“Of course.” Taking a seat across from her, I opened my notepad and readied my pen. Connor, knowing the drill, hit the record button on the audio. “It is October 2th, 2019, approximately two in the afternoon, and prosecuting council is interviewing Mary Marks, older sister to the alleged victim, Maggie Marks.”
Mary muttered something indistinguishable.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.” I leaned in, indicating at Carter to scoot the microphone closer to Mary.
“I said, please don’t use that word,” she said a bit louder. “Alleged,” she clarified when she noted the puzzlement on my face. “It implies she’s not telling the truth.”
Connor’s and my head shook at the same time. “That’s not at all how I mean it, Ms. Marks. It’s simply a term I’m required to use before a verdict has been made.” Scribbling the witness’s name on my notepad, I asked, “What leads you to believe your sister is telling the truth? From what I understand, you moved out of the house over three years ago, correct?”
Mary’s head bobbed in acknowledgement, then she became very still.
Ice crystalized in my veins as I watched her. I’d interviewed enough people in my life to recognize the signs. I knew them so well, sometimes I dreamed in shades of gray and hanging heads.
“I know because . . .” Her throat moved as if she were swallowing a knife. Her eyes lifted to mine for a moment, so brief it barely registered. “Because he did the same thing to me.”
I set down my pen and got up to retrieve the box of tissues kept on the credenza by the door. “Ms. Marks, I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
I grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge as well. In my experience, most people liked to have something to drink as a distraction, if nothing else, from the questions we asked and the answers they possessed.
“If I’d known, or even thought, he might go after Maggie, I never would have run away like I did.” She pulled a few tissues from the box when I placed it beside her, though she wasn’t crying. Sexual abuse victims followed no standard pattern of behavior when opening up about the abuse. Some cried hysterical, gasping sobs, while others recounted the details as if they were reading from a history book.
“You couldn’t have known,” I assured her, taking my seat again. “You were trying to protect yourself.”
“Protecting me hurt her.” Mary crumpled the tissues, her eyes focused on the table.
“Would you be willing to go on record about the abuse?”
From beside me, I sensed Connor’s side-eye. You work together long enough with someone and reading their thoughts and subtle looks became second nature, the way it did with a spouse.
I gave her a minute to reflect. I’d allow her as much time as she needed, hoping I wouldn’t have to apply any pressure to reach a yes. Two victim’s stories were twice as strong as one victim’s account. A defense attorney worth their weight in pitchforks could latch on to something from Mother Teresa’s past and spin it to make it appear like a consensual encounter. But with two sisters abused by their father . . . not even Satan himself could get him off.
“I’ll do it.” Her voice was small and weak again, bottom lip trembling as she spoke.
“You’ll testify against your father? Be willing to share intimate details about what happened to you?” Twisting off the cap, I slid the water bottle across the table toward her.
She accepted it and took a few sips. “Yes.”
Connor scratched something on his notepad, while I slipped into the standard smile I used on the assault victims I worked with. Part sympathy, mostly apology, the faintest scrap of hope. Hope for justice, hope for recovery, hope for moving on.
A smile.
It wasn’t fucking enough.
Twelve
The temporary high from Noah’s gift reached its expiration at the Marks interview. I’d learned how to distance myself from the victims and my cases in order to take an objective stance, but some victims, some cases, chipped away at that iron resolve.
With my four o’clock meeting rescheduled, and given it was a Friday afternoon, I decided to duck out early to swing by Andee’s school and attempt to ford the icy waters of teenage conversation. Specifically, conversations circling the topic of teenage sex.
I didn’t have enough coffee or moxie in me for this endeavor, so well-intentioned stupidity would have to do. After the scene I’d walked in on last night, I couldn’t stop thinking about my responsibilities as a parent and the repercussions she would face if she and dickwad weren’t careful.
Did she even know about birth control? I knew the schools talked about it, but I’d never breeched the subject with her. Noah certainly hadn’t.
The traffic lights were on my side, so I made a quick stop at her favorite coffee spot in hopes an icy, sugary beverage could serve as an olive branch. I ordered a cake pop at the last minute when I pictured her face as the word crowning spilled from my mouth in my plan to scare the ever-loving hormones out of her.
Students were spilling out of Prescott Prep by the time I pulled into the guest parking lot. Andee would be making her way to the bus loop to climb aboard what she had coined Hell on Wheels ever since she turned thirteen and the novelty of the school bus wore off.
Cutting through waves of students in Prescott’s signature navy-and-emerald-green uniforms, I made it to the bus loop before any had departed for the afternoon. I couldn’t remember the number Andee rode, but only six buses were lined up. Most of the kids had cars—if they were of driving age—or a stay-at-home mom who played carpool duty. Some had personal drivers in black town cars waiting for them.
Pressing up onto my tiptoes to scan the crowd, I knew Andee would be easy to pinpoint. The throng of students was thinning when I caught sight of her inky purple hair cutting across the sidewalk. Back bowed, head down, she didn’t see me waiting for her as she stormed toward one of the buses sandwiched in the middle.
I knew better than to call her name in front of everyone, so I powered in her direction, hoping to catch her before she climbed on her bus. No high schooler, least of all mine, relished their parent stepping onto their bus and collecting them from it.
My pace slowed when I noticed a cluster of boys waiting beside one of the buses. A couple I recognized from sitting outside Principal Severson’s office last week. The handful of others weren’t familiar, but they all had the same look. Attractive, self-assured stances, all donning the same kind of backpack with their last names stitched across the backs. They must have been on the same sports team, I guessed, because these weren’t the type of boys who signed up for band or debate. At least not when I’d been in high school.
When Andee approached, they nudged one another, their attention diverting her way. If she saw them, or cared, she gave no hint. She stormed on, dark boots tromping, the hood of her black raincoat over her head though it wasn’t raining.
From the group of boys, I heard her name called once, then a few more times. She ignored them, her pace hastening as she neared her bus. I’d stopped moving to see what happened, hoping it wouldn’t end with Andee hauling off and decking one of them.
The boys cut off her path to the bus. Their attempts at garnering her attention continued to go unreciprocated. When she was a few strides away, the boys made some bowing type motion at her, whatever they were saying impossible to make out at this distance.
Sliding aside to get past them, Andee was met with the whole line shuffling down, cutting her off. When she attempted to go around from the other side, the same thing happened, the boys continuing to bow at her.
Unlike what Principal Severson had assured me, these boys weren’t merely saying hey in passing. None of them were touching her, but it was evident she wasn’t flattered by the cute-boy bowing reception waiting for her.
Moving toward the procession, I noticed the aid on bus duty paying more attention to the clouds than the kids funneling into the buses. I found myself crossing my fingers in hopes I could intervene before Andee’s kne
e became responsible for rendering one of those boys sterile. But instead of trying to get past them again, Andee spun around, breaking into a jog in the opposite direction. Rushing after her, I gave the boys a stern look as I passed, which went ignored. They were busy elbowing each other, chuckling.
I lost sight of Andee when she dodged around the side of the building, though it didn’t take more than a few minutes to find her stuffed against a brick wall in the outside courtyard. She was seated, knees tucked to her chest, gathered in a small ball. This was vastly different from the way she presented herself at home, so strong and assertive. She looked more child than woman sitting like this.
“Andee?” I stopped moving toward her when her shoulders stiffened.
“What are you doing here?” Her head remained tucked into the ball, her voice muffled from it.
“I thought I’d pick you up and we could have a talk, you know, about what happened last night. I picked you up a Frappuccino. It’s in the car.”
“That should fix everything.” It almost sounded like a sniff, which could imply crying, though she refused to show her face to me. “And I already know the ins and outs of sex, and how to prevent the spread of STDs and an unwanted pregnancy, so you can check that off your list and get on with the next hundred things in your day.”
The clack of my heels approaching made her tense more, so I settled myself several feet down the brick wall from her. “Those boys back there . . .”
“What boys?”
“The boys you managed to control yourself from punching, kneeing, or hitting,” I replied.
“If I nailed every guy each time they did something stupid like that, I’d have a permanent desk in Severson’s office.”
“So that kind of thing happens a lot?” I asked, taking a seat myself, not caring about the dirt or the damp leaves.
“It’s high school. If it’s not one form of torture, it’s another.” Andee’s voice was shifting into the realm of defiant I was used to, the small, frail tone dissipating.
“Yeah, but a group of boys preventing you from getting on your bus at the end of the day is not typical high school frustration you should shrug off.” My head turned toward her. “I can talk to Principal Severson about it, ask him to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
A dark laugh echoed under the confines of her arms. “That should do the trick.” She followed that with another note of laughter. “They were just messing around. It’s not a big deal.”
When my hand touched her shoulder, she flinched, but she didn’t smack it away or move out of reach.
“It kind of seems like it’s a big deal.”
“It’s not. Just don’t say anything to Severson or anyone else at the school.” Andee’s head angled a bit my direction, her eyes shining in the shadows the way her father’s did. “It’ll only make things worse.”
My forehead lined. “Andee, what’s going on?”
The question encapsulated more than the encounter I’d witnessed at the bus line, and more than what I’d stumbled in upon last night. With a few words, I was asking her to explain what had gone wrong between her and me, this school, and the world.
“It’s called being a teenager in the modern world.” She unfolded all at once, shoving to her feet. There were no signs of tears on her face, not even that brand of cloistered anger I was accustomed to. “It blows.”
Following her out of the courtyard, noting she took the back way to the guest parking lot, I struggled with what comfort to provide. High school had been its own form of torture when I’d gone through it, just as everyone on the planet could attest to. No one escaped the confines of this rite of passage unscathed.
“Life does get better, you know?” I said to her as we approached the SUV. “High school seems like some massive thing at this stage, but one day you’ll look back and realize what a small portion of your life it really was.”
Andee didn’t say anything as she climbed into the passenger seat.
“Oh. I picked you up a cake pop too.” I held out the paper bag, not knowing if she’d accept it or chuck it out the window.
Sliding her hood back from her head, she took the bag, almost making eye contact. “Thanks.”
The next breath I took felt like the first full one I’d had in years. “You’re welcome.”
Thirteen
The house I’d grown up in hadn’t changed in the two decades since I’d moved out. The trees were a little taller and the neighbor to the north had painted their home a different color, but my childhood residence remained immune to time’s march.
With my parents spending most of their time in Arizona now that Dad had retired, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been back to the home they kept in Bellevue so they could enjoy a few weeks of the Seattle summer when the blue skies made their return.
The task force was scheduled to assemble this evening at the Highlands, but Dad had sent out a group text this morning calling an urgent assembly at his place. Everyone needed to be there. No exceptions.
Confirmation responses chimed in, mine lagging a few minutes behind because I was irritated urgent meetings were already being issued and annoyed no one called my dad out on it because he was Silas Payne.
Like my response, my car was the last one to arrive from the looks of the driveway. The door was unlocked, so I let myself in, pausing when I caught myself sliding out of my shoes. Mom wasn’t there to rattle off her take off your shoes greeting the second I walked in the door, and today I was a guest, not a daughter.
Guests could keep their shoes on.
Following the sound of voices to my father’s office, I saw he couldn’t resist checking his watch when I wove inside. I stopped myself when I was about to explain why I was late, remembering it was him who wanted my help. Staying silent, I took a seat on the other side of the couch from Don, the retired cop. Mainly because it was the farthest spot in the room from Will, the void-of-morals-and-decency defense attorney.
Samantha, Phinn, and Teddy were in chairs staggered around the office, while Titus was pacing along the wall of book shelves stocked with endless legal volumes.
“Now that we’re all here, I’ll get straight to it.” Dad stood behind his desk, shadows from a sleepless night showing under his eyes. He’d had plenty of those in his life, but they looked to be finally catching up to him. “I caught wind late last night from one of my media contacts that someone leaked a tip about the serial killer.”
Heads turned, eyes going from one person to the next with the same question in them.
“I know I made it clear that there was a gag order in effect on this matter.”
Don leaned forward on the couch, the leather creaking. “How do you know it was someone in this group?”
Dad gestured around the room. “Because you’re the only ones I’ve told.”
“But couldn’t someone outside of the group, a detective who might suspect—“
“Someone in this room disobeyed my order, and now our advantage of taking this guy before he knew we were looking for him is totally shot.” Dad slammed his hand on his desk, his face going a rare red. Emotion was for the weak-minded, he had always claimed, and it took a strong person to contain what they were feeling. But today, he was failing his own test of mental fortitude.
Silence filled the air, eyes diverting into laps, backs stiffening with the elapsed quiet.
Dad’s hand lifted. “I need one of you to confess who gave the tip to the media.”
I found myself squirming much the way I had as a child who’d been called into his office for bad behavior.
“Shit, Silas, it was me, okay?” Phinn announced from his chair across the room, raising his arms. “I’ve been seeing this chick who works for KING 5 and I might have mentioned it to her the other night. But I swear to you, I never thought she’d tell anyone. She promised me she wouldn’t say a word.”
The whole room was staring at him with varying degrees of betrayal, though Silas Payne was not. His eyes remained fi
xed in front of him, always moving forward even in the midst of a setback.
“I appreciate you admitting it, Phinn. I already knew it was you, but good on you for being a man and telling the truth.” Dad’s jaw clamped together for a moment. “It takes courage to admit to a wrongdoing. But it requires character to keep your word and it’s clear you possess little of that quality.”
“She swore she wouldn’t tell a soul—”
“Spare me the assurances. You used a piece of valuable information to get under the skirt of a woman who was stratospheres above your flying altitude. She in turn used that information to fast-track her promotion. Don’t attempt to paint the exchange an honorable shade.” Dad waved at the door. “You’re out, Judas.”
Phinn lunged out of his chair. “What do you mean I’m out? You hired me because I’m a damn good detective, not because I’m capable of keeping my mouth shut.”
Dad’s hand remained lifted in the direction of the door. “I hired you for your investigative skills, but I’m paying you for your discretion, and you just proved to be lacking in that department.”
Phinn made no move toward the door.
“Leave.”
“I was counting on that money,” Phinn shouted.
Dad nodded at Titus, who needed no explanation. “Keep digging for the quarters in your couch cushions then, because the money I was prepared to pay you is no longer on the table. “
“Fine! I’m leaving!” Phinn shouted as Titus approached, dwarfing the average-sized man. “Fuck all of you and your round table crusade!”
Shouldering past Titus, Phinn stormed out of the office, screaming a litany of profanities down the hall. No one said a word until the sound of the front door slamming confirmed Phinn’s departure, the squeal of tires likely leaving marks on my parents’ driveway following.
“Never a dull moment when you’re at the helm, Silas.” Don grunted, rubbing his beard. “What the hell are we going to do now?”
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