaze settled heavily on Emilie, as if she expected her to sprint to the Nation’s Post with an exclusive.
“Don’t worry, I’m not writing anything for anyone.” Emilie jotted a note. “Okay, so she asked about a gun. Did she actually buy one?”
“We need to end this discussion right here.” Rhoda leaned forward, palms pressed flat against the table. “Nothing good can come of this conversation.”
“I disagree. If we can figure out whether Kaylene owned a gun, we can determine whether it was used in the shooting.” Emilie kept pushing. “What if it wasn’t her gun? What if she was trapped?”
“Then she should have let us help her. The video certainly makes it look like she was the one using it. It absolutely cannot get out that we had anything to do with talking to Kaylene about a gun. Am I clear?” Rhoda made eye contact with each person at the table. “This is not a topic we should discuss with our women.”
Emilie watched the others nod, even if with reluctance.
“Emilie?” Rhoda focused completely on her, steel in her eyes. “Do I have your cooperation?”
Emilie swallowed hard, feeling all moisture drain from her mouth. “I need to think about this.”
“There’s nothing to think about. Either you’re working for the good of this agency or you’re not.”
Suddenly Taylor jerked as if she’d been jolted with electricity. She mouthed sorry, then pulled out her phone. “Emilie, we have a client emergency.”
Emilie jumped up and made her way out of the conference room with a quick thanks, Taylor close on her heels.
“Who is it?”
“No one. I knew you needed an out.”
Emilie stifled a smile as she hurried into her office. “You’d better create a real client emergency in case Rhoda fact-checks.” She sank into her leather office chair and jiggled her mouse to wake up her computer. “Have you ever seen her like that?”
“No, but her assistant said she’s been under intense pressure. It sounds like she’s had to do some fancy stepping to keep key donors from bailing.”
“I wonder why. No one has said Kaylene came here.”
Taylor shrugged. “Who knows?”
Maybe they would never understand. Much as she wanted to plead that everyone was wrong about Kaylene, Emilie couldn’t ignore the voice in her head saying that somehow she should have prevented both deaths.
Reid did an Internet search for all articles related to his sister’s death. Maybe a reporter had found someone to interview he hadn’t thought of yet.
Which wouldn’t be hard. He hadn’t stayed in touch with Kaylene, allowing space to grow between them. He’d been focused on college and then launching his career. Finance wasn’t one of those nine to five, walk-away-from-it jobs. At least not if you wanted to work for a top-notch firm, and he’d refused to settle for less.
What had that choice cost him?
He might never know, but he could do something now for Kinley. He could make sure she was safe, and maybe in doing that he could absolve his earlier selfishness.
The browser did its job too well, pulling up a long list of articles. So this was what it was like to be infamous. As he scanned the articles, he sensed a pattern to the reporting. There was the sensational element of the first days. Mother shoots her kids. Family in chaos. Scandal and abuse abound. Not the first time one of the couple had called the police or sought help.
Wait, they’d sought help? He reread the article slowly.
The reporter for this article had relied on innuendo, but had tracked down an unidentified source who suggested Kaylene had sought counseling and Robert had refused to participate. The source indicated it was a familiar story. Wife wants to save her marriage, work on serious issues, but receives no cooperation from husband.
Reid frowned. So how would that cause Kaylene to shoot her daughters? If Robert had been her problem, why wouldn’t she have shot him? Assuming, of course, that killing som
eone had ever been her intent—a leap of logic Reid still couldn’t make.
He felt his eyes cross as he read one more article. He stood and stretched, then went into his living room and sat at the baby grand. He closed his eyes and let his fingers move across the keys. The music poured from him. Fast, furious, forte.
It felt like a prayer. A demand asking God to intervene.
As tumultuous as his emotions were, he felt an odd settling peace as time slid by on a sea of notes that flowed without conscious thought. When he could keep his mind empty and open, he often heard God whisper.
Wasn’t that how the best prayers developed?
By opening one’s heart and mind to God, letting Him into the pain and the joy?
That was what he did in those moments at the piano.
The notes slowed as the air conditioner kicked on, sounding an accompanying hum. Reid swayed as the notes spilled from him.
Twenty minutes later the music eased to a fading note.
He opened his eyes. He hadn’t received any insights, but he felt solid, no longer subject to the day’s sucker punches and blows. As he went back to his tasks, he felt renewed hope that if he kept on the same path he would find truth. And if that truth were that Kaylene had shot and killed her daughters, then he would deal with it. Tragedies happened in a world broken with sin. But he also knew he didn’t feel released from his burden to investigate. He would pursue this further . . . after he got through the afternoon’s memorial service.
CHAPTER 6
Emilie straightened the hemline of the black, businesslike jacket she wore over a black sheath. The ensemble felt like a uniform that didn’t quite fit. She should feel warm in the sweltering heat of a Washington, DC, August afternoon, but all she felt was a bone-level chill. She couldn’t warm up no matter how much coffee or hot tea she drank, and she felt the circling vulture of fear colliding with her shock and grief.
She caught her heel on a step and stumbled, then Taylor stepped closer to steady her as they entered the heavy wooden front door.
Emilie grabbed Taylor’s hand and squeezed tight. She would get through the next hour and then pray that the following week would bring a sea change in her rattled and battered emotions. She’d write her article over the weekend for the Nation’s Post and return to the office Monday ready to forget this week. Then she spotted an enlarged photo of Kaylene with her precious girls, and her knees threatened to buckle. Taylor immediately tightened her hold.
“You okay?”
Emilie shook her head, unable to form words, and then Taylor pulled her into a hug that she couldn’t fight any more than she could return. And they hadn’t even made it into the sanctuary. She allowed herself to soak in the comfort for a moment, then pushed back. “We should get inside.”
Emilie looked around the large entry that was filled with people in small clumps. Did all these people really know Kaylene or the girls? This was supposed to be a private service, and she’d been surprised when Taylor told her they had an invitation. Was it Kaylene’s brother’s way of testing whether she really knew his sister? A small cluster of teenagers caught her eyes. Maybe they had been friends of Kaydence.
Taylor took the lead as they moved through the anteroom to the small sanctuary.
A man stood at the doorway shuffling his feet as he tugged at his shirt cuffs. This had to be Kaylene’s brother, Reid, his face a masculine version of hers. The wariness on his face indicated his discomfort as he settled a hand on an older woman’s back. Maybe a grandmother? Kaylene had mentioned being raised by her grandparents. Reid’s brown eyes were so somber as his gaze briefly met Emilie’s that for a moment she forgot her annoyance that the man hadn’t called her back.
“Hey, girl. You ready to quit staring?” Taylor’s soft words yanked Emilie from her thoughts.
“Ummm.” The flush of heat that started at the base of her neck had nothing to do with the early-afternoon sunshine pouring through a window.
“Do you want to stop and talk to him? Confirm who he is?”
Standing slightly behind Reid was a bear of a man, his attention laser-focused on the people milling about. A bodyguard? She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out, but she did want to meet Reid.
“We’ll greet him, then find a seat.” Just then a crying woman pushed in front of them and embraced the man. The last thing Emilie wanted was to enter the emotional fray of a stranger’s grief. She tugged Taylor toward the sanctuary door. “Let’s leave them alone. We can find him after the service.”
Taylor selected a pew toward the middle, then slid in. Emilie squared her jaw. She would endure every second of the service that honored her client and friend. Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at the alert. It was a reminder that she was supposed to meet Kaylene for coffee Saturday morning. Once Robert had forced the girls to stop piano lessons, the two women had squeezed their consultations in when Kaylene was shopping, giving her plausible deniability if Robert asked where she’d been.
Emilie’s eyes clouded with tears as she cleared the alert, then fixed her gaze on the pulpit. There was no casket or viewing. This was a time to remember Kaylene and start the process of letting go.
The service passed in a blur of meaningless words from a pastor who didn’t know Kaylene. The man tried, Emilie had to acknowledge, but he missed the essence of what had made the woman so special. The way she’d found a courage deep inside, her all-encompassing love for her girls, the little ways she’d found to begin reclaiming her life. He was followed by two people, but she could tell they felt lost and confused. The reality of Kaylene’s death overshadowed their memories of her. How could any of them match the woman they knew and loved with the reality of her death? The images they had with her were superimposed with Monday’s grainy video.
The moment the service ended after a mournful song, Emilie was too glad to let Taylor drag her outside. “I think I’m going to start the weekend early.” She didn’t have the strength to talk to other women with struggles like Kaylene’s. Not today. “I’ve got to write an article.”
“The one that’s refusing to cooperate?”
Emilie nodded, her throat constricting.
Taylor pulled her sunglasses down from her hair. “I’ll check e-mail over the weekend in case you need anything for Monday’s deposition in Virginia Beach. Don’t forget Tuesday’s hearing. We can finish prepping for that over the phone if it helps.”
“I haven’t forgotten the hearing.” Emilie tried to smile. “I’ll get this article knocked out and then be ready to dive back in.”
Emilie climbed into her car and drove home. As soon as she walked inside, she tossed her purse on the kitchen counter and poured a glass of iced mint tea. The refreshing coolness soothed her as she gulped it down. She slipped downstairs and changed into a comfortable maxi dress with a cardigan. The lower temperature of the basement should help wake her up and get her mind moving. The shadows felt deep, and even a dozen lit lavender and vanilla scented candles couldn’t chase the gloom from her space. She turned on instrumental praise and worship, but it couldn’t press back the weight of grief and guilt.
Before she could get down to the business of writing, she had to make sure Rhoda was okay with her spontaneous afternoon off. She went back upstairs and retrieved her purse from the kitchen, pausing to dig for her phone.
When she couldn’t find it, she gave up and dumped the contents on the counter. As she reached to snag a tube of lipstick rolling toward the edge, she spied a folded piece of stiff paper. She opened it and stared.
I HAVEN’T DISAPPEARED FROM YOUR LIFE
Emilie reread the note, the block letters swimming along the page.
She flipped it over but saw nothing distinguishing about the paper, nothing to indicate where it had come from.
Was this someone’s idea of a bad joke?
It must have been slipped into her purse at the memorial, since she’d cleaned out all the paper detritus before the service. Who would have done it? There were enough people prese
nt that there was no way she could know who had left the note for her. She slipped it into the junk drawer. Should she contact the police? Though the note caused her pulse to race, she knew that no one else would take such a benign message seriously. They’d discount her concerns, as they had before. She closed the drawer with a sigh and headed back downstairs.
Until last April, article ideas and the actual writing had flowed in a steady stream. Now her mind refused to cooperate. She’d turned in a few pieces, but not nearly of the quality she’d produced before, and her editor was placing enormous pressure on her to up her game. No one seemed to understand that stumbling onto a scandal like the one involving the son of a Mexican drug lord murdered at his father’s order while in US custody was a once-in-a-lifetime scenario. Not to mention that she’d only gotten on to the story through Hayden’s involvement in the case. How was Emilie supposed to replicate a coup like that without her own life being threatened? No one else seemed to consider that when they demanded more from her.
Each time she sat frozen at her computer, her panic grew.
Time and deadline extensions were expiring, and she didn’t know how to recover.
An hour later Emilie still stared at a blank screen as her emotions roiled.
Enough.
She must write this article.
She plugged in her noise-canceling headphones and took a deep breath. Her editor expected a blazing exposé on a pork barrel bill careening through the Senate. Instead, she wanted to write an essay about how blind people were to the crisis of domestic violence. Yeah, her editor would love that.
Words had always been Emilie’s strength. She could string them together in a way that changed judges’ minds and congressmen’s hearts. But tonight she couldn’t get two words to make sense, let alone make the legislation interesting.
