Kent came to his feet. “You’re in Birmingham? No, Emily. Get out of there. You can’t be in the middle of this. Let the police handle it.”
“But what if they aren’t going to? What if they’re just waiting for a crime to be committed?”
“I’ll call them.” He grabbed his notepad, turned the page. “Does your mother know you’re there?”
She hesitated, then sighed. “No. I knew Mom would freak.”
“She will, just like I am. Emily, I want you to turn your car around and go home. Now!”
“But what will it hurt to tell Cassandra to stay on guard?”
“You already did. You left a message on her voice mail, which was really not wise, Emily. What if Carter finds the message first? You’re playing with fire.”
“I had to do the right thing! I can’t just go on with my day when I know that someone’s about to be murdered! Besides, I tried calling you before I came.”
“You should have filed a police report with Atlanta when I didn’t call back right away, instead of going to Birmingham.” He imagined what Barbara was going to say when she heard this. “Emily, come home now!”
She didn’t answer.
“Emily? Do you hear me?”
Finally, a feeble reply. “Okay, I’m coming.”
“Do not stop to talk to Cassandra. Do not go back to their house. Do not do anything except drive back to Atlanta. And when you get here, call me, because I need a formal statement from you.”
“Okay.”
“Call me when you get into town, and I’ll meet you at your house.”
“All right. But don’t tell Mom, okay? She’ll get all upset and think ridiculous things. I’ll tell her everything when I get home.”
Kent considered whether to keep it from Barbara or not. No, he couldn’t lie to her if she asked. “Not promising anything, Emily. I’ll meet you in two hours.”
“Okay, but will you check out Carter Price and Bo Lawrence? See where they were when Devon was murdered?”
“Going to right now.”
As he hung up, Kent glanced at his partner. “Did you get that?”
Andy came back to his desk. “Yeah. You buying it?”
That irritated Kent. “Of course I am. I know this kid. She’s not lying.”
“Hey, I know her, too. I worked on her car with you. I remember her history.”
“All drug-related. She’s sober now, in college, doing great. We can trust her.” But Emily’s story sent the case to a whole new level. Now he wasn’t just solving a murder as part of his job. Now he felt an urgency to protect the girl he already thought of as a daughter.
Chapter 18
Emily knew better than to buck Kent’s orders, but still she pulled into the Fold N Fluff’s parking lot to turn the car around. There were four cars there. One of them must be Cassandra’s.
Through the window, she saw a woman at a washer. Yes, it was Cassandra. Emily could just go inside and tell Cassandra the whole story.
She sat in her idling car, watching Cassandra. She prayed that God would show her what to do. Should she do as Kent said, wasting the entire trip over here? Or should she just go in and make sure that Cassandra knew to keep her guard up?
Kent was looking out for Emily’s best interests. But wasn’t Christianity about putting others before yourself? She had to help Cassandra. She made up her mind as she shifted the car into park. She got out and went into the Laundromat.
The room hummed with rotating machines, and a steamy softness hung in the air with the scents of detergent and fabric softener. An old woman folded her laundry. A man sat in one of the orange vinyl chairs, texting.
And there was Cassandra, pulling wet laundry out of a washer. Emily stepped closer. “Cassandra?”
The woman spun around, startled.
“Sorry,” Emily said, reaching out to calm her. “I’m Emily Covington. I met you when you came for visitation at Haven House.”
The woman brought her hand to her chest. “Oh, yeah. I remember you.”
“I knew your husband there. And I called you this morning. Did you get my message?”
Cassandra’s face hardened, and she brought her eyebrows together. “You’re the one who left that message?”
“Yes. I wanted you to know that I overheard — ”
“Are you having a thing with my husband?” Cassandra cut in.
Emily caught her breath. “What? No!”
“I knew when I saw you that he was gonna get all fawny-eyed over you. With that long blonde hair, those eyes . . . You think I don’t know what’s going on?”
“No, Cassandra. You’re wrong! That’s not it!”
Cassandra grabbed her basket. Loading the wet clothes into it, she said, “Leave me alone. I don’t know what you want from me.”
“I want to save your life. I’m afraid Carter is going to do something . . .”
Cassandra slammed the washer shut, then headed for the door.
Emily didn’t know what to do. “Cassandra, please listen. This is important. If you don’t, you could die!”
But Cassandra shot out to her car, threw the basket in, and screeched out of the parking lot. Emily just stood there, stunned. She realized then that the others were staring at her.
“It’s . . . she . . . I just had to tell her . . .” Why was she explaining to them? She pushed through the glass door and went back to the car.
Tears wet her face as she headed back to Atlanta. Kent was right. She had probably just made things worse.
Chapter 19
Barbara called the insurance company and tried to file the claim without the police report, since Emily still hadn’t texted her the number. They took the information, but said they couldn’t arrange for a rental car or an adjuster until they had all the details.
And now Emily wasn’t answering the phone. Where was she? Would she remember to pick Barbara up from work?
She tried to stuff the fear back into its dark chamber at the back of her mind. Just because Emily had skipped the test didn’t mean that she was up to anything. She had been doing well. The late nights weren’t about drugs. They were just about a college kid testing her wings.
Weren’t they?
Barbara felt weary. The weight of Emily’s addictions were crushing her again. The signs were coming back. She didn’t want to see them, yet she did. Maybe putting her trust in Emily again was wrong. Maybe she never should have let her guard down and given Emily so much freedom.
But she was a legal adult!
What would Barbara do if Emily dragged their family back into this again? Would she throw her out until she came to her senses? Would it come to that?
But hadn’t she already come to her senses? She seemed sober. She appeared to be trying. Maybe this was all just delayed consequences of her past.
Barbara checked her watch. When did Emily have class on Mondays? She couldn’t remember. Maybe she was in class and couldn’t answer her phone. But she’d had plenty of time to call back.
She sat at her desk, staring into space. She should be celebrating. It looked as if they’d get the bid for the new sanctuary. But she couldn’t think about victory right now. She could only think about failure.
She didn’t even know if she had failed at helping Emily stay sober.
God knew what was going on. He knew what Emily was doing. He knew who had planted that bomb. She whispered a desperate plea for him to make things clear to her and help her face the truth.
But facing it might mean shaking the foundation of their lives. She didn’t know if she had the strength to deal with that again.
Chapter 20
The Avenger snorted another line of coke and waited as energy pumped through him. He hadn’t slept in three days. He was living proof that sleep was a waste of time. With the proper fuel, he could go on and on. He wasn’t like other mortals.
He pulled the page from the printer and studied the pill bottle label. It looked exactly like the one on the actual prescription bott
le. He’d re-created it on the computer, Purdue Pharma logo and all, and put Emily Covington’s name on it. Now he clipped the label out and glued it to the amber bottle full of Oxycontin. As he smoothed out the air bubbles, he laughed at the reaction Emily’s mother would have when she found them.
He drove to the Covingtons’ street, looking for any neighbors out working in their garden, walking the dog — anyone who might see and identify him. He saw no one, and he stopped at the end of the street, in front of a house for sale. Its yard was overgrown, so it was probably vacant. Perfect.
He took his bag, walked back to the Covingtons’ house, and went around to the back door. He knocked, and when no one answered, slipped on his latex gloves and used a credit card to move the lock. He felt it disengage, then he pushed inside.
The Avenger stood in the kitchen, looking around at the granite countertops, shiny stainless-steel refrigerator, posh table and chairs a little too ornate for this size house. The mom was a decorator, and the house showed it. Elegant, his own mother would have called it, while she seethed with hatred for a woman who could pull this off.
A stack of yesterday’s mail lay on the counter, most of it unopened. He unzipped his bag and pulled out the FedEx envelope he’d brought with the bottle inside. It had no fingerprints and no DNA. He’d worn gloves when handling it, and the seal was self-stick. He’d torn it open to make it look like Emily had already opened it. He set it on top of the mail.
But as he backed away, his appetite surged. Could he really leave a bottle of perfectly good Oxy lying there?
He went back to it, opened the bottle, shook out six pills. There were still twenty-four inside, enough to achieve his goal.
The drug called to him. He could easily grind it up and snort it or smoke it, or even shoot it. Maybe he shouldn’t leave the bottle after all.
But then he stopped himself. He had plenty of crack at home, and that was his drug of choice anyway. And this was important. When pretty Emily’s family found what was in that envelope, they would be hurt on so many levels. They’d never trust her again. Even better, if Emily found it herself, she might not be able to resist it. Slam dunk. She wouldn’t be so full of herself then.
No matter who found the pills, he couldn’t lose. If the Covingtons called the police about this break-in, they’d see the pills. Everything would go up in smoke for the smug do-gooder. He was a genius.
He wandered through the house, checking out the living room with its cushy sectional and upscale accessories. If his mother saw a room like this in one of her magazines, she would have torn the picture out and tacked it on the wall to dream about. It would have become another reason to churn with bitterness.
He went down the hall to Emily’s bedroom. A fourposter bed dwarfed the room and crowded the huge dresser. A fancy gold jewelry box sat at the center of the dresser. He opened it and looked for the perfect piece.
There it was. A necklace with the letters EC hanging from a delicate chain. He took the necklace, pocketed it. He could use that later.
He found her makeup in the bathroom across the hall and grabbed a bright-red lipstick. Perfect.
Back in the kitchen, on the wall just inside the door from the garage — the one they probably used the most — the Avenger used the lipstick to write his message on the beige wall. He stood back and grinned.
This was too good not to brag about. He fished his phone out of his pocket, clicked on his camera, and took a picture. That would be worth a laugh later.
He looked around and figured enough damage had been done. Better leave now before the school bus dropped the kid off.
He smiled as he made his way back to his car, wishing he could be a fly on the wall to see what kind of chaos he’d given birth to.
Chapter 21
As if Lance’s day hadn’t been bad enough, now he was forced to ride the bus home because Emily wasn’t answering his texts begging her to pick him up. With Emily’s new problems, he doubted he would get his own car any time soon. He’d tried his best to save enough this summer to buy what his mom called “a reliable vehicle.” He’d be content with a clunker as long as it ran. But her standard of “reliable” was stretching this thing out way too long. He’d managed to save a thousand dollars mowing lawns. Now he needed to find a part-time job so he could add to the till.
It was so unfair. Emily had gotten her car without putting in a dime. His mother claimed now that had been a mistake, that she was trying to build more character into him.
He didn’t particularly want character. He just wanted a stinking car.
Emily would usually pick him up on Mondays, but not today. That meant he’d have to suffer the hour-long bus ride home. He was one of the last to be dropped off, so he had to sit there while each kid was taken home, one by one.
He got to the bus door, grabbed the chrome bar, and stepped inside. He’d hung back too long. It was almost full.
He glanced over the heads of the noisy students, looking for empty seats. One was next to a freshman. He headed toward it, meeting the eyes of some of his leering peers. As he came by, Jeff Samson stuck his foot out and tried to trip him. Lance stepped over it. “Nice try.”
Big mistake, because the jerk behind him stuck his foot out then, and Lance stumbled over it. He pulled a Kramer and did a slapstick fall, going for laughs instead of mockery. Some of the kids giggled.
He made his way to the empty seat. The person by the window blocked it. “I’m saving this one.”
Life was pretty lame when even the younger kids didn’t want to be around you. Lance kept going, stepping over lanky legs, until he got to an empty double seat. It was in front of Brian Culpepper, who weighed three hundred pounds but was too slow for the football team. The kid was a bully on the bus, probably because others bullied him at school. Lance was his favorite target.
“Hey, Yankee boy.”
Lance rolled his eyes. “Excuse me, but Missouri was part of the confederacy in the Civil War. Technically, I’m not a Yankee.”
Lance doubted he even knew what the Civil War was. He unzipped his backpack and got out his iPod, shoved the ear buds into his ears.
Brian shoved him. “Are you disrespecting me, Yankee boy?”
Lance grabbed Brian’s hand and sprang up, twisting his wrist around. “Keep your hands off me, dude.”
Brian winced, and Lance let him go. The kid rubbed his wrist, looking embarrassed. Lance wanted to do more. He wanted to take that canned Coke in Brian’s other hand and pour it over his head. He wanted to grab the bottom of Brian’s shirt and pull it over his face. But the bus driver would freak out, and he’d wind up in detention.
Besides, Lance wasn’t a bully. He didn’t find the same joy in it that these over-sized toddlers did. He just wanted to be left alone.
Chapter 22
I blame myself.”
Bo Lawrence’s words took Kent by surprise. They’d found him at his parents’ house at 2:30, since his own was still a police-sealed crime scene. He’d been sleeping when they arrived, so they’d talked to his mother for a while before she woke him up. She reminded them that he had worked all night, only to learn that his wife had been murdered. She said he’d been with the kids since coming home from the police department and had fallen asleep with them when he put them to bed for a nap. “I worry about him,” she said. “I don’t want this to be his downfall after he’s been doing so good, staying sober and all. It doesn’t take much, you know, to trigger a relapse.”
Now, Bo sat in his parents’ living room, deep shadows hitting his face under the soft glow of a lamp. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the mid-afternoon sunlight. He looked like a long-time drug user. His skin was dry, as though every drop of moisture had been sucked out, and wrinkles cut into his leathery skin as if he were much older than his early forties.
His eyes were bloodshot, but that could be easily explained by both fatigue and grief. It was hard to tell if he was sober or not. His pupils looked normal for the amount of light in the ro
om.
“Why do you blame yourself?” Andy asked.
“Because . . . I know some shady characters. I’ve been racking my brain trying to think who’s threatened me or had reason to get even.”
“And?”
“And there are dozens.” He pulled a paper out of his pocket, unfolded it with rough hands. “I made a list. Some of these dudes, I don’t know their real names. They go by street names. People I cheated on some dope deals, a couple of guys I ratted out to the cops to get a better plea deal. I thought I was safe since so much time has gone by, but they might have killed her to get back at me.”
Kent took the list, scanned it. Carter Price wasn’t on it. “Did your wife have any enemies of her own?”
“I seriously doubt it. She was clean, trying to live right. Back when we met we partied all the time. She was as bad off as I was. But then she got pregnant with Allie, and she cleaned up. Never went back to it. I don’t even know why she married me, because I was still in it.”
The emotion on his face, the way the edges of his mouth pulled down, would have seemed genuine if Kent hadn’t heard Emily’s story. Bo stopped and pressed his thumb and forefinger against the outer corners of his eyes, hiding the tears that hovered there. They didn’t seem fake, Kent thought as one rolled down Bo’s cheek. If he’d been acting, wouldn’t he have wanted them to see the tears, instead of hiding them? He studied the man — the way he sat slumped over, legs and arms open. It wasn’t a posture of defensiveness or secrecy.
Maybe he was a good actor.
“You finished rehab a few months ago,” Kent said in a soft voice. “Have you been sober since then?”
Bo seemed to pull back his tears, and dropped his hand. “Yes, but I ain’t gonna lie to you. It hasn’t been easy. I didn’t even want to go to rehab. Didn’t have any desire at all to change. But then when I got sober and saw all that I’d put my family through, I kind of woke up one day, you know? Realized how much of my life I’d wasted. Got out of rehab, but I’m still on probation. Random drug tests keep me honest.”
Downfall Page 7
