The Family Tree: a psychological thriller

by S. K. Grice

  Noah groaned. “He uses a non-traceable cell phone.”

  Another explosion rattled my head, pounded in my ears. I grabbed hold of my throat and hoped to keep fear out of my voice. “But the GPR would have found something.”

  “Not necessarily,” Larson said.

  Larson’s buoyant tone sank my confidence. The room spun and a wave of nausea washed through my stomach. Keep your head clear. “What do you mean?”

  Noah glowered at Larson, but then turned to me with a straight face. “I need to ask you something, and I’m going to be blunt. Is Mike buried under the oak tree?”

  My legs couldn’t stop shaking. If I confessed right now, I’d be hauled off to jail. And with the way Larson was scrutinizing me, I had a bad feeling it could also make me look like Jackson’s killer. Maybe it was time to confess, but I knew to keep my mouth shut until I talked to an attorney. I narrowed my eyes and my throat squeezed so tight that my voice came out a whisper, “Of course not.”

  Noah looked at me with sympathy. “You know… you don’t have to protect Patsy and Annette anymore.”

  I tilted my head. Where is he taking this? “Protect them from what?”

  He released a breath. “We know Mike Morton raped Annette two weeks before he disappeared.”

  Every follicle on my scalp tingled a warning. “W-who told you this?”

  “During our investigation, we looked back at the notebooks from other cops working around the time Mike went missing. We found that Annette came to the station one night but would only speak with a woman officer. Retiring officer Carol Bellford was the only woman at the station that night, and she was due to retire in two days. So, when Officer Bellford told Annette the report would be passed on to another officer, she quickly retracted her statement. The officer noted that Annette became paranoid and was concerned that people in town would find out. She insisted on retracting her statement and then fled the station. The officer never filed a report but kept all her notes on file.”

  My cheeks warmed and I looked away. Annette had been ashamed of how easily she’d put herself in that situation with Mike. So mad at herself for reporting it to police and then retracting her charges. So afraid people would find out. Now this. “Yes, that’s true. She never wanted her mother to find out. Not anyone, for that matter.”

  Detective Larson broke in. “You and Annette were quite close. Did Annette and you lure Mike to this house on the night of August 3rd?”

  I jerked backwards. “What? No! Why the hell would we do that?”

  “A chance at revenge.” Detective Larson shrugged, like it was a normal assumption.

  Rage burned under my skin. Mike had been a monster, and I’d kill him again if I had to. The detective’s too-friendly faces told me something was up—something I wasn’t privy to. My eyes shifted between Larson and Noah. “You’re crazy. He was the last person either one of us wanted to see. What are you two getting at anyway?”

  Noah leaned back. “Do you know anything about what happened to Mike Morton?”

  “No.”

  Larson grumbled something incoherent.

  Noah glanced at him and then back at me. “There’s something else I need to ask you.” He paused a moment. “The Morton family. They have a special request—a favor you might say.”

  I wiped my palms on my jittery thighs. “What kind of favor?”

  “They want your permission to dig under the oak tree,” Larson said. “Perhaps even cut it down.”

  I stiffened my muscles to control the shaking. “No. I can’t—” My voice didn’t hold, and it cracked like an ice cube in hot water.

  “The Mortons are counting on your compassion to help them find their son,” Noah said.

  I’m not compassionate. I’m a killer. It was time to call an attorney. “I’m sorry.” I pressed a hand to my chest. “I have to say ‘no.’ I’m sorry for the Morton family, but I’ve been entrusted to keep the property intact. I know Patsy would not have wanted her tree damaged in any way.”

  Detective Larson leaned forward. “The Morton family wants to put this to rest. That’s why they’re willing to replace any damage done to your property. They can generously compensate you for damages.”

  Larson’s cigarette breath was too close for my comfort, and I scooted my chair back. Patsy had specifically stated in her will that I should take care of the tree but saying that to the detectives would only add suspicion. “It’s Patsy’s tree. I can’t cut it down. If anyone can understand, Noah, it should be you. Think about all the memories you made at Patsy’s parties around the tree.”

  Noah’s face screwed tight. “That’s not the point—”

  “But it is. The tree is part of Patsy’s legacy. A legacy she entrusted me to keep.”

  “Come on, Jolene.” Noah’s brows wrinkled. “We’re trying to make this easy. We have enough evidence to warrant probable cause so, let me lay it out for you.” He cleared his throat like he was preparing to give a speech. “One, Annette and Patsy had motivation to kill Mike Morton. Two, Mike was last seen only 400 yards from this house. Three, he was reported missing two days after last seen near your home. Four, a hole deep enough to bury a man was filled and a tree planted on top it—at the same time Mike was reportedly missing. Five, my father has detailed notes about you and Annette having cuts and bruises and acting strange when coming home with the tree.” He put his hand up. “Oh, and then there’s the tipster calls that line up too conveniently with what we know.”

  Too stunned to speak, I slowly shook my head in denial, but deep inside my voice spoke the truth: Someone knows. Someone wants to hurt me.

  “This order comes from high up,” Larson said. “If you won’t willingly agree to let us cut down the tree, then we’ll have no choice but to come back in the morning with a warrant and an excavator.”

  My eyes darted between the two detectives staring at me. “I’ll have my attorney put a stop to this.”

  “I’m sorry it came to this.” Noah pushed the chair out from under him and stood. “But we’ll be here tomorrow morning at nine a.m. sharp.” He stormed out the back door.

  Larson stood and squinted one eye like he was examining me under a microscope. “We’re not giving up until we find out if Mike Morton is buried under that tree.” He grunted and followed Noah outside.

  Tears burned in the backs of my eyes. I shut the back door. There was nothing I could do.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  The anonymous caller. Who the hell was it?

  I went to the kitchen sink and gripped the edge like a lifeline as I watched Noah and Detective Larson through the window. They were back at the family tree, pointing to the length of its roots. They think Patsy and Annette killed and buried Mike.

  My hope sank like a deflated dingy. I wasn’t sure what scared me most: that the police knew Mike was buried under the tree, or the anonymous caller who had told them.

  I had no choice but to come clean about what I’d done, but not to the police.

  Not yet.

  Since the police eyed me as a suspect in Jackson’s murder, I had to approach this with strategy. Someone was setting me up, and I needed legal protection. My hands trembled as I picked up my cell phone and called one of the criminal attorneys I’d researched.

  This was going to cost in more ways than one.

  Chapter Twenty

  A stocky receptionist in a red suit led me into Riley Baxter’s wood-paneled office. “Please have a seat, Miss Parker.” She placed a file folder on top of Riley’s desk.

  I slid into the bucket seat facing the attorney’s desk. The leather beneath my hands was soft as silk, but the lead ball in my stomach reminded me that nothing about this meeting was soothing.

  “Mr. Baxter will only be a moment.” The receptionist poured a cold bottle of Fiji water in a crystal glass on top of the side table next to me and then walked out.

  I’d spoken with Riley on the phone only a couple hours ago. When I’d explained I needed a criminal defense attorney be
cause I’d killed someone in self-defense, and confirmed I could afford the hefty retainer, he’d agreed to meet with me immediately. I was finally doing the one thing I’d wanted to do for seventeen years: tell my story. Confessing all of it. Then, I’d take charge of the next step—staying out of jail.

  “Hello, Jolene. Sorry to keep you waiting.” Riley rocked into his office like a young hot-shot criminal attorney off a slick television law series. Expensive suit, buffed nails, and a face shaved so close that his skin shined.

  We shook hands and he took a seat behind his desk and glanced at the file folder. He looked at me with a face of concern. “Go ahead, Jolene. Start from the beginning.”

  I picked at the tender skin under my nails. This wasn’t easy, but I was being billed by the quarter hour and I couldn’t afford to waste a breath.

  The words streamed from my mouth like water from a running tap—one long, endless flow. Each sentence emptied the well of pent-up guilt and remorse I’d stored deep in my bones. I explained everything—from the moment I’d met Annette and Patsy to the time Annette and I’d taken the acid and Mike had invaded the house and threatened to kill us. It was here that my voice cracked, and tears broke loose. “I killed him. We buried him in a pit and planted the tree on top of him the next morning.”

  I wiped my cheeks. Sniffled. What a fool I’d been.

  “Why didn’t you call the police to begin with?” Riley asked, sliding a box of tissues to me. “If it was self-defense; you two would have gotten off.”

  The room faded. I was nineteen again—standing over Mike’s lifeless body—alone and afraid, so needy of Annette’s acceptance and Patsy’s love. Could I have done anything differently? Pressure built in my sinus and pounded across my cheeks. They’d been my world, but now they were gone, and none of it mattered to anyone but me. Tears rolled down my face, unabashed. I ripped out a few tissues and pressed them against my wet eyes.

  “Take your time, Jolene,” Riley said.

  My shoulders dropped an inch. Riley’s kind voice and patience worked like an elixir to my anguish. Part of his gig I was sure, but it felt good enough for me to carry on. I grabbed more tissues, blotted my eyes and blew my nose. If only getting the story off my chest could take away the nightmare.

  I balled the tissues in my hand. “We were young and stupid. See… Mike had raped Annette and she’d reported it to police, but then withdrawn the charges because she didn’t want her mom to find out. After we killed Mike, she was afraid it would’ve looked like a revenge killing. W-we were terrified. Certain we’d go to jail. Our parents couldn’t afford expensive lawyers. I was naïve, impressionable, immature—”

  Riley interrupted, “I understand. I really do. Go ahead and relax. Have a drink of water.”

  I drank half the glass of water and sat back in my chair, holding the tumbler with both hands. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I had to stay in charge of each move. “I want to make a plea deal with the prosecutor. I’ll tell every detail of my story, but I won’t plead guilty in Mike’s death. I killed him in self-defense. Period.”

  “Here’s the thing.” Riley sat back and spoke in a casual manner. “You hired me to give you the best defense, but you haven’t even been charged with a crime. I can’t give you proper legal advice until you’ve been charged with something. And it sounds like we won’t know if, or what, you’ll be charged with until after the results of the dig tomorrow.”

  “Trust me. When the police dig under the tree in the morning, Mike Morton will be found. That’s why I’m here to see you.” I sat up and put the glass back on the side table. “The thing is, I don’t want the tree to get destroyed. Patsy Farr entrusted me with the care of the property, and that includes the tree. It states so in her will.”

  “I’ll have to see the grounds for the warrant before I can advise you,” Riley said.

  I hung my head in defeat. Trying to fight the warrant would only draw more interest in what’s under the tree. This would never go away. “So, tomorrow they find Mike. What next?”

  “I’ve successfully represented several self-defense cases. But we do have the matter of withholding evidence in an ongoing investigation. How many times have the police asked you about Mike’s whereabouts?”

  I ran my hands down my face. All the times I’d lied to Old Man Baker and Noah played in my head. “Several times. And I know that’s a problem. But how serious?”

  “Well, it’s not good. The penalties for obstruction of justice in an ongoing investigation can be heavy.”

  A dense weight of regret balled in my chest. Many people had been affected by what I’d done—and hadn’t done. People would want justice. “What about community service… anything but jail?”

  “That’s what I’m aiming for. Happens that I’m on good terms with the prosecutor, but I can’t make any promises and we’ll have to take this one step at a time.” He clasped his hands and rested his elbows on the desk. “But I’m curious. Tell me more about the anonymous tipster who told the police where Mike is buried. Why do you think the caller waited seventeen years?”

  “That’s a mystery I’d love to solve. According to what the detectives said, the caller only wants justice for Mike. But I never told anyone. Annette never told anyone.”

  “Hmm.” Riley paused and aimed a gaze that went through me like a ghost. He looked at me from all angles—inside and out—and then sat upright in his chair. “Jolene, excuse me if it seems I’m going off-track here, but do you see a psychiatrist?”

  Katie. I shifted in my chair. I’d been so preoccupied, that I’d missed my last couple of appointments. “I see a therapist from time-to-time.”

  “Then it won’t be a problem having a professional validate your mental condition?”

  My fingers curled. I didn’t like what he’d implied. Katie always tried to assure me the anxiety and OCD flare-ups weren’t akin to insanity, and I’d just started believing her. She’d called my dissociative episode, which had caused me to stop talking when I was ten, an isolated occurrence. She didn’t know about what I’d done to Mike, though. I straightened my spine. “I see her for anxiety and OCD. Not because I’m crazy.”

  “Uh-huh.” Riley clasped his hands together then steepled his pointer fingers.

  His doubtful expression was too familiar for my comfort. My throat grumbled and I gripped the arms of the chair. “My common condition is controlled with medication.”

  “Okay. Let’s set that aside for now.” He steepled his hands. “Back to Mike Morton. The next morning, when you planted a tree on top of him… you knew what you were doing at that time.”

  I looked down at the deep blue carpet. “Yes. The trauma caused me to detach from all emotion, though. It was the only way I could cope with the shock.”

  “I understand. And Annette was okay with having the man you’d killed buried in her backyard.”

  Annette’s young face flashed in my mind, back to the time when I’d asked her the same question. She’d answered with a controlled, robotic voice and expression. Nothing happened. “She didn’t act like it was a problem.”

  “And you felt the same?”

  “How could I feel bad about something I’d convinced myself never happened?”

  Riley leaned forward on his squeaky chair. “Other than the time you killed and buried Mike, had this ever happened to you before? The blocking out of time?”

  Pain gripped my chest, stealing my breath and dragging me back to the day my mother had died. The shock. The emptiness. The blank face of my drunk father who never spoke to me. My silence had become my protection, blocking out the loneliness. “Yes. And I was put into a hospital for it.”

  Riley looked closer at my face. “A psychiatric hospital?”

  My lungs collapsed into a rock-hard ache. The memory of my father’s withdrawal and indifference flooded my brain, taking me back to the time I’d wanted to scream, to grab onto something solid, but I’d had no voice, nothing stable, only silence. A hollow body with no voice. “Yes. When I
was ten. The doctors thought I’d blocked out the trauma of losing my mother.”

  Riley picked up a pen and wrote on a yellow notepad. “And which hospital were you committed to?”

  My body numbed. Insane people got committed. “Lighthouse Beach Psychiatric. But that was so long ago—”

  “I may need you to authorize release of medical records.”

  I forced a laugh. “Why? I’m not insane.”

  “Of course not.” He dropped his pen on the notepad. “Just gathering information.” He sat back into a relaxed position, an ankle on his knee. “Let’s move on. Tell me about the Jackson Howell murder. Why are you a suspect?”

  A cold sweat broke out on my palms. His interest in my psychiatric history made me uneasy but this meeting needed to move on. I locked my knees together and hugged myself. All my layers of lies had been stripped away, and I sat naked in front of a stranger with no way to cover up. “The police believe I was the last person to see him alive. Apparently, that’s enough to keep me under their radar.” I then gave him the lowdown—including the oak sapling planted over his body. “I believe the police are making a connection between Mike Morton under the family tree and the tree planted on top of Jackson.”

  He expression softened. “Is there? I mean, you did blank out parts of your memory after the attack on Mike. Is it possible you blanked out again, killed Jackson and planted the tree?”

  Anger rolled up my throat. “No. Absolutely not. I did not kill Jackson. I’ve been set up. I’ve come to you for help—”

  “It’s fine, Jolene.” His tone was calm, soothing. “I only ask because I’m familiar with trauma-induced blackouts. It’s not unheard of. But let’s move on. Tell me… who do you think set you up?”

  Saying these things aloud, it suddenly sounded convoluted. But I was already in deep and found no reason to stop now. “I don’t know who exactly, but probably the same person who’s stalking me.” I went on and told him about the person dressed in all black that Mrs. Nichols and I had seen. “He’s been stalking me at random times ever since that night.”