by Rachel Caine
It feels good to say it. And strange. But good.
He just grunts and leads me back out of the house. I make straight for Gwen, and she looks visibly relieved to see me. The detective who’s been quizzing her has finished, and mine joins him; they’ll be sharing info, and I feel like we need to do that too. So I draw her away from Lanny, who’s still talking to a uniformed officer, and say, “The guns are all accounted for. I don’t say that to mean I think Connor was planning anything; it’s just less proof they have.”
She just nods. She seems so tense, so pale, and I want to make things better for her. But maybe there isn’t any way to do that, not right now.
“Honey, it’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “Connor didn’t do this. You know it.”
“I know,” she says, and meets my eyes for a second. “The problem is that someone else did. And they’re not going to stop.”
She says that like she’s rock-solid certain of it, and I let a couple of seconds tick by before I say, “MalusNavis?”
“He’s watching us,” she says, and I see the jolt that goes through her. It’s one of her worst fears, and who can blame her after all those years of being stalked by people I helped set on her trail? “He’s watching all of us. Sam . . . I think I have to stop fighting it. I need to let him have me. I’m what he wants.”
“No!” It comes out of my mouth before I’ve even formed the word in my head. “Gwen, no. Not an option. Ever.”
“Am I supposed to give him Connor? Lanny? Vee? You?” She shakes her head, and then she’s hugging me tight. I hug her back. “I don’t see how to stop him any other way.”
“There’s got to be another way.” I smooth her hair, hold her, and try to put every bit of confidence into what I’m saying. “We’re going to find a way, honey. We will. But together.”
I feel her nod, but I don’t feel her relax. It worries me.
The two detectives come back toward us, and we break, but I keep hold of her hand. Her fingers feel cold, and I can feel her trembling.
“We’re ready to talk to Connor at the station,” the detective who questioned me says. “Which one of you wants to stay with your daughter?”
I’m about to volunteer that I will when Gwen catches me completely off guard and says, “I’ll stay with Lanny.” When I look at her, she says, “It’s better if you go with Connor. I’m not—you’re calmer right now. You’ll be better at it.”
“Okay,” I say, and I’m gentle with it. This is . . . not what I expected. Gwen is usually so completely in this kind of fight, whether that’s right or not, and to see her step back is surprising. Progress, I hope. “I’ll take good care of him. I promise.”
“I know you will.” There are tears in her eyes, and I can see how this torments her. But she takes a deep breath and blinks them away and says, “Bring him home safe, Sam.”
The detective stops at the police cruiser and has a word with the uniformed officer standing there; he opens the door and gestures Connor out. The handcuffs are removed. I put my arm around him, and we follow the detective to his cruiser, and when I turn around to see Gwen, she’s standing with her arms around Lanny. It looks like they’re holding each other back this time.
Maybe that’s good for both of them. God, I hope we’re not making a massive mistake here. She’s put a staggering amount of trust in me.
Now I need to live up to that.
“This is complete bullshit.”
I say it bluntly to the detective who enters the room. We’ve been waiting only a few minutes, and I’m a little surprised; generally, the tactic is to keep people on edge, let the silence and time work on them. Not now. It makes me worry.
“Probably is,” the detective agrees blandly, sliding into the chair on the other side of the table. Connor’s no longer in handcuffs, and so far I’ve been able to keep myself from getting into some, so I suppose that’s a win. “For the recording, this is Detective Aaron Holland, speaking with Connor Proctor and his legal guardian Sam Cade. Mr. Cade, Mr. Proctor, I know this ain’t the best of times for you, and I apologize for that, and for keeping you waiting. Wanted to be absolutely sure I had all the facts before I came in here. Now, Mr. Cade . . . you’re Connor’s adoptive father, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And his mom is Gwen Proctor.”
“Yes. Where’s the warrant?”
“What warrant, Mr. Cade?”
“The arrest warrant. Do you have one?”
“Mr. Cade—”
“Because if you don’t, we’re not saying one damn thing more.”
“That’s totally understandable,” Holland agrees, with every sign of real sympathy. He fakes it well. “I can’t even imagine the stress of comin’ up like you did, Connor, with your family history. Plus moving, having people threatening your life all the time. And last year, getting abducted like that. Dealing with all that at such a tender age, that can’t be easy at all.”
Connor just shrugs slightly. He’s not meeting the detective’s steady gaze. He scratches a thumbnail on the smooth surface of the table like he’s found a spot.
“You know why you’re here?” Holland asks. His voice is profoundly gentle.
Connor says, “Because someone faked a message post.”
“Connor, don’t answer him.”
Holland looks at me, then back to the boy. “So you’re saying you didn’t make that post, then?”
“I’m calling a lawyer,” I say, and take out my phone. “I don’t like any of this. He’s not answering questions. Connor, be quiet—you don’t need to say anything at all.” I have a criminal lawyer in my contacts; we’ve needed her before, and I know she’ll show up fast. I don’t know what Gwen would do, but the last thing I want is for Connor to make a deadly mistake. “Connor, he’s not on your side.”
“But I didn’t do it,” Connor says.
“Then you’ve got no reason not to talk to me,” Holland says.
“No.” I say it flatly, and put a hand on Connor’s shoulder when he tries to respond. “We’re done. You want to prove that he did it, go ahead and try to do that without the help of a fifteen-year-old. That’s your job.”
Holland sits back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Let me just lay my cards on the table, all right? Then you can decide what you want to do.”
“Pass. Because legally, you get to cheat at cards.” I hit the contact number and get an answering service. “Yeah, I’m going to need Ms. Moore down here for Connor Proctor at KPD Central. He’s not under arrest, but he’s going to need representation.” I give my callback number and hang up. Holland has a hangdog, disappointed look. I don’t care. “Go ahead. Lay it out if you still want to.”
He shakes his head, sighs, and gives Connor a look that clearly says he wishes I hadn’t done that. I care even less. “Okay,” Holland says. “Well, as you know, we have an internet post under Connor’s name in which he threatens to go on a killing spree—”
“I didn’t post that!” Connor says. I put a hand on his shoulder, and he subsides, but I can feel how tense he is.
“He knows you didn’t,” I say. “Don’t you, Detective? And he also knows about the vandals at our house. And the flyers. Kind of wonder why he thinks you should be the one in handcuffs, considering all that.”
“I didn’t want to bring you in here,” Holland says. He’s still directing it toward Connor, not me. “Tried real hard to avoid it, in fact.”
I snap my fingers and tap the table. “Hey. Talk to me. Not to him. He’s done answering.”
Holland does, finally. He meets my gaze squarely and holds it. He looks genuinely sorrowful. They’ve deployed their A game on this, I can feel it; he probably cracks a lot of suspects just through sheer empathy. It’d work with Connor, if I’d allow that.
I smile. “Go ahead and tell me what you think you have. Because I guarantee you, you have nothing worth pursuing.”
“I have a witness who swears he saw Connor with a gun. Showing it off at school
last week, in fact. He goes by Ripperkid on that message board, did you know that? And we’ve also got another witness who heard Connor publicly state on multiple occasions that he intends to kill a whole bunch of people. We take that seriously, Mr. Cade. I sure hope you do too.”
“That’s a lie!” Connor leans forward, his face flushed, fists clenched. I tighten my grip on his shoulder and get him to lean back. “Dad! I didn’t!”
“Maybe it is, son,” Holland says. He seems sorrowful about it. “But those two people called in complaints yesterday. Before this post was ever made.”
“Convenient timing,” I tell him. “You have any corroboration on that? Other kids who back it up?”
Holland doesn’t say anything. He just sighs. “Mr. Cade, we both know that I can lie about that to you—tell you I’ve got twenty kids all on the record, tell you there’s school video, tell you all manner of things. And even if I wasn’t lying, you’d obviously believe I was. So I don’t know how you want me to answer that question in a way that makes sense. But I’ll tell you this, and I’m being as straight as I can: I have corroboration.”
I open my mouth, then close it. I need to take my own advice. I don’t look at Connor. I stare straight at the detective, and he stares back, and then finally he scoots his chair back. “I’ll let you know when your lawyer gets here,” he says.
The door shuts behind him, and I hear the lock click. We’re not going anywhere.
Connor says, “Sam, I didn’t—”
“Don’t,” I say. “They have cameras in the room, and they can hear anything we say. Tell me once your lawyer gets here because they’ll have to turn them off, but not until then. Okay?”
He looks miserable, pale, absolutely wretched. But he nods. I put my arm around him, and we lean together in silence. I’m scared for him. It’s hard to read Holland. He might be telling the truth about a witness, and about having more than one. I don’t know. I still believe Connor, but . . . this isn’t looking good.
It takes an eternity—well, two and a half hours—for our attorney to arrive and the police to decide they won’t try to charge Connor. Which tells me that if they do have witnesses, they’re not confident about them. Not yet.
We drive home. I’m so tired I feel lightheaded, and I have to focus hard on the road, but I say, “Ripperkid?”
Connor winces. “I know,” he says. “That—doesn’t look great.”
“Want to tell me why you picked it?”
“It’s what they call me at school,” he says. “Once word got around. And word always gets around. I figured I probably should own it. I talked to Lanny about it. She thought it was cool.”
Oh, Lanny. Of course she did. And the fact that neither of them told us . . . shouldn’t surprise me, really. They’re both at an age where what they tell their folks and what they actually do are two divergent courses. “That’s why you answered questions about Melvin,” I say. “To own it?”
“Yeah. I mean . . . better they think I’m kind of edgy than somebody they can kick around.”
As coping strategies go, it actually isn’t terrible. I know Gwen won’t like it, but I see the point very clearly. “Hey, kid? I love you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Thanks, Dad,” he says. “I love you too.” He doesn’t often say it. I don’t either. It’s a guy thing. But it seemed right, in this quiet moment, and I feel better for it. I hope he does too. “Mom’s going to kick my ass.”
“I’ll talk to her,” I tell him. “She’s just scared for you. Hell, I am too. So be a little patient, okay? We’re trying to handle this the best way we can.”
“I know,” he says. “But I really didn’t do anything. That makes me want to break something.”
“I know the feeling. Hardly ever helps. You still feel pretty bad, and then you have to clean up the stuff you broke. Not great.”
“I still want to try it.”
“I’ll hand you some ugly mugs we don’t use anymore. But you’ll be on broom duty.”
He laughs, and it eases the knot in my stomach a little. I reach over and ruffle his hair. He squirms away.
When we pull into the garage, Gwen’s already standing there, spotlighted by my headlights. I kill the engine and close the garage door. Her body language is stiff, but not angry. She’s worried.
“Everything’s okay,” I tell her, which is not quite the truth, but close. “They let him go.”
Gwen silently embraces our son, and looks at me over his shoulder. When did the kid get that tall? He’s nearly her height now. I hadn’t noticed, but in a few years, he’ll make her look small. She says, “Thank you, Sam. God, thank you. I couldn’t have done that.” She lets out a shaky laugh. “I’d have launched myself like a rocket and ended up under arrest. One hundred percent chance.” She pushes Connor back and studies him with that unmistakable tenderness mothers have. Puts her hand on his cheek. “Are you all right? Really?”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he says. His voice sounds choked and tight. “I—I know I shouldn’t have gone on that board. I just wanted . . .”
“To belong,” she finishes for him when he can’t. “I know. I’m not angry. I’m just worried.” She straightens up and looks at me, then back at Connor. “I called my boss. It took her crack IT guys ten minutes to locate the fake IP redirection and track it back. Guess where it ended up?”
I shake my head. So does Connor.
Gwen smiles slowly. It’s a wicked kind of smile, with an edge that cuts, and I love it. “Remember our two brothers that you and your sister came up with on social media? The vandals?”
“They did it?” Connor sounds shocked, but I suspect he’s just surprised that they were smart enough to pull it off.
“I’m not sure, but Lanny and I gave the cops their names as somebody to look into. Apparently they also called in tips that said you had a gun at school last week. Let’s just say they’re not having a very good night.”
I know it wasn’t them. I’m absolutely certain it wasn’t; they aren’t bright enough to pull this off, by all indications, or one of them wouldn’t have worn school athletic gear to tag our house. What was it Lanny said? They got C grades in a class that should have been a walkthrough A. But I don’t want to raise that right now, not when there’s real relief on Gwen’s and Connor’s faces. Later.
I’m bone tired. But I feel like we’re okay.
And I sleep the sleep of the dead.
19
KEZIA
The nurse was right; I feel horrible the next time I wake up on Thursday morning. Bruised, aching, cranky as hell. But finally my head is clear, and when I groan and squint against the morning light and hit the control to raise my bed back up to a sitting position, I see that Javier’s getting my clothes out of the closet. They’re nasty and bloody, but at least they’re mine.
“I would’ve gotten you fresh stuff, but I didn’t want to leave you,” he says. “How you feeling?”
“Great,” I say. “Better once I’m out of here.”
“The doctor talked to me. They’re pulling your IV, all your head CTs were good, so they’re kicking you out. He says to avoid strenuous activity. I’m going to say that means no sex, no kettlebells, and no foot pursuits. Anything else ought to be okay, right?”
“It bugs me you put sex first in that list, Javi.”
“Love, the way we do it, it deserves to be first.” He grins and kisses me. Long, warm, sweet. A little bit hot, but he’s trying to hold it down. “Good news, I don’t have to go back to training. No sense burning more helicopter fuel getting me back again at this point.” That’s a relief. I like having him here always, but especially right now.
Getting dressed hurts, but it also feels like getting control of my life back. Gun, badge, purse. I top it with a jacket and pull on my low-heeled leather boots, and I feel like myself again. Moving around is helping with the aches and bruises.
The sunlight hurts my eyes. I slip on sunglasses and try to ignore the throbbing headache as I plug my
phone into Javi’s rental car charger. The battery flashes a red image as the phone starts powering; it’ll take a few for it to restart.
“So catch me up,” Javi says as he puts the car in gear. “What the hell is going on in this town? A lot, right?”
“Yeah, you leave, and look what happens.”
“I’m serious. Two dead kids, three dead adults, you getting nearly killed, Gwen harassed again. Seems like a lot, right?”
“It is,” I say, and then I repeat it, thinking hard. “It is a lot. Especially for a small town like Norton.”
Any piece of this could stand on its own, but adding all of it together seems like . . . seems like a plan.
But I don’t know what it means. Any of it.
I’m lost in my thoughts, and we’re at the edge of Norton when I think to check my phone. I have missed calls and texts. No surprise there. I start looking through them.
Prester called me at three in the morning. What the hell?
I immediately dial the phone as we pass the city limits sign, and the town’s in our rearview mirror. Two rings, and then a click as it picks up. I expect to hear Prester’s deep, laconic voice.
Instead, I hear Sergeant Porter’s. “Kezia?” He doesn’t sound like himself. I hear a tremble in his voice that shouldn’t be there.
I go cold and still. My voice, when I speak, sounds unnaturally cool and calm. “What’s happened?”
“He’s dead, Kez. Prester’s dead.” His breathing is ragged. I feel something crush inside me. God. God, no. “Been dead for hours, looks like. I shouldn’t be answering this phone. Shit. Call me direct.”
He hangs up. I just sit there, gripping the phone, staring at the trees whipping by. Javier’s asking me what’s going on. I can’t answer. I can’t.
I pull up Porter’s number in my call list and dial. He answers on the first ring. I drag in a breath and let it out. “Where is he?”
“His car,” he says. “He’s in his car. They’re processing it right now. Chief’s on it. But you should be here.”
