by Emily James
I’d told Mark about the PTSD support group, but I hadn’t told him who I was going with, and I hadn’t mentioned it to my mom yet at all. Neither of them would want me to go with Becky if they knew I suspected she might be the killer. They’d either want me to drive alone or let one of them go with me. Both of those options took away any chance of her opening up the way she might if we were alone. I didn’t know much about support groups, but they were probably supposed to be closed to anyone who wasn’t a member of the group anyway.
Still, I’d always been a better-safe-than-sorry kind of girl, and my run-ins with killers only made me more so.
What I needed was someone to tail me there and back. I’d still have the space and privacy to talk to Becky, but I’d have help in the chute if I needed it. The problem was the police were already short-handed. They weren’t going to be able to spare someone.
My mom and Mark were now at the door, and Mark was saying he’d meet us back at my place with fish-and-chips dinners from A Salt & Battery. It wasn’t my mom’s kind of food, but from the sounds of it, she was willing to try it because Mark suggested it. I wasn’t sure whether to take that as a compliment that she felt I’d chosen my boyfriend well or an insult since I doubt she’d have done it for me.
I hung back, pretending like I was examining a stuck zipper on my jacket. My mom knew how to run a tail. I’d heard the stories of how she and my dad vetted every private investigator they hired, including ride-alongs on staged tails. But I didn’t want to tell her where I was going. Even if I couched it as I’m trying to build rapport with a suspect so I can pull useful information from her, my mom would see the truth behind it—that Becky offered to take me because I needed it.
I’d rather have Mark do it.
I pulled the zipper into place. I couldn’t suggest riding with him because my mom would consider that rude, but maybe I could bargain for enough time to make my request. “I’ll meet you at the car, Mom. I want to talk to Mark for a minute alone.”
She’d be suspicious, but I’d think of something to tell her before I reached the car.
The look Mark gave me as she left said he thought talk was a euphemism for kiss. Which I didn’t object to—we hadn’t had as much time together as usual the past few days, and I missed him. For a second, I forgot the real reason I’d asked to stay behind.
Finally, I put a hand on his chest and pulled back slightly. “I need you to tail a car for me on Thursday night?”
Mark took a full step back and frowned. “You need me to what?”
“Tail a car?” I hadn’t meant to add the question mark at the end, but I could imagine what he was thinking.
“Nikki, I don’t know how to tail a car.” The lines along his forehead turned into caverns. “Do you know how to tail a car?”
I shook my head.
“And you thought I would, why?” He drew the last word out, with a hint of teasing.
“Nicole,” my mom said from the doorway.
I jerked back from Mark like I was sixteen and she’d caught me necking with a boyfriend on the couch. Which I’d never actually done because I didn’t have my first boyfriend until well into my twenties. But still.
The emphasis she put on my full name made me think she’d been listening for at least part of the exchange and heard Mark call me Nikki.
She planted her hands on her hips in the way that intimidated judges and made me tell her everything she wanted to know from the time I said my first word. “You brought me into this case, so I hope you have a good reason for asking a doctor to tail a car rather than me.”
I had a good reason, but not one I wanted to share with her.
I couldn’t see a way out of this without blatantly lying to my mother, and I wanted to do that even less. “I’m going to a PTSD support group with Becky, the cleaning woman from The Sunburnt Arms. There’s a chance she could be the one who attacked Bruce Vilsack, so I don’t want to drive there with her without a safety net in place.”
The look on Mark’s face made me almost expect him to break out my middle name instead of my mom.
“What makes you think she killed Vilsack?” Mark asked at the same time as my mom said, “Were you going to tell me?”
Ostriches’ idea of sticking their head in the sand didn’t seem so bad right about now. Mark’s question seemed easier to answer, so I explained what I’d been thinking.
Mark visibly relaxed when I finished. “That’s a stretch, but I’m glad you’re trying to be safe.”
He moved his gaze slightly in my mom’s direction and lifted his eyebrows as if to ask Do you want me to stay?
I shook my head.
He slipped around us and headed for the door. “I’ll get the food and meet you two back at the house.”
My mom still had one hand planted on her hip in an I’m-waiting stance.
My body felt weak, like I’d skipped one too many meals. This was exactly what I’d hoped to avoid. “I’ve been…with everything I’ve gone through…”
My mom waved her hand through the air like she was batting away a fly. “Not that. Anyone who doesn’t need support after multiple attempts on their life is probably a psychopath. Contrary to popular myth, even lawyers have emotions. Why didn’t you tell me you suspected Becky and needed a tail?”
Maybe I should have known that what would bother my mom was exclusion from the case, but I was starting to think I didn’t really know her at all. “I only made the possible connection between Becky and the crime while we were talking to Mark. I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about me wanting to attend a support group.”
My mom scrunched her nose up. “I’d rather you simply stuck with your therapist, but you can’t do your job if your mind isn’t clear.”
I was almost a hundred percent certain I hadn’t told my mom about my therapist, here or in DC. “How did you even know I was in counseling?”
“You left your sleeping pills out on your bedside table. The doctor’s name on the bottle changed from the ones back home.” Her voice sounded annoyed, as if I should have been able to figure that out on my own.
I might have if I’d been certain she’d been snooping around in my bedroom. Prior to this, I’d only suspected. I decided to let that one slide. My mom probably couldn’t help it. Investigating was in her DNA.
She wanted me to believe it was in mine as well. The uncomfortable feeling like wearing clothes one size too small that I got every time I thought about giving it up made me worry she might be right.
10
My mom’s car was too conspicuous for a tail in the Fair Haven area, so I borrowed Mark’s truck on Thursday to drive to Dad’s Hardware Store, and I let my mom drive mine.
Becky wasn’t waiting for me out front, but I was also five minutes early, so I headed inside.
Dad’s Hardware Store always struck me as a holdout—not just against the tourist-focused names of many of the other shops but also against the big chain hardware stores. A sign in the window advertised window and screen repairs, and inside, instead of shelves full of blenders and frying pans, they had barrels full of screws and nails that they sold by the pound. Russ insisted that if something broke and the staff at Dad’s couldn’t tell you how to fix it and provide you with the supplies, you might as well throw it out because it couldn’t be salvaged. Even though the store looked clean inside, it smelled like sandpaper and grease.
I asked the first staff member I saw where to find Becky, and he pointed me back toward the desk where they cut keys. The walls on either side were covered with hammers, screw drivers, and wrenches.
Becky stood out in her surroundings, like an orchid growing in the middle of train tracks.
She looked up from locking the display case. “It’s the family business.”
She must have caught my bemused expression. “That obvious I was wondering?”
“Everyone who’s not a by-birth local wonders.” She tucked a bloated key ring into her purse and shrugged. “It wasn’t my first choice, but
we don’t always get the life we wanted.”
My experience was that only the lucky few got the life they wanted. And, even then, I wondered if those people really had the life they wanted or if they only hoped everyone thought they did. I’d seen a lot more of people trying to make the best of their situations than I had of people living the charmed life of their childhood dreams.
But to say any of that would have sounded condescending. Instead, I settled on, “No, we don’t.”
Becky smiled a smile that spoke louder than words could that she thought I understood. My incident in the bedroom of The Sunburnt Arms must have earned her confidence in a way that I never could have otherwise.
I shouldn’t feel guilty since I’d done it unintentionally, but I still did. Hopefully she’d had nothing to do with Vilsack’s murder. Then she’d never need to know I’d come into this with ulterior motives hiding behind the genuine ones.
My mom kept enough following distance between us as we headed out that I wouldn’t have thought it was suspicious had I not known she was following us. I’d given her the address for the church in the next town over where the meeting was held in case she needed to deflect suspicion at any point by taking an alternate route and converging with us later.
“You don’t need to share tonight if you’re not ready,” Becky said once we were out on the highway. Her long pendant earrings swung as she turned her head to glance at me. “Everyone understands that it can sometimes take time to feel comfortable enough, and the last thing we want to do is add more stress to each other.”
I got the feeling from the way her lips twitched that was a bit of an inside joke.
“But this is a good night if you do feel ready. I was getting texts all day from people who were too sick to make it. We’ll probably be at half strength. Julia, our co-founder, is even stuck in bed.”
The more she talked, the more the pinched feeling in my stomach grew into an ache.
You’re a professional, Nicole. You have to do this.
I wasn’t here to make a new friend. If she turned out not to be the one we were looking for, then I could think about friendship. Until that point, I had to keep in mind this was also a job. I’d already turned one friend over to the police. I didn’t want to have to do it again.
I also didn’t want to be someone who used her only for her information. At the least, I could be genuine while probing her for information.
“I haven’t been able to sleep well since I learned there’d been a murder.” She didn’t need to know I’d already been struggling before that as well. I hugged my purse into my abdomen. “How are you doing? It’s probably worse for you since you worked with the victim.”
I didn’t see her move, but her earrings swung again like they were caught in an invisible breeze. “I’m managing.”
Given that we were headed to a support group where, ostensibly, everyone shared about what they were going through and what caused it, I’d expected her to open up a bit more. My mom would say it supported my theory about her guilt. Shouldn’t she have been more frightened if she had nothing to do with the murder? Shouldn’t it have affected her more?
But what she’d said earlier about how it took people time to feel safe to share in the group stuck in my mind. She could share in the group because it’d become a safe space for her. She’d invited me because she saw my fear, but she didn’t trust me fully yet.
And, honestly, she shouldn’t. Because if it turned out she’d had something to do with the murder, I’d turn on her. Or, at least, I’d turn her in, and if it’d been an accident, I’d then try to help her however I could.
The problem right now was that, if I pushed too hard, she’d never open up. I let the silence stretch instead to see if she’d naturally fill it.
“I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for the group,” Becky said. Her tone suggested that she thought she might have offended me by essentially saying she was fine when I’d admitted I was struggling. “Julia and Penny started the group because they believe no one should have to go through recovering from a trauma alone. We can help each other. We understand in a way that other people can’t. You’ll see.”
She shifted the conversation to me, wanting “the scoop” on how I’d ended up dating Mark Cavanaugh and whether I missed living in the city. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t get the conversation back onto her. The woman was good at deflection.
Almost too good.
Whatever she’d suffered that resulted in her PTSD had also taught her how to keep a conversation focused on someone else and how to avoid questions about herself.
She was the kind of witness for the prosecution that my parents hated because she might look sweet and unassuming, but underneath she was smart and controlled. In this case, she wasn’t working for us, and it might take me longer than a single night to get any useful information from her.
We pulled into the church parking lot, and Becky parked. My mom drove on by. She’d turn back after we’d gone inside and park near enough to easily see us when we left but far enough away that Becky wouldn’t notice a woman sitting in a car, waiting and watching.
Becky led me down a set of stairs into what I assumed was a Sunday School classroom. Twelve chairs sat around a table. Pitchers of water and plates of date and lemon squares rested in the center.
Becky hadn’t been exaggerating when she said their group would be a skeleton crew tonight. Of the twelve chairs, only three were filled.
On the far side of the table was a man with a Spiderman graphic t-shirt that looked like he might have slept in it last night. He had at least two days’ worth of stubble on his chin and cheeks. He lifted a hand in greeting as we came in.
Three seats away from him sat a woman whose bag screamed mom of young children. A package of baby wipes poked out the top.
The final member sat at the end of the table as if she might be the one to lead the meeting in place of the missing Julia. She scrubbed at her glasses with a ratty tissue, with a focus intense enough that I wasn’t sure she noticed us come in.
T-Shirt Man greeted Becky by name, and the woman with the mom bag nodded at us both.
The woman with the glasses dropped them. The purple beaded chain attached to them and around her neck stopped their fall, and they bounced on her ample chest.
I didn’t realize anyone still used chains on their glasses anymore. At least, not anyone under ninety, and the woman looked closer to fifty.
She got to her feet and hugged Becky tight. The extra padding of her bosom was probably the only thing that kept her glasses from being crushed beyond repair.
Becky introduced the woman as Penny and me as Nicole. I got the impression that even though many members of the group likely knew each other outside the meeting, they went by first names only anyway.
Graphic T-Shirt Man started the meeting with an update on some success he’d been having—the table and his long pants hid that he’d lost his leg during a combat deployment to Iraq. The young mom had been in a bad car accident where it took rescue crews three hours to cut her out.
Their situations were so different from mine, and yet some of the things they said—I felt like I was hearing my thoughts spoken in someone else’s voice.
And when it came to my turn, I surprised myself by sharing everything that had happened, starting with my ex-boyfriend’s attempt to frame me for his wife’s murder to former Chief Wilson trying to kill me, all the way to my more recent poisoning.
When I finished, it felt like waking up with a calm stomach after three days with the flu. I hadn’t realized how much strain it was putting on my body holding it all in and pretending like I was fine.
Penny reached over and squeezed my hand. She shared her story next, about the years of abuse she suffered from her husband until she finally got brave enough a year ago to leave. She gave my hand another squeeze at the end. “Sometimes, the most important thing is to know you’re not alone.”
I shifted in my seat to see Becky better, but she shook he
r head. Her jawline looked like she was clenching rocks between her teeth.
The euphoric feeling from having purged my feelings shriveled into dead weight on my chest. I’d looked at Becky between the young mom’s turn and mine, and she’d mouthed the words only if you want to. She’d been fine.
Something I said must have upset her. What if someone I’d helped put into prison had been someone she cared about? The connections in Fair Haven were as interlaced as a spider web, and twice as sticky.
I scarfed down two lemon bars and a date square before the meeting ended. If I screwed things up with Becky, I’d never learn anything from her, and it’d be awkward to return to the support group. From this single meeting, I could already see how much I needed it and how it could help me cope.
But I couldn’t keep coming if it would hurt her. My mental health wasn’t more important than anyone else’s.
We walked in silence to her car. My mom waited in my car at the edge of the parking lot. Even if Becky had done something to Vilsack, I’d probably wasted my mom’s time. At the rate I was going, not only was it unlikely I’d get any information from Becky tonight, but I’d also lose her as a potential source.
I buckled in and waited for her to do the same.
She rammed her belt buckle into the clasp. “I didn’t realize it was you.”
My hands went numb. Suddenly I wanted to take back every thought about wasting my mom’s time. Actually, I wanted to run from the car.
Thankfully, Becky and I were close to the same size. Unless she decided to run us both into a tree or off a bridge, I’d have a good chance of matching her in a fight if she attacked me. Given how big the key ring she stuck in her purse earlier was, it was a safe guess that she didn’t have a gun or a knife hidden in there as well.
And angry people often said things they wouldn’t say when they were calm. It’s why my parents always tried to push the buttons of people they needed information from.
