Without Sin (An Owen Day Thriller)

by Rachel Ford

“It’s just the cops. It has to be.”

  “Probably,” I said, though I didn’t believe it. “But let’s be careful anyway, okay?”

  She nodded and unfastened her seatbelt. I reached for the door handle, and she stretched out a hand to my arm. “Owen, just – be careful yourself, okay?”

  “I will, Megan.”

  The boys were still yelling at each other. I briefly considered trying to silence them. Whoever these people were, they were presumably waiting for Megan and the kids. They might be familiar with her church friends and their vehicles.

  They might be expecting the woman with the voice, since she’d picked her up in the first place. But I doubted they’d be expecting me or my vehicle. I didn’t come here often enough for that. So even though they would have spotted the SUV – I had no doubt of that – they’d assume it was the neighbor’s, or someone here for the neighbor. So I didn’t want to draw attention our way, which screaming kids certainly would.

  But we hadn’t managed to shut the kids up during the ride home, and I wasn’t counting on any kind of miracle now. So I stepped out of the vehicle and shut the door behind me.

  I waited for half a second as I saw her shift toward my seat. Then I started walking toward the Welch residence.

  At first, I saw no one: no one in the vehicles, and no one waiting outside them. I didn’t see anyone in the house, either.

  I kept walking and kept scanning. The night was dark. Not pitch black; not yet. But dusk had come and gone, and we were in the burgeoning darkness that follows, right before night settles in all her glory.

  I should have already been logged onto my computer by now. I’d have to call my boss and set things right.

  Later. The job, the boss – it could all wait for later.

  The garage’s motion-activated lights sprang on. I paused. I was still two houses down. I could see more of the vehicles now. I could see colors: some kind of dark blue or black sedan, several years old to judge by the angles. A few years too old to be a cop car.

  So, not the police.

  There was a van with a logo I couldn’t make out just past the driveway, and an SUV just before it. No logos on that one, or the car in the driveway.

  I still couldn’t see anyone because of the angles and the cars, but someone was there. Someone had to be. The motion sensor hadn’t tripped itself.

  I walked on until I got one house down. I still didn’t see anyone in the yard, but I spotted a shadow. It was leaned against the side of the car, arms folded. I could get no reading on height or gender.

  It stretched and elongated the way shadows did in strange lighting angles. It would be calculable, but not with the information I had.

  As for gender, there were none of the telltale curves of a typical female figure, but loose-fitting clothes or an atypical figure could explain that. The shadowy projection’s hair looked shorter on the sides and taller on the top in a way that could have been a man’s cut or a woman’s, and its distorted features seemed regular enough to be either.

  No way to tell more without seeing the person.

  So I strode forward as casually as I could. The van’s driver’s side door opened. I slowed down but kept walking. A woman stepped out and took a few steps until she stood in the light. A woman I knew.

  No, that wasn’t right. I didn’t know her. But I’d definitely seen her before. She was tall and blond and well put together. She wore a light gray jacket, and some kind of business casual slacks – blue or black, I thought. I couldn’t tell which.

  Someone else got out on the other side of the vehicle: a man, carrying something. I couldn’t quite tell what.

  Then I was near enough to see over the roof of the SUV, and get a clear glimpse of the logo on the van. It was the local news station, and the woman I thought I knew was one of the local reporters.

  Chapter Six

  The guy in the driveway had a podcast and ran accounts across a variety of social media channels. He rattled off a bunch of names: YouTube, TikTok, SnapChat, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter. Apparently, he had a presence on all of them.

  He told me he was a true crime investigator and amateur documentary maker. I told him he was a trespasser, and if he didn’t get his ass off my sister-in-law’s property, they’d be making true crime documentaries about what happened to him.

  He moved the car, but he parked just down from the van.

  The pair from the van were real reporters, Krissy Blake and cameraman Jack Edwards from the local TV news station. The guys in the SUV were from a different channel, in a nearby media market.

  They all wanted to do interviews. I told them all to piss off.

  The reporters were very understanding. They told me that over and over. They understood that this was difficult. They understood that it would be hard for me to talk. But they also understood that appeals for public assistance helped. Maybe someone knew something. Maybe hearing from me would convince someone to come forward and say something.

  When that failed, they understood that the widowed Mrs. Welch lived here. Would she be able to talk to them?

  The true crime guy was less polite, but no less persistent. He wanted to know why I didn’t want the truth to get out to his followers and subscribers, of which there were, apparently, quite a few. “Half a million, across all platforms. About two hundred thousand on YouTube alone.”

  He didn’t like to take no for an answer. His followers thought outside the box, and I should be embracing that. “Do you know how many serial killers the cops let get away with it, all the time? They’re dinosaurs. They’re stuck in the past.

  “Crowd sourcing, man: that’s the way to go. You want to find out who killed your brother? You want to find him before he kills again? Why rely on the cops? Why not have millions of people working for you instead?”

  I pointed out that by his own admission he had only half a million subscribers across all platforms. “And last I checked, half is not millions.”

  “I’m telling you, man: this story, it’s got viral potential. You want millions of investigators? We’ll get you millions.”

  “I want you out of my sight, before I have to call the cops. All of you: get the hell out of here. We’re not doing interviews tonight.”

  “It’s a public sidewalk, man,” the true crime guy reminded me. “I can stand on it all night if I like.”

  I pulled out my phone and started dialing Detective Clark’s number. “Let’s find out what the local loitering ordinances are.”

  He backed down at that, and so did the reporters. Not, I figured, because the cops could do much. As long as the vultures didn’t obstruct passage, legally they could probably gather as long as they liked.

  But this was round one, and it was late and dark. They wouldn’t play hardball. Not this soon. They’d be back tomorrow, trying to score interviews again. And they wouldn’t want to ensure an automatic no.

  So they piled into their vehicles. The SUV from the nearby media market left. The van and the sedan remained.

  I shook my head but didn’t try further. It was a public road. They could park wherever they wanted, until ten anyway.

  Would I be staying up to ten to monitor the parking situation, and phone it in if they fell afoul? They could take that to the bank. I hoped they did.

  But in the meantime, I waved Megan over. The headlights sprang to life again, and the vehicle started moving. It rolled into the driveway slowly, pulling into the spot the true crime guy’s vehicle occupied a minute earlier.

  The van doors opened, and the sedan’s driver’s door opened. The reporter and the camera man and the true crime guy swarmed out, cameras rolling. They headed for the driveway, until I turned around.

  Something in my expression or body language must have warned them off, because they were fastidious about not putting a foot on private property. They stayed on the sidewalks, filming and shouting their questions.

  “Mrs. Welch, how are you and the kids holding up after the tragic news of your husband’s
murder?”

  “Are there any leads? Have the cops given you any updates about the Nursery Rhyme Killer?”

  “Do the police have a suspect in mind?”

  “Do the cops think he’s going to target you and your family now?”

  They prattled on. I did my best to shield Megan and the kids from their view. And to his credit, so did Jason. He was a skinnier guy than me, but together we formed a pretty good barrier against the vultures.

  Still, I could see the slump in Megan’s form as she hurried toward the door, cradling Ben. The boy looked huge in her arms, but she clung to him like she would an infant. Maisie stopped and stared at the reporters, a glassy look in her eyes.

  A look I knew too well.

  “Come on, Mais,” I said, urging her forward. “Go with your mom.”

  They got to the door, and Megan shifted Ben to unlock it. Daniel and Maisie crowded behind her on the step. I took Jason’s arm and leaned in. “Make sure they get in. I’ll be in in a minute.”

  I headed back down the drive. Krissy took a step backward and put on her placating voice. She just wanted to help. The entire city was worried sick about the killer. Didn’t they have the right to know what was going on? And so on. Her cameraman said nothing, but he took two steps backward.

  The true crime guy started pointing out that he was on his side of the public/private divide. “I’m just asking questions, man. I want the same thing you do: to bring this guy to justice, whoever he is.”

  “You want a statement?” I said. “Okay: here’s a fucking statement. Those kids just lost their dad. That woman just lost her husband.

  “A damned good father and husband. One of the best. And now there’s a bunch of goddamned vultures flocking outside their door, trying to profit off of their pain.

  “Well you can get your viral moment somewhere else, you bloodsuckers. You want to wait out here? Go right ahead. But I don’t care how long you wait. You’re not getting your fucking grief porn. They’re not going to sit there and weep on camera for your ratings.”

  The kids still looked glassy-eyed when I came in. Megan flashed me a relieved smile. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I just explained to the reporters that we wouldn’t be doing any interviews.”

  “Are they leaving?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She nodded. Then, seeming to remember something, she started. “Oh.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew my set of keys. “Your keys.”

  I took them and figured that was probably a hint. “I guess I should head out.”

  She nodded again, but without much conviction. “You probably have to get to work.”

  “Not tonight,” I said. “I’m going to take the night off.”

  “Oh. Well…you could stay, Owen.”

  “Stay…you mean, here?” She flushed a little, and I regretted the surprise in my tone. “I mean, I’m happy to. I just – are you sure you want me to?”

  She nodded, more adamantly this time. “Andy’s dead, Owen. We’re all we’ve got left of him now. We’re family. Aren’t we?”

  “Of course.” I nodded, and said it again, with more conviction. “Of course we are, Megan. I’m here for you, all of you. Whatever you need.”

  She hugged me again, sniffling and gulping back tears. She emerged a moment later, red-eyed but not sobbing. “Let me get the kids to bed, and then I’ll get the guest room made up for you.”

  “You don’t need to do that. The couch will be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Definitely. You need to rest too, Megan. Anyway, I’d rather be on the first floor. Just in case.”

  “Just in case?”

  “Just in case that son-of-a-bitch with the YouTube channel decides to prowl. I’d like to see how smug he looks with my fist in his face.”

  She half-smiled and half-sobbed at that. “You be careful. I don’t want anything happening to you.”

  “It’s not me who is going to be in trouble if we meet again. But, I will be.”

  “Okay. Then, let me tuck them in, and I’ll bring you some blankets and pillows.” She turned to her three children. “Come on, kids: say goodnight to Uncle Owen.”

  They did. Hugs and kisses were exchanged, and then the kids headed off to brush their teeth and put on their pajamas. I headed into the living room, and my temporary new abode.

  Jason followed me. He’d been standing to the side, awkward and silent. He plunked in one of the armchairs while I sat on the sofa. “Lucky.”

  “What?”

  He jerked his head toward the garage. “They put me in the garage. Like a puppy that pees on the carpet.”

  I wasn’t particularly sympathetic. “Probably had something to do with not wanting the kids to inhale copious amounts of smoke on a regular basis.”

  “Copious?” He pulled a face. “I’ll bet you’re a blast at parties.”

  I figured it probably wouldn’t help my case to point out that I didn’t go to parties at all. “Not that it hasn’t been fun and all…but don’t you have a garage waiting for you?”

  He stayed where he was, though. He stayed there until Megan came down with the blankets, and he stayed while we said our goodnights. He stayed after she went back upstairs.

  “What?” I asked finally.

  “I’m glad you stopped by today, man. That’s all. I think – well, Megs really needed it. Her and the kids. I know they kind of trashed your car.”

  I grimaced at that, but offered a mild, “Nothing a good vacuuming won’t handle.”

  “The milkshake’ll have be to scrubbed.”

  I blinked. “The…what?”

  “Oh yeah. You were already gone when that happened. Ben tossed his milkshake at Maisie. It missed her, but, well, hit your seat.”

  I groaned. “For fuck’s sake.”

  “I’ll help you clean it tomorrow, if you want.”

  I eyed him suspiciously. I’d seen nothing about the other man to indicate that he even knew how to clean himself properly, never mind anything else. Still, I managed a, “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  We lapsed into silence for a second. Then, I remembered something I’d observed earlier. “Hey, what’s up with them calling Maisie ‘Piggy’?”

  “Oh, that.” Jason half-laughed and shifted in his seat.

  “Is that coming from Megan?”

  He glanced up, surprised by the question. “How’d you know that?”

  It had been obvious, between the comments about how much she was eating, to the efforts to redistribute the food she did have, to the lax approach to the boys’ comments. But I said only, “A few things they said. What’s going on?”

  He shifted again. “Megan thinks Maisie’s too heavy for her age. You know: fat.”

  I gathered as much, but the words still surprised me. Maisie was tall and bony. “She’s not fat.” Not that bullying a fat kid for their weight was anything but cruel anyway, but it didn’t even make sense here.

  “I know. But Megan – well, she worries. You know, about the other kids at school, picking on her.”

  “Why? She isn’t fat.”

  He looked away. “Don’t know.”

  “What’s going on, Jason?”

  He said nothing.

  “Should I ask her, tomorrow morning?”

  That got his attention. “Hell, man, no. She just lost her husband.”

  “Maisie just lost her dad. She doesn’t need bullying in her own home.”

  Jason shifted again, and said, “I know. The thing is, Megan was…well, kind of fat, as a kid. Some of the kids gave her shit for it.” He threw a glance around and lowered his voice. “She lost the weight as she grew up, but it messed her up a little. She had an eating disorder for a bit.”

  “She’s going to give Maisie one.”

  He nodded and looked like he might say more. Then he clamped his lips shut.

  “Someone’s going to have to talk to her.”

  “Not
me, dude. I sleep in the garage. And the garage is the only reason I’m not out on the street. No way I’m saying a word.”

  “This is the first time we’ve talked in a decade,” I reminded him.

  “So you’ve got less to lose.”

  I shook my head. But I was tired. I didn’t know if I’d actually get to sleep. I didn’t feel sleepy. But I did feel too tired to argue, or to take on more problems. “I’ve got to make some calls.”

  He nodded and got to his feet. “You still owe me my keys.”

  I fished them out and tossed them to him.

  He caught them and offered a mock salute with the same hand. “Right. Well, I’ll head out. And, the keys thing aside, thanks for everything you did today. I know it made a difference.”

  I waited until he was out of the house. Then I made my calls.

  My boss had been gone for hours already, so I left her a message. I followed it up with an email, and I used my workplace portal to put in the official PTO request.

  Then I rang Detective Clark. I expected to get her voicemail, but she picked up after the third ring. She sounded surprised to hear from me, but not annoyed. Which was good. I sometimes had that effect on people.

  I told her about the cameramen and the true crime guy. She confirmed my suspicion, that there wasn’t much they could do. But she promised to put some patrol units in the area. “And if anyone trespasses, or harasses your family, well, we’ll take care of it.”

  Then I laid down to sleep.

  Sleep didn’t come. The problem – that’s how I thought of it – played around in my mind. I thought through the timeline.

  Andy had gone missing four days ago, on Monday. Megan had dropped him off at the gym at seven in the morning, on the way to bring the kids to school.

  He had spent the day working. I still didn’t know what that entailed. Detective Clark hadn’t proffered details, and I’d had no chance to ask Megan. I assumed, and the detective heavily implied, his work had involved the church.

  But in what capacity and to what extent, I didn’t yet know. That had to be on the top of my agenda for tomorrow. I didn’t plan to bail on them, but there were no guarantees. Tomorrow, Megan might rise with a clearer mind, and be less willing to bury a perfectly serviceable ten-year grudge.