by Laura Snider
He motioned with his hand. “By all means. But my plan is better. You aren’t going to get anywhere talking.”
Maybe not, Katie thought, but she wasn’t going to stoop anywhere near John Jackie’s level. “Whatever,” she said, turning on her heel.
She marched back to her office and picked up her phone. Forest had been a witness in a case a while back, but it was long enough ago that she couldn’t remember the facts anymore. At the time, she had saved his cell phone number in case she needed more information.
She scrolled through her contacts, took a deep breath, and clicked on his name.
10
Ashley
70 days before trial
Steam rose from Ashley’s coffee. She watched the tendrils of heat twist and turn before vanishing. She was in a back corner booth of Genie’s Diner. It was quiet for a Sunday morning. The calm before the post-church storm of people. She lifted the coffee to her lips and took a sip, thinking of the conversation she had with Carley yesterday.
She had called the reporter Saturday morning and Carley answered on the second ring. It was nice to finally get through to someone. To hear a voice actually say “hello” rather than Tom’s voicemail telling her that she should leave a message. She had left messages, but he hadn’t responded.
Ashley had started the interview unsure. She didn’t trust the reporter to avoid Rachel-related questions. But Ashley began to relax as the questioning moved forward and Carley kept true to her word. All her questions were centered around office finances. Apparently, she was writing a piece on the disparities between money allocated to prosecutors’ offices, which were funded by the counties, and public defender’s offices, whose funding came from the state.
Near the end of the conversation, Carley had even expressed an interest in helping to raise funds to level the playing field between prosecution and public defense. Ashley was trying not to get overly excited—people often had good intentions. The follow-through was the problem. But Ashley couldn’t help getting her hopes up. She needed an on-staff investigator. And soon.
Ashley’s phone was on the table next to her coffee cup. It buzzed and the face lit up. Her heart lifted, but it wasn’t Tom. Just a breaking news notification. She used facial recognition to open the phone and clicked on her text message thread with Tom.
All the messages were in blue and on the right side of the screen. There were twenty of them dating back to Saturday morning when she’d tried to reach Tom and the call had gone straight to voicemail.
I’m sorry I was so upset with you yesterday. I’m under a lot of stress with Rachel’s case.
No answer.
Your phone keeps going straight to voicemail. Will you call me?
Nothing.
Are you there?
I know you are upset, but I’m starting to worry about you.
Please, Tom. I just need to know that you aren’t on the side of the road somewhere.
And the messages continued like that. Ashley was growing more and more concerned about him. Had one of her crazy stalkers attacked him?
“Ms. Montgomery,” a man said, pulling her out of her thoughts.
“Mr. Frank.” Ashley rose to her feet and shook the Waukee High School therapist’s hand.
“Call me Michael,” he said, sliding into the booth across from her.
“Mr. Frank is fine.” Ashley couldn’t keep the suspicion from creeping into her voice. They were not friends and would never be on a first-name basis. “What is this all about?”
The Waukee High School counselor had contacted her yesterday to arrange a meeting. She’d been inclined to refuse, but he had insisted that he knew information important to Rachel’s defense. When Ashley remained hesitant, he told her that he’d come to meet her in Brine. Reluctantly, she had agreed.
“Thank you for meeting me.”
Ashley nodded. She wasn’t going to placate him by saying anytime or you’re welcome. Because the interview was not welcome, and it wouldn’t be happening any other time. This was his one chance.
Mr. Frank cleared his throat. “How is Rachel?”
“It’s the same answer as yesterday. I’m not telling you.”
“Right.” Mr. Frank pulled at his tie. “Sorry. I remember.”
Why was he wearing a tie anyway? Was he trying to make a point? It was the weekend. She was in yoga pants and a long-sleeve jogging shirt.
Ashley took a sip of coffee, studying the school counselor. He squirmed under her scrutiny, but he didn’t seem to need to fill the silence.
“Again,” Ashley said, trying not to sound too impatient, “what is it that you want to tell me?”
“Yes, well, it’s about Rachel?”
“You said that yesterday.” She wanted to add so get the fuck on with it already, but she didn’t.
“I was working with Rachel at school.”
“How so?” Ashley blew on her coffee.
“In my professional capacity. As a school counselor.”
“What kind of counseling were you providing?”
Ashley was suspicious of this man who claimed to be “emotionally bonded” with his students. She’d seen him on the various news stations describing Rachel as a beautiful young woman, inside and out, and as someone who would light up the room. Naturally, there was speculation about the closeness of their relationship. His public appearances had come to an abrupt halt after that. Ashley wondered if he’d been fired or placed on administrative leave. She made a mental note to look into it.
“Just regular talk therapy. One-on-one sessions.”
Ashley quirked an eyebrow.
Mr. Frank fidgeted with the rolled silverware sitting next to him. “I can’t tell you the things she told me during our sessions, but I do believe she has a borderline personality disorder.”
If there was one thing Ashley understood, it was privilege. Attorney-client privilege wasn’t all that different from doctor-patient privilege. He was right that he couldn’t give her details from their sessions, but that should also mean that his diagnosis of her was privileged. Unless Rachel had signed a release of information. Which she hadn’t.
“That’s a serious condition,” Ashley said.
She thought she understood where he was going with it. Borderline personalities were often promiscuous. Was he trying to get out in front of an accusation? Blame the victim before she outed him?
“What kind of credentials do you have? I mean, you are a high school counselor. Are you really in a position to make such a diagnosis?”
Mr. Frank sat up straighter, folding his wiry hands in his lap. “I have my PhD in clinical psychology.”
The more time Ashley spent with this man, the more questions he raised. “Why work at a high school? Shouldn’t you be teaching at the college level? Or perhaps providing clinical care to the community?”
Mr. Frank shrugged. “I like the kids.”
Ashley considered the man in front of her. He was not attractive. He looked to be in his early fifties. A thin man in every part of his body except his belly, which protruded like a woman seven months into pregnancy. His glasses were so thick they shrank the size of his eyes.
“Do the kids like you?”
“Rachel does.”
Was it just her, or did he answer a little too quickly? Ashley made a mental note to discuss the school counselor with her client.
“Is that all you came to tell me? That you believe Rachel is borderline and that she likes you?” Ashley paused to take a sip of her coffee. “Because none of that is very helpful for Rachel’s defense.”
“Right, yes.” Mr. Frank nodded and pressed his napkin against his brow. “I met with Rachel a lot of times. She was a loner with the other girls, but the boys all kept an eye on her. I mean, you know boys. How could they not?” He chuckled in a boys will be boys kind of way. It didn’t sit well with Ashley.
“Okay. And your point is…”
“In all our sessions, Rachel never really opened up to me.”
> I don’t blame her, Ashley thought. His personality was a weird mixture of forced positivity and judgment. Ashley couldn’t imagine any kid feeling comfortable around him.
“And…” Ashley motioned for him to go on.
“But she missed a lot of school. She was sick at least once every few weeks. When she returned, she’d have bruising on her arms.”
Now this was important information. “So you think there was trouble at home? Someone was abusing her?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. I confronted the parents a few months ago. They said they didn’t realize Rachel was missing so much school.”
Ashley narrowed her eyes. She didn’t trust this man, and she didn’t trust either of Rachel’s parents. “So, Rachel’s parents had no idea that she was skipping four times a month? And how did they explain the bruising? Track marks?”
Mr. Frank shrugged. “They said they didn’t know about the bruising.”
“But you did. What did you do about it?”
“Nothing. Rachel said it was nothing. An iron deficiency or something like that. Like I said, she never really opened up to me. She’s a good girl. You have to know that. If she was skipping school and doing drugs, it was because one of the boys at school had convinced her to do it.”
“Did you know she was pregnant?”
Mr. Frank sighed deeply. “I suspected, but I didn’t know for sure.”
“Is the baby yours?”
“Mi…mi…mine?” Mr. Frank stammered. Sweat poured down his face. He pulled at his collar. “Is it hot in here?” he asked, looking around.
“No.” Ashley leaned closer. “Answer the question, Mr. Frank. Is Rachel’s baby yours?”
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “No.”
His denial was not convincing. Hatred welled from somewhere deep within her. She felt certain that he either had an inappropriate relationship with Rachel or wanted to. Either option sickened her. She wanted him out of her sight. And now.
“Thanks for the information, Mr. Frank. I think we are done here,” Ashley said, motioning to the door.
Mr. Frank stood and trudged toward the door, moving quickly as though running from something. But it was too late for him. If he had done something to Rachel, Ashley would find out. And she would make him pay.
11
Ashley
69 days before trial
Ashley spent the remainder of the day Sunday trying to get through to Tom, but his phone went straight to voicemail. Every. Single. Time. Which meant one of three things. Tom’s phone was off, it was dead, or Tom had broken it somehow. He charged his phone regularly, so the second option was likely out.
That left either off or broken. Both of which were less than ideal. If it broke, Tom must have thrown it or smashed it out of anger. He wasn’t the type to lose his temper. Ashley and Katie were the hotheads, not Tom. He took everything in stride. If he’d thrown something, Ashley’s behavior on Friday had really gotten under his skin. Something she hadn’t seen before, not even while Tom was jail administrator and dealing with unruly inmates.
If she’d made him that mad, then she must have a unique ability to coax a violent response out of a nonviolent person. It didn’t bode well for the future of their relationship. But that was still better than the last option, that he had intentionally shut off his phone. If he had, it was a willful choice to shut her out of his life. And he’d been able to keep it up all weekend. It signified the beginning of the end.
She had gone to bed Sunday with a heavy heart, knowing that even in the best-case scenario, if they worked it out, she still wouldn’t see Tom until the following Friday. In the worst-case scenario…. Well, she didn’t want to think about that. After several hours of tossing and turning, she’d fallen into a restless sleep.
All too soon, Ashley’s alarm starting blaring from the bedside nightstand. She turned the phone off and rolled over, casting her arm out toward the other side of the bed. An automatic reaction to the days before Tom left for school, searching for his familiar warmth. Her hand landed on a large ball of fur and a wet tongue.
“Princess,” Ashley groaned, pulling her arm back and tucking it under the covers.
A second dog nuzzled under her arm, snuggling closely.
“Finn,” Ashley said.
Finn was a black-and-white border collie, Princess a red merle Australian Shepherd. At one time, these two dogs were all she had. Back when her mother had died of cancer and Ashley was friendless. The events that led to her friendship with Tom and Katie occurred shortly thereafter, but these two dogs had helped her through that initial rough patch. Ashley was thankful to have them here for her through the current rough patch with Tom.
Princess jumped on Ashley’s chest and stuck out her pink tongue, trying to lick Ashley’s face. She caught the dog’s head between her hands, scratching her behind the ears as she kept her just outside of licking distance.
“No licking,” Ashley said, leaning forward and kissing her dog’s head.
Ashley rolled over and dropped her feet to the floor, grabbing her phone and checking the call log. Maybe Tom had called or texted. Still nothing. It stung, but his silence had already cut her far too deeply. She would not let it go any further. Yesterday, she’d been depressed. Now she was angry. Who did he think he was, anyway? They were in a committed relationship. Or so she’d thought. And he was running around with this Harper woman, disappearing for a full weekend. It was intolerable.
Standing, she moved to her closet and carefully selected an outfit. It was Monday, which meant deposition number one in Rachel Smithson’s case. Ashley would be questioning Katie. Deposing a friend was a delicate job. Rachel needed Ashley to ask difficult questions. Her freedom depended on it. But Ashley also didn’t want to hurt Katie’s feelings. At least not so much that it would damage their friendship. The whole process required some careful balancing that would take every ounce of Ashley’s concentration.
Not for the first time, Ashley wished that Katie didn’t work for the police department. They didn’t appreciate her anyway. Ashley respected Chief Carmichael, but all the rest of those chauvinistic cops could go to hell. Especially George Thomanson. She’d heard some rumors about possible marital problems, but that didn’t give him the right to treat everyone around him like shit. Relationship issues plagued everyone, including Ashley.
Ashley dispelled all thoughts of relationship woes, forcing herself to focus on the issue at hand. She stared into her closet, shifting hangers around, trying to find the right suit. Unfortunately, her clothing wasn’t organized in any fashion, just tossed on any open hanger. She shuffled past a pair of pants that had been out of style long enough that they were almost back in style, settling on a pair of black pants, a black jacket, and a white sweater. As she pulled on the sweater, she caught sight of a smattering of heavy bruising along her arm. They were an angry reddish-purple color, almost like she was bleeding under her skin. But that couldn’t be right. Could it?
She shook her head, dismissing it as stress. Or perhaps she’d struck her arm on something? She couldn’t remember doing it, but when she had a lot going on, her mind didn’t register everything accurately. One time, during a stressful trial, she spent thirty minutes looking for her sunglasses just to glance in the mirror and see them sitting on her head. Another time, she pulled her car into a parking stall and tried to turn it off, but the key wouldn’t turn. Then she realized that the vehicle wasn’t in park. It had to be something like that, right? She was under a lot of stress. The alternative was illness. Maybe even a serious one that would require lots of tests and potentially chemotherapy.
Nope, Ashley thought, don’t think about that.
She pulled her jacket over her arms and stepped into her pants, using her armoire for balance. This room had been Ashley’s bedroom since birth. This house, the only home she had ever lived in. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to move into the master. That room still felt like her mother’s room. Sometimes she liked to go into
the master bedroom and sit at the edge of her mother’s bed. It almost felt as though her mother were still there.
Living in her childhood home was a blessing and a curse. It held so many memories, good and bad. A roof once shared by many now only sheltered Ashley and her dogs. What was once a home full of joy and laughter was now silent. Although, to be honest, Ashley’s home wasn’t always joyful, nor was it always shared with those she loved. This house was the very same home she’d once shared with Lydia, her foster sister. Luckily, that placement had ended within a year.
Lydia had been a nightmare. She was the same age as Ashley. Removed from her parents’ care at the age of ten for reasons Ashley’s mother had never revealed to her daughters. Not that it mattered. Lydia was pure evil. That’s what Ashley and her older sister kept telling their mother, but their mother kept brushing it off, saying, “Oh, girls. Be kind. Lydia has been through a lot.”
Which may have been true. Hell, considering the things Ashley saw in her current job, it probably was true. But that still didn’t give Lydia the right to shove Ashley down the basement stairs. Ashley could remember it like it was yesterday.
A firm strike to the shoulder. Teetering on the edge, arms pinwheeling. Rolling down all twenty-three steps, blinding pain with every strike of a shoulder or knee, before smashing into the cement floor. The fall had resulted in a concussion and a broken arm. That had opened her mother’s eyes enough to find a new foster placement for Lydia. Thankfully, that was the last foster child their mother had taken in.
Ashley didn’t know why the sudden memory of Lydia had popped into her head. Maybe it had been because of the girl giggling in the background of her and Tom’s call on Friday, or maybe it was something else. Perhaps her subconscious was telling her that it was time to forgive Lydia. Not that she would listen. That girl—well, woman now—could go to hell. And she probably would if she’d kept up the same kind of behaviors over the years.
