When I pulled onto her street, her blue SUV was backing out of the driveway. I slowed and considered honking to alert her that I was here. But before I could, the SUV drove away, swerving slightly before righting itself and turning down the next block.
I glanced at the doublewide. All the lights were blazing. Where was Derrick? Was he in the car with Elly?
Heart-pounding, I hit the gas and caught up with the SUV several blocks away. From behind, I couldn’t tell if Derrick was in the car but at least she was no longer swerving.
She slowed to a stop outside a house I recognized well: Fran Dempster’s. Fran Dempster was Davis Dempster’s grandmother and the matriarch of the Dempster family. It was the house to which the entire Dempster clan gathered often, and where Dad had once arrested the oldest Dempster cousin, Tristan, for selling drugs.
What was Elly doing here? Was Tristan selling out of his grandmother’s house again?
Elly hopped out and glanced in my direction but didn’t appear to recognize my car. I parked several houses down, twisting in my seat to watch as Elly opened the passenger door and helped little Derrick down. They crossed to the front door and knocked. A moment later, Fran Dempster, pear-shaped and run-down in her cotton moo-moo, opened the door and ushered them inside.
A few minutes passed. I shifted uncomfortably, wishing I could see what was going on. Dad’s kid or not, if Elly was getting high with her son in tow, I was going to call Child Protective Services.
The front door opened again and Elly emerged, without Derrick. She crossed to her SUV and backed out of the driveway.
Elly had been friends with Davis in high school, it was true, but I didn’t know she had any further connection to the Dempster family. Why would Fran Dempster agree to watch Derrick?
Doubly curious now, I kept several car lengths between me and Elly as we drove across town. She pulled onto a street of single-family homes. This part of town was a mix of middle and lower classes, a fact made clear by the state of repair of the houses and lawns.
She pulled into the driveway of a cottage house painted yellow with white trim around the windows. With her son safely tucked away at Fran Dempster’s, the Elly that got out of the SUV this time looked like she was about to collapse. Even at this distance, I could see the sickly sheen on her skin, and could almost feel the jerky movements of her limbs as she climbed the stairs to the front porch.
She rang the doorbell. As she waited for someone to answer, she looked up and down the street. Her eyes landed on my car.
“Crap!” I ducked down, heart-pounding. When I peered over the steering wheel again, Elly was talking to a long-limbed woman with black hair and a wide nose. My stomach dropped.
It was Elizabeth Antwerp. One of the brothel girls.
Chris said she was back in town but until seeing her there, I’d completely forgotten.
Then it hit me: Liz would know whose gun it was in Mary Trelany’s car!
Heart thudding, I watched as Liz gestured for Elly to come inside. Liz’s eyes slid over my car and around the neighborhood before she closed the door.
I sat for twenty minutes, turning the car on and off in a vain attempt to keep cool but it was no use. The idea that Liz might know something about dad’s death troubled me. Add to that the fact that my A/C didn’t work well and by the time Elly stepped from the house again, I was drenched in sweat.
My heart sank at the sight of her. She was obviously high. The shakes had all but disappeared, she looked calmer, more in control.
I waited until she put the engine in gear and drove away before getting out and crossing the street to Antwerp’s house. This was stupid. Not to mention dangerous. If Liz had something to do with dad’s death, I ought to let Chris or Detective Ingress handle it. But then I thought about Zoe. If Liz, or someone in that house, was a dealer, maybe they’d know where Zoe was. Heck, maybe Zoe was inside.
My heart felt like it would pound right out of my chest as I stepped onto the front stoop. I knocked on the door. Heavy bass thudded through the walls.
The door opened and Liz Antwerp stood there, looking down at me, a frown on her face. This close, I could see acne pockmarks across her cheeks. Her lips were dry and cracked, but her eyes were alert, and weary.
“What?”
“I—“ my voice caught in my throat. I swallowed and tried again. “I’m looking for a friend of mine.”
Liz quirked an eyebrow. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Kaitlyn.” I don’t know why I lied but the name was out of my mouth before I knew it.
“And why would I know where your friend is?”
My face was on fire. Sweat dripped down my back. “She—she—“ I couldn’t do this. “Forget it.” I turned. “Never mind.”
“Hold up,” Liz said, and though she didn’t raise her voice, there was some force, some authority, in her words that made me stop. “Maybe I do know you?”
Ice slithered down my spine. “No,” I said, my voice cracking. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll see you later.” I hurried away, heart racing, spine tingling.
Chapter 26
After a restless night of lurching awake at every little sound, sure Liz Antwerp had realized who I was and had come to—to what? Finish me off like she did dad? I had no proof that she killed dad, no motive or reason to believe she had been the one to pull the trigger. And yet a part of me couldn’t help but wonder.
Dad had sent her to prison for eight years. She was the only one of the girls who stuck around Beacon Falls. She was obviously selling drugs or involved with someone who was. Who’s to say dad wasn’t going to bust her?
My phone chirped. Then again. And another. I glanced at the screen. Notifications were flooding in from Facebook and Instagram. I opened Facebook, and there, front and center, was a headline from the Daily Tribune: Autopsy of Slain Cop Released.
I stared at the headline, a sucking hole opening in my stomach. No one told me they were going to release the autopsy. Shouldn’t Ingress have told me? Shouldn’t Chris?
Tears brimming, I opened the article.
Autopsy reports released Wednesday show the murder of Beacon Falls police sergeant Vincent Graves was methodical, calculated, and very likely perpetrated by someone Graves knew. The autopsy reports two bullet wounds to Graves’s upper torso and a third in his abdomen. Chief of Police John Mitchell stated that he felt it likely Graves was either taken by surprise or knew his attacker. “Likely both,” Mitchell told the Tribune. There have been no arrests in the case, but Chief Mitchell stated that the Beacon Falls PD in conjunction with County detectives are looking into several “persons of interest.”
Graves was working the case of murdered Beacon Falls teen Ayla Ernst at the time of his death. When asked if he thought whoever had killed Ernst might have something to do with Graves’s slaying, Chief Mitchell said they’re not ruling it out. “We have to keep an open mind and hope something presents itself to point us to whoever did this,” he said.
Ayla Ernst was a standout athlete at Beacon Falls High before an injury in her junior year landed her with an addiction to the pain killer Oxycontin. Her senior year saw her drop out of sports and become addicted to heroin, her mother Tammy Ernst told the Tribune a few days after the girl’s body was found on the front lawn of 321 Maple Street in April. “No one deserves to die that way,” Mrs. Ernst said. “And the cops are not doing enough to find out who did this.”
I scrolled through the comments beneath the article and my stomach twisted even more. Most were condolences and expressions of sorrow over the loss of a “good man,” but several were questions and veiled accusations about the Ernsts. Do the Ernsts have alibies for the day Graves was killed? Do the cops know that Tammy and Ron Ernst are addicts too? I saw the Ernsts in the vicinity of the Graves house a week before he died. The Ernsts are not good people.
I felt sick to my stomach. Remy was laying on the floor at the foot of my bed. She’d started inching closer to me every day, a fact that usually filled me wi
th joy. But today I was too angry to notice. No one told me they were going to release the autopsy report. And Mitch had dismissed me when I asked about the Ernsts. Yet here he was saying they couldn’t rule them out.
I dialed Chris but he didn’t answer. I called Ingress. It went straight to voicemail.
Frustrated, I threw on some clothes and hurried out the door.
Several news vans were parked outside the Administration Building as I pulled into a parking lot. I recognized Adam Najiim among them. When he saw me, his eyes lit up. He raced over, the other reporters suddenly alert, although no one seemed to know who I was.
“Mady,” Adam said, smiling. He held a small Sony recorder in his hand.
“I don’t want to talk,” I said, pushing past him.
“What are you doing here?” He followed me. “Is this about the autopsy?”
“Leave me alone, Adam.”
Now the other reporters caught on. They descended like a pack of wolves. I hurried up the stairs and into the cool, lemon-scented safety of the building.
“Mady.” Adam followed me inside. “Just wait. I want to talk to you.”
“No comment,” I called over my shoulder.
“As a friend.”
I turned to him, arms crossed. “What?”
But before he could answer, a voice called my name. I turned. Chris, in his uniform, stood in the hallway, a cup of coffee in his hands. “Everything okay?”
I looked at Adam who scowled but said nothing.
“It’s fine,” I said. “He was just leaving.”
Hurt flashed across Adam’s face. He opened his mouth to say something but Chris said, “No reporters allowed.”
Adam glowered at Chris but turned on his heel and pushed through the door. I could hear the excited conversations of the other reporters as the door swung closed.
I turned back to Chris, who was watching me with concern. “Is he bothering you? He knows reporters aren’t allowed in here.”
“No,” I said quickly. “No, he was just—“ I broke off with a shrug. “He’s an old friend.”
“He’s still a reporter.”
Inside dispatch, JJ was seated behind the computers. I glanced at her without saying a word and followed Chris into the small room where a row of computers sat against the wall. This was where the officers filled out their reports and did their research. An old leather couch sat next to a small counter with a coffee pot and sink. Chris gestured to the couch and I sat with a huff.
“Here.” Chris handed me a cup of coffee. It was warm and smelled wonderful. “You’re shaking.”
“It’s been a long morning.”
The cushion I was on slumped to one side as Chris sat down. “Ingress is pissed.”
“About what?”
“The autopsy report. He never wanted it released.”
I stared at him. “Then who released it?”
“Mitch.”
“But—why?”
Chris shook his head. “He didn’t say.”
I digested this in disbelief. What possible reason could Mitch have to want to release the details of my dad’s death?
“You should read the comments on the Tribune’s website,” I said. “It’s like the whole town thinks the Ernsts did it.”
Chris nodded solemnly.
“Do you think they had something to do with it?”
“Mady…” The sympathy in Chris’s voice was it for me. I started to cry.
Chris didn’t hesitate. He moved closer and placed an arm over my shoulders, and I let him, fighting back sobs. The itchy fabric of his polyester uniform rubbed against my skin.
“I’m so sorry, Mady.”
“Who do you think killed my dad?” My voice choked. “And why?”
When he didn’t answer I raised my head to look at him. His expression was unreadable: a mix of sadness, anger, and maybe even a touch of hopelessness.
“I’m just so—" My words broke with a sob. I was never any good at putting feelings into words.
But that didn’t matter to Chris. He pulled me closer, and I closed my eyes, inhaling the soft scent of his fabric softener, his subtle woodsy body odor.
“I told my wife,” he said.
“What?”
“I told her about the abortion.”
I froze against him, blood pounding through my ears.
“We lost a baby,” he said. “Between my son and my daughter.”
I stared at him in disbelief. Beautiful couples like the Savines didn’t have miscarriages.
“It was hard on us,” he continued. “On our relationship. And it brought back a lot of emotions I thought I’d left behind.”
All these years I’d been so angry over the fact that it was my body that carried the scars, my body that recoiled from intimacy, and yet, I never once thought about what my decision had done to Chris.
“We started fighting,” Chris said, “A lot.”
“Did you hurt her?” The words came out before I could stop them.
Chris pulled away, a pained expression on his face. The space where he’d been suddenly felt hollow and empty. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to regain the lost warmth.
“I’m sorry,” I said, wishing I could take it back. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s none of my business.”
But all at once, the fight went out of him.
“I shoved her,” Chris said. “I swear, Mady, that’s all.” He deflated against the couch. “But that doesn’t excuse it,” he said. “I deserve that she left me.”
I don’t know what I was thinking—or maybe I wasn’t—but there was something in the way he said it, the pain and vulnerability and utter desolation of his words that triggered a sudden desire for connection.
I leaned over and kissed him. Gently. On the cheek.
Our eyes met and the spark that had simmered between us all these years reignited with an intensity that took my breath away.
“Mady?”
Chris and I lurched away from each other.
Standing in the door was Adam Najiim.
“How’d you get in here?” Chris roared, jumping to his feet. “Get out!”
“I came to make sure Mady was okay,” Adam said, standing his ground.
“No reporters!” In a flash Chris was across the room. He took Adam by the collar and shoved him backwards.
“Chris!” I ran after them, face burning in humiliation. What had I done?
“Get off me!” Adam cried, his dark skin flushed. “Get your hands off me!”
Then JJ was there, trying to pry the two men apart. “Stop it, you two! Stop it!”
I knew I should do something but my feet were cement. Adam had seen me kiss Chris. Chris, who was partially in charge of dad’s case.
“Get the hell out of here,” Chris roared, throwing Adam into the hall. He stumbled. HIs phone fell from his pocket and clattered across the floor.
Adam bent to pick it up. When he straightened, he said, eyes blazing, “You see, Mady? You see what kind of man he is?” He gave Chris a final, savage look before storming off down the hall.
I stared at Chris, unable to breathe. “What did we do?” I said, my voice a whisper.
“What was that all about?” JJ asked.
Chris turned on her. “What are you doing letting a reporter in here? You know the rules?”
JJ flushed but stood her ground. “He said he was worried about Mady. He said she was his friend.”
Chapter 27
I don’t remember how I made it through the crowd of reports still lingering outside the Administration Building. Nor do I remember anything about the drive home. All I remember was stepping inside dad’s cool house and nearly collapsing with the weight of what happened.
The suffocating emptiness of the house pressed down upon me. Remy came up to me wearily, her tail wagging, but I was too overwhelmed to pet her.
What had we done? My god, what had we done?
Sensing I wasn’t going to pet her, Remy went t
o the front door and looked back at me expectantly.
She hadn’t been outside yet. I reached for the leash I kept hanging on the door handle and snapped it in place.
We’d no sooner stepped onto the front porch when a rabbit leaped from its hiding place in a nearby bush. In an instant, Remy yanked my arm.
“Leave it!” I shouted. But Remy twisted her body around, angling away from me, and just like that popped free of her collar. We stared at one another, both surprised at her sudden freedom. Then she let out a bark and tore off after the rabbit.
“Remy, no!”
But she was already gone, crashing through the woods in hot pursuit.
“Remmmmy!” I ran after her. But, unlike last time, I couldn’t see her anywhere in the dark cover of the trees. I paused to listen, but the only sound was the furious bark of a dog several blocks away.
I ran back to the house, grabbed my keys and my phone, and drove the neighborhood, stopping every few blocks to call for her, but she was nowhere.
Forcing back tears, I kept driving, watching for the black and gray streak that was my only living connection to my father.
I drove around for a little while, keeping watch for any sign of Remy. When I saw none, I pulled into the McDonalds parking lot and reluctantly pulled up Facebook. The first thing in my feed was a picture of my friend Carrie at Emerald Beach in Tahoe.
I stifled a sob, wishing with all my might that I was back in Reno.
Hurriedly, I posted a plea on Facebook for anyone who might have seen Remy to DM me.
I drove into the Projects, hoping maybe Remy had gone to join the packs of feral dogs that seemed to thrive in places like that.
Once among the doublewides and factory houses, I slowed to a crawl, peering down the alleys and along the streets. I passed Elly’s house. The front door was wide open and Derick was in the front yard, pushing a Tonka truck through the dirt. He was naked but for a pair of briefs.
Where was Elly?
I slowed to a stop and got out.
The Things We Keep Page 11
