SUCH A GOOD GIRL: An urgently timely gripping mystery with a heartbreaking twist (Eva Rae Thomas Mystery Book 9)

by Willow Rose

  “Where he met with Kimmie. And Samantha Durkin? When did she get there?”

  “She arrived at eight-thirty that night and was let in by the doorman who had seen her with Wanton before and believed her when she said she was meeting Wanton at his apartment. Wanton says he barely knew her and that she was obsessed with him, and that she was stalking him. He stated that he hadn’t asked her to come, that she had come on her own, and it was as much a surprise to him that she was there inside his apartment as it was to Kimmie.”

  I wrinkled my forehead. “Really? That’s his excuse? What a poor one. No one will ever believe that.”

  “That was his statement over and over again, according to the report.”

  “I see.”

  “And Savage’s role in all this?” my dad asked.

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I have a feeling he was also there on that night, but I just can’t figure out how he fits in.”

  “They have been known to cover for each other,” my dad said. “These guys will do anything for one another. Maybe Wanton is taking the fall for him?”

  “But why would he do that?”

  “Because he owes him?”

  I nodded, biting my lip. It was plausible but just didn’t ring right with me.

  “Whatever it is, Eva Rae,” my dad said, “promise me you’ll be careful. These are powerful people. They’ll do anything to protect themselves and each other. Anything.”

  Chapter 67

  They were shown into John Savage’s office by his assistant, and the door closed behind them. Rachel felt her hands get clammy as she threw a glance around the room. The interior was decorated very modernly, with a glass desk in the center and big windows behind it, showing the view over the yard and trees behind the white modern architectural designed house. It had a lot of sleek and clean surfaces, and Rachel didn’t see any dust on any of the shelves. The huge Mac computer screen on the glass desk seemed brand-new.

  “Sorry if I’m late,” a voice said behind her as the door opened and a man stepped inside. Rachel held her breath as she recognized John Savage. He had a serious look on his face. And he wasn’t alone. Behind him came two suit-wearing men, carrying briefcases. Seeing them made Rachel’s heart drop.

  “I thought I was just going to talk to him?” she whispered to Crystal.

  Rachel stared at the men, heart hammering in her chest. Did they expect her to tell her story to all these people? Just like that? She had never talked to any of them before, and they were men. Her story was quite private and personal, and she wasn’t sure she would be able to.

  “Crystal?”

  “Let’s sit down,” Crystal said and pointed at the conference table. Rachel followed her and grabbed a chair, then sat down. The men sat across from them. None of them seemed to look directly at her, and that made her feel uncomfortable.

  “We’ve read your statement, Rachel McBeal,” one of them said, looking down at his papers and not up at her. He had short red hair and freckles covering his face. He seemed young.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, puzzled. “I didn’t give any statement.”

  He pushed a piece of paper across the table toward her, and she looked at it, then up at Crystal.

  “But that was…that was just for you. I wrote my story for you to read, not for anyone else to see. I wrote it because it was hard for me to say it out loud. It wasn’t supposed to be seen by anyone else or used for… What’s going on here?”

  Crystal wasn’t looking at her either. Rachel felt like her throat was getting tighter. She had to take a couple of deep breaths to calm herself. Her heart was pounding loudly.

  “How did this man get the…excuse me, who are you people?” Rachel said.

  “We are Lipman and Nichols, Attorneys at Law, representing our client, Richard Wanton.”

  “Wanton? But…” she turned to look at Crystal. “What is this? Did you know they’d be here? I…I don’t understand.”

  “It has come to our attention that you are making some pretty serious accusations against our client,” the redhead said. “We’re here to make sure you stop doing that.”

  Rachel almost dropped her jaw. “Excuse me? What do you mean?”

  “In this statement, you are accusing our client of rape, am I correct?”

  Rachel felt confused. She kept looking at Crystal for help, but she didn’t say a word. “I have just told my story, but this was private…”

  “We need you to stop doing that. It is a lie from one end to the other.”

  Rachel’s eyes grew wide. Her heart was hammering so hard in her chest, it almost hurt. She felt dizzy, unable to focus properly. It felt like a nightmare.

  “What…who…?”

  “We have here a contract that we want you to sign today. By doing so, you agree not to accuse our client of rape again.”

  “I’m not gonna…no…why…?”

  The redhead tilted his head.

  “Just sign it, please.”

  “No. I have the right to tell my story. You can’t take that away from me. He hurt me, and I am going to say that once we take this to court.”

  “You’re on Prozac, right? We have here a picture of the prescription medicine, and your name clearly stated on the bottle.”

  He pushed the picture toward her so she could see it.

  “How did you get that?”

  “You’re not reliable,” he continued. “In fact, you’re mentally unstable. No one will believe you. You have a mental disorder. You suffer from anxiety, am I right?”

  “I…I had a panic attack because…”

  The redhead interrupted her. “How can you claim to be a sane person? How do you expect a judge to believe your story? It won’t stand up in court.”

  Rachel’s shoulders tensed. She didn’t understand anything. What was going on here?

  “But…I’m…not…”

  “And you drink too, am I right?” he said and pulled out a picture. He turned it to show her. “That is you, right? Behind all those empty bottles? This is a picture of you we’re looking at, right? Drinking with your friends?”

  “But…that picture…” she turned to look at Crystal. “You took that. On the day we were out eating. You ordered all those bottles of wine, not me. And now it makes it look like I was drinking all that?”

  Crystal didn’t say anything. She fiddled with her papers, looking down.

  Rachel scoffed, her shoulders coming down.

  “You’re working for them. You’ve been working for them all this time, haven’t you? You took the picture of my prescription medicine on the day you visited me at my house? You found it in my bathroom. You were never on my side, were you? You were never going to help us—any of us. You were sent out to track all the women down that might have a story on Wanton to make sure we’re found and forced to shut up. Because of the trial. Wow. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have…you tricked me?”

  Rachel rose to her feet, pushing the chair back with a swift movement that almost tipped it over.

  “I need to go.”

  She grabbed her purse and bag, then rushed toward the door, heart pounding in her chest, trying to avoid the panic from settling in.

  “No one will ever believe you, Rachel,” the redhead yelled after her. “You’re mentally unstable and a drunk.”

  Crying heavily, her entire body shaking in panic and anxiety, Rachel opened the door, then ran out into the hallway and down the stairs, while she could still hear the lawyer’s words ringing in her head.

  Mentally unstable. A drunk. That’s all you are, Rachel. That’s all you are.

  As she stormed for the front door, she passed a woman standing in the hallway, big sad eyes lingering on her. She looked fragile and small and like she wanted to say something to Rachel. She reached out her hand toward her, but Rachel pulled away, crying, then ran out the front door.

  Chapter 68

  “I don’t get it,” I said and slammed the door shut behind me. I had
walked back to the farmhouse where Kimmie was sitting in the kitchen with a warm cup of coffee between her hands.

  She looked up, a little startled.

  “What was John’s role in all this?”

  She shook her head. “I told you to let it go. He wasn’t there. He’s Wanton’s best friend, yes, but he wasn’t at the apartment. You heard me wrong.”

  I stared at her, feeling how annoyed I was, trying not to let it get to me. Everything about this woman made me so frustrated.

  “I don’t think you’ve told me the truth,” I said. “You’re hiding something, something important.”

  Kimmie gave me an annoyed look. “Why won’t you let it go? I told you what happened in the apartment. End of story.”

  I exhaled. “I’m not so sure you have. At least not all of it. I know when I’m being lied to, Kimmie.”

  She tilted her head. “Really? Chad lied to you for more than a year, and you didn’t notice.”

  I stared down at her, my nostrils flaring, fighting to control myself. I grabbed my laptop, then walked toward the bedroom. Before walking in there, I turned to look at her:

  “Maybe I did notice. Maybe I even knew. Maybe I just decided not to care.”

  She didn’t say anything, and I walked into the bedroom and closed the door behind me. I felt like running back out there and strangling her but kept myself as calm as possible. I stayed in the room for hours as it grew dark outside. When Miranda came in and said there was food, I told her I wasn’t hungry. I had things to do, thoughts to conquer. I couldn’t grasp this story. I couldn’t wrap my head around it, and my intuition told me something was completely off. It all boiled down to the motive. Why would Wanton kill Samantha Durkin? Had she threatened him? Was he scared she might expose him? But then why do it there? Why did he do it in his own apartment? Because he got so mad at her? Because he reacted in anger? It didn’t seem like him to be so irrational. He was a calculated man, someone who had played the game to get to the top. What could make him lose it like that?

  I sat on the floor of my bedroom until bedtime, wondering about these things, when Miranda knocked on the door and came inside.

  “There’s someone on the phone for you, on my cell. I tried to tell him you weren’t here, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He said he knew you were and that he’s your…dad? I thought I knew your dad?”

  I stared up at her. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell it to you later.”

  I grabbed her cell in my hand. “What are you doing calling me here? What if they track your phone? And how the heck did you know where to find me? I didn’t tell you where I am.”

  My dad cleared his throat. “Do you really want to know all that, or just know that I am good at finding people and trust that I know how to protect myself from being traced, as I am…a pretty skilled hacker?”

  “Okay, point taken, and no, I probably don’t want to know more. Why are you calling me?”

  “I got something for you, something you’ll really like.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. I couldn’t help myself after talking to you. I needed to know more. So, I gained access to John Savage’s private computer and snooped around for quite a while. You wouldn’t believe what I found.”

  Chapter 69

  THEN:

  They shared a cab there. Samantha got out and walked up to the building, following Jeremy. He pressed a button at the intercom, then received an answer, and the door was buzzed open. Jeremy held the door for Samantha. She walked up the stairs, and he came up behind her.

  “It’s on the third floor, on your right.”

  It wasn’t where Mitt Paige lived with his family, Samantha had been told. This was a place he slept when working because he lived almost two hours outside of D.C with his wife and son. And when he often had late shifts or early ones, he’d stay the night in the apartment, so he didn’t need to commute the next day. It was something several of the anchors did.

  “Just walk straight in,” Jeremy said as Samantha approached the door. She felt a little shy just to walk into his place like that but did it anyway. Inside, there was music blasting from the living room, and she followed it until she stood inside and didn’t see anyone else.

  She turned to look at Jeremy, who walked past her. Mitt Paige came out of the kitchen, holding three beers, then handed her one.

  “Wh-where is everyone else?” she asked nervously.

  Mitt Paige smiled the way he was known for on TV. “They couldn’t make it. It’s okay. We’re celebrating you today. Cheers.”

  He clinked his bottle against hers, and Samantha felt herself calm down, then drank. Mitt was such a nice guy. He was everyone’s TV darling but was actually really nice in real life too. And funny. They sat down on a bench at the small dining table. Jeremy sat on the chair across from them with a deep, satisfied exhale.

  “It was a good show tonight. I think we can be really satisfied with that one.”

  “Your story was amazing, Sam,” Mitt said. “Congratulations on that one.”

  “Yeah, that is a big deal,” Jeremy said. “I remember my first story. Oh, boy, that is what…? Fifteen, no seventeen years ago. Oh, my, we’re getting old, Mitt.”

  “Speak for yourself. I’m still young and handsome,” Mitt said with a deep laugh.

  Jeremy leaned forward. “I remember my intern days. Mitt and I were in the same place; you remember that, Mitt?”

  “How could I forget. You stole my story. Don’t you ever let this guy know of anything you’re working on,” Mitt said and drank again. “He’ll steal it and make it his own. And then you’re stuck being an anchor for the rest of your life because no one thinks you can actually do anything else. Reduced to being nothing but a pretty face.”

  “Yeah, right. We feel really sorry for you, Mitt,” Jeremy said, laughing. “Oh…Do you remember that old producer we had?”

  “The guy who was senile, but no one wanted to admit it? He couldn’t remember which story he had given to who or what day it was, but everyone covered for him because he was so loved, so somehow, he always managed to pull together a decent news broadcast. What was his name again?”

  “Kurt something,” Jeremy said and finished his beer.

  Sam took another sip and looked at the two men. She truly enjoyed hearing these old stories from back in the day. It was one of the things she loved about the media business. So many funny characters, and it was never boring. People were so interesting and had tried so much in their lives. Even though she had felt a little uneasy at being alone with these two men, she felt suddenly very comfortable. They were like uncles to her, telling her stories from their youth. It was really sweet.

  “We can do another round, right?” Mitt said and got up. He walked to the kitchen before Sam could protest and tell him that she hadn’t even finished the first one, and she probably had to go home now.

  He came back a few seconds later, carrying three more beers, then handed one to Jeremy and left the other two on the round table. Then he sat down on the other side of where he had been sitting earlier, very close to Samantha.

  Part V

  The trial

  Chapter 70

  On the day the trial started, I traveled to D.C. with Kimmie and Tristan sitting in the back, me in the front, while Miranda drove the old purple Chevrolet pick-up truck. No one said a word. I guess we were all too nervous. And to be honest, I had no idea how this was ever going to end well.

  “So, what’s the plan here?” Miranda finally said as we reached the sign telling us we were fifteen miles outside of D.C. “I know you haven’t told me much about what this is or what is going to happen, but someone’s gotta ask, right?”

  I stared at her, then out the window at the landscape rushing by. I didn’t know what to say. Miranda took the exit, and we drove toward downtown. That’s when I spotted the black sedan in the side-view mirror. I kept an eye on it for a little while until I felt certain it was following us.

  “Say, that black se
dan has been on our tail for the past ten minutes,” I said, addressed to Miranda. “Have you noticed that?”

  Miranda looked in the rearview mirror with a “huh.”

  I glared at it in the mirror, my pulse quickening. Miranda slowed down at a red light. The sedan drove up on our side and came closer. As it did, I saw the driver lift a gun inside the cabin. I acted quickly, turned to face Kimmie and Tristan, and yelled:

  “GET DOWN!”

  They both threw themselves forward toward the floor, and I bent down, covering my head while the shots rained on our truck. We all screamed, and Miranda stepped on the accelerator and jerked the wheel to the left. The truck took a sharp turn before hitting the car in front of us. Miranda then steered it onto the street ahead and took a turn down a smaller road, almost hitting the oncoming traffic as she did. Cars were honking at us while Miranda very skillfully steered us down the one-way street, avoiding ramming into the cars coming toward us, sometimes by barely an inch. Inside the cabin, we were thrown around as she tried to lose the black sedan that was pursuing us, refusing to let us get away.

  “Hold on tight,” Miranda screamed at the top of her lungs as she took a sharp turn right, and the truck skidded sideways on the asphalt, then jolted forward again.

  “WATCH OUT!” I screamed as I stared directly into the front grill of a huge delivery truck.

  Miranda pulled the wheel hard to the right again and steered clear of the truck as it blasted past us, blowing its deep horn.

  Gasping for air, I looked in the mirror and saw the sedan pull up behind us, coming closer rapidly.

  “They’re still on our tail.”

  “How far to the courthouse?”

  “Two more blocks,” I said.

  Miranda nodded. “All right. Hold on tight.”

  She took a turn left, then one right, zigzagging through traffic, the sedan keeping up right behind us. Then, as she took a turn down one street, the traffic closed up in front of us, and we were stuck.