They will listen to her.
Margaret stands again suddenly, and the female detective at the desk raises a hand to her waist, where her weapon is holstered.
“I know who killed David West,” Margaret announces loudly, interrupting the conversations yet again. “And it wasn’t the girl in that room.”
This time they all gape at her.
At last, she has their full attention.
40
MARGARET
Detective Foster leans back in his chair and runs a hand through the few strands of hair left on his head.
“That’s quite a story, Sister,” his partner says.
“I’m not lying, Detective.”
The man and the woman glance at each other, some silent communication she’s not privy to.
“Of course, we’ll have to verify this.”
“Verify all you want,” she says. “But I’m telling you, Graye Templeton isn’t real. I should know. I helped create her. Graye Templeton is Grace Thacker. She has her own reasons for being on this island and involved with the Wests’ lives, but those reasons, as misguided as they may be, have absolutely nothing to do with any wish to harm them. The very idea that Graye had anything to do with this is, frankly, absurd.”
Margaret ignores the doubtful voice that whispers in the back of her mind.
Are you sure about that?
But she is sure. Of course she’s sure.
“Nick DiMarco was on that island. He approached Graye. She was frightened of him, and with good reason.”
Detective Branson leans forward and places her elbows on the table between them.
“The part I’m having trouble with is why Graye didn’t volunteer this information to us herself.”
Margaret sighs. “Graye is . . . she’s different. Special. You have to understand the situation she came to us from. Her picture had been plastered across the news outlets, and she was never going to live down the infamy of what happened to her family.
“Graye was created purely from a need to escape that. Her name was legally changed, and we petitioned the courts to seal all records pertaining to her new name and whereabouts. Graye spent the rest of her childhood closeted away from her past, and I, along with the other sisters, encouraged her to branch out, become someone new.”
“That’s all well and good, Sister Margaret, but she’s being held in a cell on suspicion of murder. Now would seem to be an occasion to tell us the truth.”
“You have her in a cell!” Margaret can’t hide the shock in her voice or the way her heart sinks into her belly. She didn’t see them remove Graye from the interview room, as they asked Margaret to wait in one of the detectives’ offices before they began her interview.
She didn’t believe Graye even knew she was here, but she had held on to a slim hope that the police had set her free already.
Instead, she’s been locked away like a common criminal.
“Yes, Sister,” Detective Branson says. “We do.”
“But Graye didn’t do this! She couldn’t have!”
But are you absolutely, completely sure of that?
“Sister Margaret, we will certainly look into the things you’ve shared here today and take them into consideration, but this investigation is ongoing and our job is not to sort out a fifteen-year-old grudge. Our job is to determine how and why David West was killed.”
“But Nick is a murderer! He’s a convicted murderer and he was there, on Port Mary, and now someone else is dead!”
“According to the woman suspected of committing the crime,” Detective Branson says.
“She didn’t kill anyone!” Margaret says, banging the flat of her hand onto the table and causing the female detective to flinch.
“Sister Margaret,” Detective Foster says in that smooth tone Margaret’s come to loathe. “We have approximately”—he glances at his watch—“forty-six hours left to determine whether we’re going to charge Graye Templeton with this crime. If you believe so strongly in her innocence, I suggest you allow us to do our jobs unimpeded. If she is innocent, then the evidence will surely bear that out.”
Margaret feels the first stirrings of real panic. She’d thought if she could just explain, then they’d see who was responsible and let Graye go. The answers are staring them in the face, but they’ve said nothing about releasing Graye. Nothing at all.
“You’ll verify what I’ve told you? You’ll find Nick DiMarco?”
“I can assure you we will.”
Margaret sits back in her chair, defeat deadening her limbs.
“I’m not a liar,” she says in a low voice.
“I have no doubt of that, Sister. But unfortunately, what we believe to be true doesn’t always line up with the facts at hand.”
The two detectives rise.
“But thank you for coming in.”
41
BRANSON
Branson leans back against the wall in the hallway as Foster walks the nun out of the station.
She pushes her hands deep into her pockets as a frown creases her face.
What the hell has landed in our laps?
“Whew,” Foster says quietly when he returns.
Mrs. West is still waiting in the lobby. Branson can see her around the edge of Foster’s hulking form. The woman looks worse with every passing hour.
“We need to get the wife in, then send her home. She looks like she’s about to fall out of that chair. And I give it about twenty more minutes before Caron’s wife loses her shit and calls in a fleet of attorneys.”
Foster glances back over his shoulder. “Yeah. I just need a second to absorb that last one. Jesus, the Thacker case. I guess that was before your time.”
“I think I was in junior high, but I vaguely remember something about it. Made a big splash nationally.”
“The little girl, mostly,” Foster says. “She looked so lost and sad. Tugged on every last one of America’s heartstrings. Not surprised she had to go into hiding to get out from underneath that kind of notoriety.”
Branson glances down the hallway toward the cells. There are three, and Graye Templeton’s is the only one occupied after they let old Billy Cobb go home this morning once he’d sobered up.
Nobody had time to mess around with him today.
“Why don’t you call and check in with the crime lab,” she says. “I’ll have Graham start digging up everything he can find on the Thacker case, then we’ve got to get Laura West in to interview.”
“While he’s at it, have Graham track down Nick DiMarco.”
Branson lifts a brow. “You know that’s probably wishful thinking on the nun’s part, right?”
“I know.” He shakes his head. “But we’ve got to check. If DiMarco was on Port Mary, that throws a great big kink into what was looking like a pretty solid case.”
“A solid case against Grace Thacker, America’s sad little sweetheart?”
Foster takes a deep breath and blows it out in a low whistle. “Geez, Branson. I should have gone fishing today.”
“You and me both.”
“Bad enough, a dead author on our hands, but this ices the damn cake. I don’t want to be surprised again. We need everything there is to know about this woman. Every rock kicked over, no matter what name she’s been using. Tell Graham his overtime and vacation depend on it.”
“The press are gonna go wild over this, you know.”
“Branson, right now, the press is the least of my concerns. Get Graham busy kicking rocks, and I’ll meet you in the interview room with Mrs. West in ten.”
42
LAURA
Laura fights back the dizziness that threatens to overwhelm her and focuses on the two detectives across the table.
She’s seated in the same chair Graye was.
Do the detectives see her as a suspect as well? It’s a question that won’t leave her in peace.
“Mrs. West, can you take us through the events of last night please.”
She nods. Detective Foster doesn’t
sound like any policeman she’s ever seen portrayed in movies or television. Even books tend toward brash, confrontational murder cops. This man reminds her of her father’s best friend, Sal, who’d kept butterscotch in his pockets for her each time he visited.
“Well, there was the mystery dinner, of course. Where David made a scene.”
The two detectives nod, but say nothing.
“I suppose Hugo’s told you all about that,” she says, ruffled under their scrutiny.
“Can you tell us what happened after?” Detective Branson asks.
“Graye walked me home. I’d decided enough was enough. I mean, there’s only so much a woman can be expected to put up with, and David had crossed that line so many times. The fight with Hugo, in front of all those people. It was the last straw.”
“What time was this?”
“It was late. The dinner ended around ten, I guess. We probably got home about ten thirty or ten forty-five. I’m sorry, I didn’t look at my watch.”
“Did Miss Templeton enter your home with you?”
“No, I left her outside the door. I assume she went to the guesthouse.”
“And what happened then?”
She sighs. This was all so personal.
“David was passed out. At least, I thought he was. I expected him to be. I was planning to pack his bags and have them ready for him when he woke up the next day.”
“And did you? Pack his bags?”
“I started to. But . . .”
Laura bites her lip, needing to feel the pain to keep her focused on their questions.
“But he woke up. Or maybe he was never asleep, I don’t know. He would closet himself in his office a lot, then come out drunker than he’d gone in. I’d been home for a while by that time. An hour, maybe two? I just assumed he’d be out for the night, considering the state he’d been in at the dinner.”
She shakes her head, remembering the rage on David’s face when he’d seen what she was doing.
She’d never seen him so angry.
“He . . . he wasn’t happy,” she finishes weakly.
Unconsciously, she crosses her arms around herself, rubbing the bruises where David had grabbed her.
She wouldn’t repeat the vile things he’d said to her. She’d never repeat those words to anyone.
“There was a confrontation?”
She looks away, down at the table, where she picks at one of her nails.
“He was angry, and he went a little crazy, throwing things. Breaking them. We were screaming at each other.”
“Did things get physical at any point between you?”
But she won’t share that humiliation either. Laura has always sympathized with women who’ve suffered physical abuse at the hands of their partner, but from a semidetached, safe distance. She’s never imagined the sheer terror of looking into the eyes of a person you loved, a person who’d professed to love you back, and wondering at the core of your soul if you were going to survive the night.
She’d had no idea. But she does now.
“No, not exactly,” she lies and takes a deep breath. “I’d sworn to myself I wouldn’t be the one who left. It’s my home, and it was my grandmother’s home before that. David could go. I was staying. But that all changed, when—”
The lump that forms in her throat makes it impossible to push words past.
She fights another wave of dizziness, along with a pain in her heart.
The detectives wait while she gathers herself.
“That all changed when I began to bleed.”
Detective Foster goes still, and his partner sits up straighter in her chair, peering at her.
“You were bleeding?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “I’m . . . at least, I was, pregnant. For a little while.”
Their surprise is evident, and Laura wonders if this nightmare will ever end.
“I’m not anymore.”
“Mrs. West,” Detective Branson says, “I’m sorry. Are you telling me that you miscarried last night? Less than twenty-four hours ago?”
“Yes, Detective. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
There’s a moment of silence for that to soak in before Detective Foster speaks again.
“Mrs. West, I’m no expert, but shouldn’t you be under the care of a doctor?”
“I am,” she says. “I saw a doctor last night, and that’s where I’m headed back to when I leave here. Dr. Lawson is an old friend of my family and she lives on Port Mary as well. Just two doors away. I went to her last night when I realized what was happening. That’s where I spent the remainder of the night. But David was alive when I left him, I swear to you.”
Branson doesn’t bother to hide her confusion as she shakes her head.
“I’m sorry, can we back up just a little? You said you were arguing with your husband, then began to miscarry. Out of the blue?”
If being knocked down with a suitcase and kicked repeatedly in the stomach could be considered out of the blue, Laura thinks, numb now to the horror of the night before.
She stares at the woman, but the officer is young and Laura can guess she’s never been forced into such a vulnerable state. She herself wouldn’t have understood yesterday.
She hopes this woman never learns firsthand that terror.
“That’s correct.”
“Mrs. West,” Detective Foster says. “You frankly don’t look well. Would you like to postpone this interview and seek medical attention?”
Bless him. She wonders if he keeps butterscotch in his pockets too.
“No,” she says. “I’d like to get this over with, if that’s okay.”
“If that’s what you’d prefer,” he says slowly, but his tone of voice implies he’s not happy with her.
Well, he can stand in line.
“So once you realized you were bleeding, what did you do then?” Detective Branson asks.
“I left, like I said.”
It was true. She had. She simply skips over the part where she’s begging David to stop, screaming that he’s killing their child. The part where she flees her home, running from the horror story their marriage has become.
Something had changed in David. She’d been aware of his gradual descent, aided and abetted by the alcohol he’d come to depend on. She’d known he’d eventually hit rock bottom, but never expected to find a monster waiting there.
“And you went to your neighbor’s house.” The detective consults her notes. “Dr. Lawson?”
“That’s correct.”
“And what time was this?”
“I’m sorry, it didn’t occur to me to check the time,” she says, unable to keep the strain out of her voice. “Dr. Lawson may know.”
“How did you get there?” Detective Branson asks.
“I walked.”
“I’m sorry, you walked?” The woman is struggling with Laura’s story, and strangely she’s stumbling over the parts that are completely true. She had walked.
“Yes.”
“You’re bleeding from a miscarriage, and you walked two doors away to your neighbor’s house?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Why didn’t you call 911?” the detective asks, incredulous.
Laura sighs. “Because Port Mary is an island. An ambulance requires the ferry, which doesn’t run in the middle of the night, or a helicopter.”
“Are you telling me you didn’t dial 911 because you didn’t want to inconvenience emergency services?”
“Look, Detective,” Laura says. “You may find this difficult to believe, but unless you’ve ever been in that situation, I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from judgment.”
The woman has the grace to look slightly chastised, but still not satisfied with Laura’s answers.
“I was bleeding. Not a little blood, but a lot of blood. I knew what that meant. It was too early in the pregnancy to lose that kind of blood and still be . . . viable.” Laura nearly chokes on the last word. Such a clinical,
cold-blooded word for the end of a life before it even had a chance to begin.
“Even if I’d called 911 and they’d sent a chopper out immediately, there was no chance I was still pregnant. I knew it in my heart. In my bones.
“So, yes, I walked to my friend’s house. I walked to the house of a doctor and a woman who’s known me since childhood. A woman who’s bandaged my knees and nursed me when I was sick and comforted me when I was in pain. A woman whose very presence reminds me of my grandmother, whom I would give everything I have just for the chance to hug one more time.”
Tears are forming and Laura doesn’t bother to try and stop them. She’s earned every one of those damn tears. Let them fall.
“I walked to Dr. Lawson’s house, and I did it slowly, crying every step of the way. A funeral procession of one for a baby I was never going to hold, or kiss, or watch grow into a unique little person. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t love her, and it doesn’t mean I didn’t mourn her.”
Laura doesn’t know when her lost child became a her, but it feels right. It feels true.
The detectives leave a moment of silence after she finishes speaking—out of respect, Laura supposes. But they are still detectives.
“Why didn’t you knock on your assistant’s door?” Detective Branson asks finally. “She was closer, wasn’t she?”
Laura sighs.
“I did, actually. She didn’t answer.”
“Did you see or notice anyone else along the walk? Can anyone confirm that?”
“I have no idea,” Laura says, out of patience. “I was too upset to notice. Look, I’ve answered your questions to the best of my ability. Why exactly are you making me feel like a suspect? I’ve lost my child. I’ve lost my husband. When I left my home, David was drunk, he was angry, but he was alive.
“Speak to Dr. Lawson, if you don’t believe me. Speak to Rachel Caron. They’ll both confirm what I’m saying.”
Detective Foster tilts his head. “Where does Mrs. Caron come into this?” he asks.
“I called her. She and Hugo were staying at the hotel for the retreat, and she came to be with me.”
Detective Branson’s pen stalls over her notepad, where she’s been jotting down every personal detail Laura’s been forced to reveal.
The Shadow Writer Page 21
