by A J Rivers
"Hey, honey," Dad answers the phone. "What are you up to?"
"Having breakfast. Dean just left."
"He was there?" he asks.
"Yeah, he was taking a break from his investigation, but things have kind of taken a turn."
I tell him about everything that happened, and he listens quietly. One amazing thing I've discovered about my father since having him back in my life is that he's an even better listener than I remembered. Not just in that I can pour my heart out to him or vent about anything, and he'll absorb it all. But also in his ability to let me be separate from him in my career.
It couldn't always be easy. No one watching his child carry on his legacy always has an easy time. The instinct is to swoop in and explain things or help. To expect his children to do the same things in the same way as he would. My father manages to avoid that most of the time. Though I always prided myself in going into law enforcement to honor him and doing many things the way he did, we're very different people.
Just like I went into the Bureau while he was CIA, we see things from slightly different angles and approach them likewise. Dad respects that and is able to help me through cases without trying to inject himself into them.
When I finish, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and wait for whatever he's going to say.
"You have good instincts, Emma. Trust them. But also remember they are just instincts. Not absolutes. Be willing to admit when they might be wrong, so you don't let them mislead you."
"Does that mean you think I'm wrong?" I ask.
"No. It means I know you want the answers. You always want the answers. Make sure you're looking for them in the right places. Don't hesitate when you know something's right. Don't shy away when you think something's wrong."
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Is Dean already gone?” Sam asks as he comes into the kitchen a while later.
I've come back inside for a cup of coffee, and I pour him one, too. He accepts it from me and offers me a kiss in exchange.
“Yeah, he left about an hour ago,” I tell him. “He seems pretty eager to get to Salt Valley and see what he can find out about the house.”
"It's going to be a mess for the local PD down there. He lived in one jurisdiction and was found dead in another. That's going to confuse things," Sam notes.
"I think that's part of why Dean is so determined to push ahead. He already feels as if he failed Mason. And Debra. He wants to figure out what happened, and he's not going to tangle himself up in all the confusion and red tape of their police department. He'll get whatever information he can in any way he can,” I say.
Sam takes a deep sip of his coffee and shakes his head. “I really wish you wouldn't say things like that to me sometimes. Those are the types of things I shouldn't know.”
“You aren't in your uniform yet. That means you aren't sheriff,” I grin, knowing full well that's not how it works.
“Hmmm,” Sam nods, his lip pursed out as he seems to think through my logic. “See, the thing is, the sheriff and I share a brain. Small though it may be. So, that makes it a little challenging.”
"Alright. Fair enough. But you know Dean goes for non-shady tactics the vast majority of the time. And with something like this, I doubt he's going to be rocking the boat. The detective is already willing to share information with him, so until the clash of the departments and seizing of information begins, he's got a lot to go on."
"What about you? What are you going to be doing today?" he asks.
"Nothing with that case." I think for a few seconds, sinking down into one of the chairs at the kitchen table so I can sit with him while he eats breakfast. "Hey, do you know anything about a guy named Xavier Renton?"
He looks at me quizzically. "Xavier Renton? Why would you be asking about him?”
“Remember I told you Detective White sent us out of the department pretty abruptly, and wouldn't tell me why he was up at the jail talking to somebody about Lakyn Monroe’s disappearance?”
“Yeah,” he nods.
“That's who he was talking to. He gave me his name and said to look him up. It's really never a good thing when somebody says that. Usually, it means you're not going to like what you find. I was just wondering if you know anything about him, or why he might be involved in the disappearance.”
“I’ve definitely heard of him,” Sam says. “But I don't know why he would have anything to do with this case. He's been in prison for years.”
“Prison?” I ask. “But Detective White wasn't at the prison. He was at the jail.”
Sam nods. “There's some new activity on Renton’s case. He was moved to the jail about eight months ago and is still going through the process.”
“Well, who is he?” I ask. “Detective White acted as though he could be completely dismissed, as if he wasn't even worth talking about.”
“I mean, I can almost understand where he's coming from,” Sam says.
“You can?” I raise an eyebrow.
“I'm not the type of sheriff who will immediately discount somebody, but if I was investigating a case and it led me to somebody like Xavier Renton, I would probably hesitate a touch, too.”
“Why?”
“He's crazy,” Sam explains. “Not in the fun, let's go crazy and eat half a container of whipped topping on our cherry pie. Or even the less fun, super intense person who does everything dialed up to eleven. I mean crazy, like completely cracked. He's a conspiracy theorist. Barely comprehensible.”
“If he's criminally insane, why was he in prison for years rather than in a mental health facility?” I ask.
“I said he's crazy, not criminally insane. Not even mentally ill. Just cracked. Something got jostled loose in there, or he melted his brain with some serious drugs at some point. Whatever is going on with him, the courts determined he was competent to stand trial. At least, he was at the time. I think that's part of why his case is being looked at again,” Sam tells me. A ding from his phone suddenly alerts him to how late in the morning it is. “Crap, I gotta head in. Love you.”
He kisses me goodbye and rushes upstairs to change before leaving. I sit at the kitchen table for a while longer, tumbling his words over and over in my mind. He’s heard of the man but didn't know why he would have anything to do with Lakyn's disappearance. It has to be something. There has to be a strong enough link for the detective to think it warranted a visit to the jail for an interview.
Maybe Noah was right. If Xavier Renton is as unbalanced and unreliable as both men implied, his input might not be worth considering. But something made Detective White go there. It was reason enough for him to even consider the visit, so it had to have some significance. Besides, I need to know why he’s sitting in that cell to begin with.
I go into the living room and open up my computer on the coffee table. Typing Xavier’s name into the search engine, I scroll through the first few results. It doesn't take long to get past the social media profiles to the results that actually matter. When I see them, my stomach sinks.
"Convicted of Murdering His Best Friend, Xavier Renton Might Avoid Execution," reads the headline.
Snatching up my phone, I call Sam.
“Miss me already?” he asks.
“He's a murderer,” I start, barely even registering his teasing question.
“I'll take that as a no,” Sam notes. “Who's a murderer?”
“Xavier Renton,” I say. “Did you know that?”
“Yeah,” he says. “He killed some guy he knew because of one of his ridiculous conspiracy theories.”
I shake my head even though I know Sam can't see me.
"Not some guy. He was convicted of killing his best friend. He sealed him up in his reinforced garage and let it fill up with exhaust fumes."
I've been in a garage as it slowly filled up with deadly fumes. I know how horrific it is. Just the memory of the desperation and terror as I started to struggle to breathe makes my heart pound a little faster. I instantly feel
sympathy for the man who died that way at the hands of a man he trusted.
"That's horrible," Sam says. "But I don't understand what it has to do with Lakyn Monroe."
"Neither do I," I tell him.
When I'm off the phone, I read through the article again, then pull an original one from when the crime happened. Andrew Eagen was a quiet, fairly mild-mannered guy who was known to have a close friendship with Xavier Renton. The death was unexpected, and everyone who knew both of them was shocked when all the evidence confirmed Xavier murdered his best friend. The only explanation was that his unstable mind was crafting conspiracies and beliefs that must have driven him to believe Andrew needed to die.
Despite his eccentricities, Renton was deemed competent for trial by three separate doctors. All said that he was challenging to communicate with and had extreme thoughts, but was bright, responsive, and very aware of everything around him. He didn't have delusions and didn't show any of the characteristics of being dissociative. Though he acknowledged Andrew was dead, he was absolutely adamant that he’d had nothing to do with it. When asked who he thought was responsible, the only part of what he said that they understood was: "They are all around, but you can't see them. They're here. Always."
He was convicted and sentenced to death. The first article I read, along with several others, noted the outrage the public had over the sentence. Even if he wasn't considered criminally insane, they believed his obviously abnormal thoughts and the inexplicable nature of the crime at least warranted life in prison.
And now he has a chance. With his execution date looming, he was finally granted the opportunity of a new trial. A review of the case cast doubt on how it was managed and whether the sentence was appropriate. It's good news, but it doesn't mean Xavier is safe. Without new evidence or a different case presented by the defense, it's unlikely he'll get any other outcome from a new trial.
I still don't understand why Noah would want to interview Xavier until I read the next article. Scanning through, I get basically the same information. But it's a last, almost throwaway line in the last paragraph that catches my attention.
"Lakyn Monroe, noted wrongful conviction and imprisonment advocate, has taken an interest in Xavier's case and is said to have been in contact with him. It is unclear whether her celebrity influence had anything to do with the court's decision."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lilith
Three days ago…
She kept up a good speed as she moved down the rows at the front of the cornfield. Quick heat and abundant rain meant a fast harvest, and the ears were ready to be pulled from the stalks. She left some of them intact for the maze, but the further she moved away from the planned paths, the more she harvested until she was taking every ear from every stalk.
Stout, round baskets made of bent wooden boards and tied tight with bands of metal sat at regular intervals throughout the field. Lilith loaded the corn into them as she picked, then brought them to the storage barn. Years of practice and craft had honed her muscle memory, so she got the work done as quickly and efficiently as possible.
She first laid out the baskets, carrying them all to the far end of the field and putting them into place until she got back to the start of the row. She left a stack of baskets at the end of that row to be put in the next row. Once she had put all the baskets in place, she started going down the row, picking and filling. When she reached the end of that row, she moved the furthest basket up to the next one, then dragged both of those to the next. Then took two trips to bring those to the next basket, all the way to the end. From there, she could carry them to the barn, then return to repeat the process on the next row.
Those first few rows were easy. But her hands started shaking the further she moved into the field. As she got closer, she shuddered at taking the ears from the stalks and dropping them down into the baskets among the other corn. Much of this corn would go to the farm animals, but some found its way to the roadside market stand.
Lilith stood behind that market stand by the road every summer. People often drove for miles just to get to her for her sun-sweetened fruits and vegetables. The sweet summer corn was always a favorite, and this year some of it was particularly big and robust. Rich soil nourished the plants and made them strong and healthy. She pled silently with the people who came to the farm stand not to buy it.
In the intensifying heat of the afternoon, she felt tired and sluggish. Like a shell of herself. All she wanted to do was lie down and close her eyes. If she found a place that was shady enough, she might be able to fall asleep. Then she could dream. Those were her favorite moments. The ones when she was taken to a place and a time when none of this existed.
She didn’t need to be someone else in her dreams. She wanted to be herself. Just not here. It gave her a chance to live another life.
But the long, dark car reminded her how far away those dreams were. It slid slowly past the stand and turned around a corner no one else ever turned down. This life held onto her tight and would never let go. That was the choice she made.
So long ago, she‘d thought blood bought her freedom.
Now she knew she was the price that was paid.
Draping a length of burlap over the open bushels of vegetables and flipping the sign that hung from a piece of frayed twine on a nail in the side of the stand to ‘closed’, Lilith rushed toward the house. They were already standing outside the car when she got there.
One of the men walked ahead of the others as he came toward her. She could still feel his name in her mouth, the way it used to ripple over her tongue. There was a time when she loved the way it felt falling from her lips. It warmed everything in her. It had been years since she’d said it.
He reached out his hands toward her as he got closer. Lilith tried not to show her hesitation. She never knew what was meant by those hands.
They took hers gently that day, holding them in soft, unburdened palms. Hers felt even more worn and battered against them.
“Has anyone come here today, Lilith?” he asked.
The question struck her as odd, but like his hands, she never knew what was meant by his words. She didn’t push back against them.
“There have been a few people. The corn has been popular so far. We had someone ask for honey.”
“We?” he asked, his eyes suddenly flashing.
He didn’t yell, but the edge in his voice grew sharp. She didn’t let her expression change.
“You and me,” she said.
He nodded, touching her face like he used to.
“Of course. I’m not talking about the stand. Has anyone else come here today?”
She looked at him, confused. No one ever came. Just them, the customers to the stand, and the fall visitors come to run through the maze. No one else.
“No,” she said.
He looked at her for a long time before nodding.
“Someone might. If they do, you know what to say.”
She nodded. She always knew what to say.
Chapter Twenty-Six
"Why do you think she didn't publicize her involvement with Xavier Renton more?"
Sam looks over at me. “What do you mean?”
“We were just talking about how she was using her fame as leverage to help these innocent people, or at least the people she thinks were innocent. She went from reveling in her visibility to trying to minimize it, to using it as a platform. But I didn't even realize she had anything to do with Renton’s case until I saw that one article mention it, almost as an afterthought. It's strange.”
“Unless she wasn't completely sure about it either,” Sam replies. “As I told you, he's difficult to communicate with. He doesn't really make connections with people, and when he does, they rarely have any idea what he's trying to get across to them. He'll go through moments of lucidity, then suddenly start ranting about other, completely unrelated things. If it's really important to Lakyn Monroe to help people who were wrongly convicted, she would want to make
sure she was helping genuinely innocent people.”
“I guess you're right. She wouldn't want to align herself with someone she didn't trust. Or to associate her name with somebody who would later turn out to be guilty. She would want to make sure she was confident in his innocence before she really made it public,” I nod.
What started as our early morning jog has lengthened out to a casual stroll around town. This is a time of day a lot of people don't get to see, but I love. The wispy early morning hours when everything looks somewhat blue, and there's usually a fine mist in the air. Soon it will be burned off by the sun and by people waking up and starting their days, but for now, it's quiet and peaceful.
Sam and I don't always manage to get out for jogs before the sun is all the way up. But I love it when we do. It makes the day feel full of potential, as if there's more that can be accomplished. Sam's schedule is packed for the day, so we are trying to steal every second together we possibly can before he goes to work. That means taking a few back roads and walking through town rather than jogging our usual route.
“I wonder what caught her attention about him,” Sam muses. “You said the article mentioned it wasn't clear whether she was the one who helped get him a new trial, but I don't think she was. He's been going through all the channels for months now. She would have been more verbal if she was involved with it for that long.”
“You have to remember she's been missing for almost five months now. But I guess even then, she would have been in touch with them for a couple of months. There had to be something that made her question whether he could have committed that murder,” I say.
