Poisonous

by Allison Brennan

  “No.” He swallowed nervously and then blurted out the whole story. “I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I mean, I didn’t think my mom would believe me, but I swear to you, this is the truth.” Austin told her about changing Ivy’s Instagram profile and embarrassing her, how she cut her arms with a kitchen knife right in front of him. “Max says that those cuts change everything. I swear, I didn’t think it would matter.”

  Grace stared. They’d drawn a bit of a crowd as well, but Austin seemed oblivious.

  “What time did this happen?” she asked.

  “Everything else I said is true. Ivy came home at eight, mad. She left after ten and didn’t come back.”

  “Austin, do you remember that you told me you went online around eleven that night?”

  He nodded. “I know—this means I have no alibi. But I didn’t kill Ivy. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t me. Max said you might look at the case differently if you knew Ivy cut herself.”

  Grace glanced at Max. “You’re right.”

  Jenny Wallace ran in to the station. “Tommy, is he okay? An officer called me and said he was here. What happened? Is he hurt?”

  “Calm down, Mrs. Wallace. Tommy is fine. But we need to talk.”

  * * *

  David drove to San Rafael and located the Crosses’ home. As he was about to knock on the front door, Emma called him. He sent her a quick text message that he was going into a meeting and would phone her back in an hour.

  Fortunately, Brittney hadn’t been able to cut off his cellular communication with his daughter. He was looking forward to the birthday dinner he had planned at his dad’s house tomorrow. He just hoped Brittney didn’t change her mind.

  When Stephen Cross opened the door, David introduced himself. He saw one of his daughters sitting in the living room beyond. “Maddie told me she called your hotline, and why. I decided to let her talk to you.”

  Cross closed the door behind David. Max should be here, she knew how to talk to people and get them to tell her things they didn’t want to. But David was on his own.

  Cross brought out coffee for the two of them, black, and they sat down. “I didn’t see the show about Ivy Lake until after Maddie talked to me last night, then I watched it on the Internet. I didn’t realize her murder was still unsolved. Maddie told me she called the hotline but got cold feet. She then showed me this.”

  He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to David. “She doesn’t have the envelope anymore, but said it had been postmarked from Corte Madera the second week of July last year.”

  David read the typed letter. It was short but creepy.

  I thought you might like to see this clipping from the local paper. Karma.

  Attached was a printout of the news story about Ivy’s death. David had read it before. It revealed that Ivy had been killed early in the morning of July 4 and the cause of death was a fall from the cliffs at the preserve, autopsy pending.

  “Maddie didn’t tell me about the letter until last night,” Cross said.

  “I didn’t think—it kind of creeped me out, but I just thought it was sent by a friend who knew how much Ivy hurt me.”

  “What exactly happened with Ivy before you moved?”

  “That girl just wouldn’t leave Maddie alone,” Cross said. “I even spoke to her mother, but Mrs. Wallace didn’t consider it important. She said she’d talk to Ivy, but I could tell she wasn’t going to do anything.”

  Maddie said, “Ivy told everyone that I was cutting, but that wasn’t the main reason I needed to get out of there. She … she told people about my therapy. I was going through a bad time and everything was worse because of that. And my therapist was prescribing me antidepressants that didn’t work, and my moods were all wacky.”

  “We changed psychiatrists when we moved, and found that Maddie was being overmedicated,” Cross said.

  “One day in class I started crying, and then Ivy posted on her blog that I had gone off my meds.”

  “That was it,” Cross said, his jaw set. He wasn’t a large man, a bit soft around the edges, but it was clear his daughters meant everything to him. That, David understood. “My girls have been through enough in their young lives. They lost their mother in a car accident, and Maddie still has nightmares about that night. I took the job here in San Rafael and we moved. It was the best decision I ever made.”

  Maddie nodded. “I wish I could have been stronger then.”

  Cross squeezed her forearm. “You are strong.”

  “Do you still talk to Amanda Wallace?” David asked, although he knew the answer.

  “Poor Mandy,” Maddie said. “She and Ivy didn’t get along, and I don’t blame her. Between the divorce, and then they moved so close. Ivy was a year older than us. Ivy was just flat-out nasty to Amanda’s brother.”

  “So you’re still friends.”

  Mandy glanced at her father. “No, not really.”

  “What happened?”

  “We go to different schools. I mean, we’re not that far away, but we don’t have the same friends.”

  Cross interjected. “Maddie had a hard time after the move, and Amanda had as well. They’d been friends for a long time, but Amanda started calling Maddie every day. At first, it wasn’t that big of a deal, but she didn’t stop.”

  “I didn’t want to hurt her feelings,” Maddie said. “We’d been best friends since forever, our entire lives. But I couldn’t go visit her all the time, and I couldn’t talk every night. It got to be too much.”

  Cross concurred. “I called Jenny Wallace and told her that Amanda had sent Maddie two thousand text messages one month.”

  “Two thousand?”

  “Mostly short. Like, what are you doing, did you see this movie, read that book. Amanda told Maddie everything that was happening in her life. We ended up changing her phone number.”

  “I didn’t want to,” Maddie said. “Amanda was so lonely. I was really her only friend. When we were younger, it was cool. We liked the same things, the same books, the same clothes. We used to say we were twins.”

  “Amanda was a nice kid,” Cross said, “but her mother was a basketcase during her divorce, and Amanda started spending more and more time at our house. At first, that was fine, but then I had to put an end to it when Amanda started staying over every night. Moving her clothes into Maddie’s drawers. I assumed she was trying to move in because she was so miserable at home.”

  “And how was Amanda when Ivy posted about your cutting and your therapy?”

  “Horrified,” Maddie said. “But…” She glanced at her dad.

  He said, “This is your story, Maddie. You choose who you share it with.”

  “Amanda knew about the cutting. My psychiatrist thinks Amanda didn’t want to tell anyone because it was our secret, even though she knew it was bad for me. I couldn’t stop—like people who can’t stop drinking alcohol. And Amanda would be there for me to talk to, but I think she was one of the reasons I kept cutting myself. She was … needy. Oh, God, that sounds so bad.”

  “It’s accurate,” Cross said. “Maddie started getting sick, trying to keep Amanda happy by responding to all her messages, doing her schoolwork, juggling chores and her therapy, and making friends. It was too much.”

  David suspected he knew the answer but asked anyway. “When was that?”

  “I had a talk with Jenny Wallace in her office,” said Cross, “shortly before the Fourth of July holiday. Two or three days before.”

  “This past summer?”

  “No, a year ago. About eight months after we moved.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I told her about all the texts, the phone calls, the e-mails. And that Amanda had shown up at our house that weekend with an overnight bag. Jenny was shocked—she thought the sleepover was planned. She’d brought Amanda to the house on a Friday right after school got out, and picked her up Monday. I didn’t say anything when she picked her up,
but that weekend was hell for Maddie.”

  He looked at his daughter.

  She said, “I realized that Amanda wanted to be just like me. I mean, we always liked the same things, but when I came here, I started doing other things, you know? Like I always liked soccer, but Amanda didn’t so I never played. Here I made my high school team. And then she said she was going to play soccer, too—and I know she hated it. And then we played music, and she’d say she didn’t like something, and then when I said I did, she said she did, too. It was … weird. And sort of creepy.”

  “My other daughter Kristen is the one who told me the truth,” Cross said, “and then I had that talk with Jenny. The night after, Jenny called back and said she’d spoken with Amanda, that she was upset because she didn’t realize she’d done anything wrong, but she understands. And that was the end of it.”

  “She never called me again,” Maddie said.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Max sat with Austin on a bench while Grace escorted Jenny down the hall.

  “I don’t feel any better,” Austin said.

  “You will. Lying only helps in the short term, to keep you out of immediate trouble.”

  “I wasn’t trying to protect me.”

  “You were protecting Tommy. I understand, but eventually, the truth comes out. It always does.”

  “If I never wrote that damn letter for Tommy, none of this would have happened.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Someone killed your sister.”

  “It could have been an accident. If I had told the truth from the beginning, they wouldn’t have thought she was murdered by anyone.”

  “You could be right. But the specialists I brought in believe that she was pushed. And Thursday morning someone shot and killed Travis Whitman.”

  Austin jumped. “Travis? Like, shot with a gun? Why?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Because of Ivy?”

  “Austin!”

  Both Max and Austin turned toward the entrance. Paula Wallace stood there with an attractive man in a suit who Max presumed was her husband Bill. He resembled his engagement photo from the newspaper, just older.

  Austin jumped up. “Why are you here?”

  “Because Bill’s son is in trouble,” Paula said.

  Austin looked at Max. “Is that true?”

  “No,” Max said. “Detective Martin is straightening it out.”

  “Get away from my son, Ms. Revere,” Paula said.

  “Stop, please,” Austin pleaded. “This isn’t Max’s fault.”

  Bill said, “Ms. Revere, I’m Bill Wallace. It seems your presence is disturbing my wife and son. If you could step into another area, that would be for the best.”

  Max turned to him and straightened her spine. “And you’re the diplomat?”

  He stared at her, his eyes hard even though his expression was mild. She saw the lawyer beneath the pleasant demeanor.

  She didn’t budge. Bill Wallace was everything she hated. A liar. A cheat. Destructive and selfish and manipulative. Just like her uncle Brooks. Just like so many men that came in and out of her mother’s life. For ten years, she’d dealt with men like Brooks and Bill, and she was not giving any of them one single inch.

  How did women fall for selfish pricks like this? Did they think they could change their man, that he cheated for some reason other than he was a selfish adulterer? Why didn’t Paula fear Bill was cheating on her? Did she even care?

  “Austin!” Paula exclaimed. “Come here now.”

  The desk sergeant approached. “If you can’t keep it down, I’m going to have to ask you all to leave the facility.”

  “Let’s take this outside,” Bill Wallace said to Max.

  “No,” Max said.

  “I should tell you that my lawyers are drawing up a lawsuit as we speak regarding your libelous show,” he said.

  “Libel? Do you know the definition?”

  He bristled.

  Max said, “You must not have seen the segment. If you had, you wouldn’t even mention the L word.” Max kept her voice quiet. “You’re just angry because you have no idea what’s going on in the lives of your children.”

  “I will not have my family exploited. You have no idea who I am.”

  “Don’t worry, I think I’ve got your number,” Max said with confidence.

  “Just who the hell do you think you are?” he shouted, his composure cracking. Good, she wanted him to snap.

  “You’ll have to leave,” the officer approached again. “Now.”

  Max turned and walked away from Bill Wallace. She had so much she wanted to say. Ten years ago she would have verbally gone after him. Hell, six months ago she would have skewered him. Without much effort, she could tear anyone down. All those years growing up in a large extended family who could quietly and with great class insult anyone.

  But David had gotten through to her, and now she was closely watching Austin. For better or worse, these were his parents. If Max humiliated them—which they richly deserved—Austin would witness their downfall. And would that make Max any better than their daughter who had basked in the popularity of embarrassing her peers?

  “Paula,” Bill said, “take Austin home. I’ll handle this situation with Tommy.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Austin said.

  “You will do as I say or you’ll be grounded.”

  “Austin, listen to your father.”

  “He’s not my father!”

  “Don’t do this here, Austin. Not in public.”

  Grace Martin walked briskly down the hall toward them. Jenny and Tommy were behind her. Jenny had been crying and Tommy looked thoroughly upset. When he saw his father standing in the lobby of the police station, he froze.

  Jenny did not. She brushed past Grace and came straight at her ex. But she addressed Paula. “It wasn’t enough that you had to steal my family, but you had to make my son feel like he was garbage.”

  “Jenny, now is not the time,” Bill said.

  “It’s never the time! You’re a big hotshot lawyer, but you avoid confrontation with the people who matter. Tommy matters! A restraining order? Really?”

  “That’s not settled. As I told you over the phone, we’ll sit down on Monday and work things out.”

  “Why didn’t you just move to Seattle? It would be better for Tommy and Amanda to have a father they see twice a year than a father who lives two miles away and never wants them around.”

  “That’s not true and you know it.”

  Grace used her fingers to whistle. “Time out. We have more serious matters to attend to than your dysfunctional family. Mrs. Wallace—” Both Paula and Jenny looked at her. “Jenny,” Grace corrected, “you will go with Officer Blanchard and write out your statement as we discussed, then you and Tommy are free to leave.”

  Tommy stood on the edge of the group. He said quietly, “I’m not going home.”

  “Of course you are, sweetheart,” said Jenny. “The nice detective said it’s okay.”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid. I’m not stupid!”

  “Of course you aren’t. Don’t say that.”

  “You lied. I don’t—I can’t—just leave me alone.”

  “Honey—”

  Tommy brushed off her hand and moved away from her. By the look on Jenny’s face, it was the first time he’d done such a thing.

  Grace said, “Let’s get the statements signed first. Jenny?”

  Jenny looked thoroughly confused and upset when her son turned his back on her. Half in a daze, she followed an officer to a desk in the middle of the bullpen.

  Grace turned to Bill Wallace. “Sir, do you still own a nine millimeter handgun?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Answer the question, please.”

  Another detective approached them and whispered in Grace’s ear. She nodded, then made introductions. “This is Detective Juan Jimenez. He’s assisting my investigation into the murder of Travis Whitman. I’d like
you both to come with us so we can ask you a few questions.”

  Bill said, “Questions about what?”

  “Your gun and where it is.”

  Paula put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God. That’s what this is. That’s why Jenny called you. Tommy stole your gun and shot Travis.”

  Grace stared at her. If she said half of what Max wanted to say, she’d probably be fired.

  “Let me handle this, Paula,” Bill said, clearly angry with Paula for her outburst as well as with the detective for the question. “Detective Martin, you may call my attorney and he will arrange a time and place for us to discuss this matter.”

  Max’s phone was vibrating. She glanced at it quickly. David. She’d call him right back—she wanted to hear more about this gun.

  It appeared the Wallaces’ gun might have been used to shoot Travis Whitman.

  Jimenez, an attractive detective who looked like a taller, skinnier, younger Ricky Martin, said, “We found a nine millimeter gun at the scene of Travis Whitman’s homicide that at first we believed was unregistered, but upon further examination, the last serial number was misread by the technician. We confirmed that it is registered to William E. Wallace of Corte Madera. Ballistics just came back that confirms the gun was used to shoot and kill Travis Whitman. You’re welcome to bring in your attorney, but we would like to ask you some questions right now.”

  “My gun is locked and secure in my home,” said Bill.

  “When was the last time you laid eyes on your firearm?”

  Bill didn’t answer. He’d been thrown for a loop. But it didn’t take him long to recover. “I need to know exactly what you think and what you’re trying to learn. If it was my firearm, then it was stolen.”

  “And you didn’t report the theft?”

  “I didn’t know about the theft until now.”

  “Who has access to your gun?”

  “I see what you’re trying to do. You can talk to my attorney, I am not answering any more questions. Paula, Austin, we’re leaving.”

  Grace said, “No.”

  “You cannot detain us.”

  “I can detain Austin. He just gave me a statement related to your daughter’s murder, and I need him to read and sign it.”