Unforgiven: A Conspiracy Thriller

by Stacey Fields

  "Yea," Tom answered his question, unaffected by his outburst. "Car accident. They're saying alcohol was involved."

  "Did she get hit by a drunk driver?" Michael asked, more calmly this time.

  "No," Tom continued speaking. "She ran her car off the road into a tree. They're saying it was her that was under the influence."

  Michael scanned the faces around him. They all looked affected by the news, but not the same way he was. "Does anyone else find this all a little…? I don't know, suspicious?" he said finally.

  "What?" Trish asked at the same time Ruth did.

  "I mean, doesn't anyone think it's weird that within the span of less than a year two girls get killed, and they both worked at the same law firm?" He continued to study the faces around him. They looked at him blankly.

  Hillsboro wasn't a large city, the population probably around 80,000. While shootings and drunk driving accidents happened from time to time, there was still something surrounding these two incidents that didn't sit right with him.

  "Michael," Jason said to him firmly. "It's just a coincidence."

  "You think so?" Michael shot at him almost aggressively.

  "Don't get on this kick again. It's done. Rachel's killer is in holding. These two incidents are unrelated in any way, except that they both happened to work at the same place," Jason said to him, almost under his breath.

  The tension in the air was thick. Jason knew how much he had fought with the local police to dig deeper into Rachel's case. Michael went into the station multiple times, asking to confront her shooter—the last time he needed to be escorted out for causing a scene when they refused to let him yet again.

  Jason looked at Michael intently, trying to warn him to drop it; telling him to let it go, and not to drudge up something his family had worked for months to put away. It was no secret that Jason and his family didn't approve of Michael's previous insistence that the police re-open Rachel's case. They wanted closure, and they were happy with getting it any way possible.

  "To answer your question, Jason," Ruth spoke softly, trying to break the tension, her voice a little shaky. "Yes. They brought Joy's car to George's shop. While I was in there I saw her mother, actually. Poor thing," she said under her breath. "She's devastated."

  The conversation at the meal resumed its air of small talk, in which Michael participated very little. After they finished eating, Ruth and Trish began clearing the table, while Tom, Jason, and Michael went to the family room, where Tom brought up the topic Michael had hoped to avoid.

  "Two weeks," he said sorrowfully. "That's all you have, Michael. I'm sorry. We should have told you about this sooner, I know." Tom looked over at Jason, "but this whole thing has been so hard on you, we weren't sure how to tell you."

  Tom sat on the brown leather couch, Jason to his right. Michael had taken a seat in one of the plush armchairs directly across from them. He leaned forward, running his hands through his hair. "What am I supposed to do with all of her stuff?" he asked looking at the floor.

  "Just go through it," Tom continued. "See if there's anything you want. We can take care of the rest. But you have to do this, Michael. You have to start taking some steps forward."

  That's what everyone always told him. He needed to take steps forward. Michael sighed, leaning back to look at them. "Alright," he agreed begrudgingly. "I'll go over there sometime this week." He shifted his weight around nervously. Just the thought of being in her apartment made him feel an overwhelming sense of sadness. As he adjusted his position in the chair something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Sitting on the side table next to him was a slip of paper, tucked under the phone. It had a name—Susan Reynolds—and a number—658-2145—scribbled across it.

  "Do you want me to go with you?" Jason offered.

  "No," Michael said, looking quickly at the paper, trying to memorize the number. He turned his attention back to Rachel's brother and father. "I'll be fine."

  When he got into his car at the end of the night, he quickly shuffled through the random objects he had in the center console, looking for a pen and paper. Finding them, he wrote down the number as quickly as possible, reading and re-reading it to make sure he had remembered it correctly.

  He pulled his car out the of the drive, and drove it around the corner, out of view of the house he had just come from. He looked at the clock glowing on the dashboard: 8:23. "It's too late," he said to himself. "It can wait till tomorrow." He held his phone in his hand, turning it over and over, staring at the glowing green numbers. 8:24. He slid his finger across his phone, hearing it unlock. Against his better judgment he punched in the seven-digit number he had written down. He stared down at the screen. "I shouldn't," he said under his breath. Still, his finger slid down and pushed the "call" button. Still looking at the phone in his hand, he heard it begin to ring.

  "Hello?" a woman's voice came from the speaker. "Hello?"

  Flustered, he raised the phone to his cheek quickly, not exactly sure what he wanted to say. "Hello," he replied.

  "Who is this?" the woman sounded confused.

  "I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. Reynolds," Michael started. "My name is Michael Kent. I didn't know your daughter personally, but she worked with my fiancée Rachel Johnson." The woman was silent. "I'm sorry," Michael said quickly. "I shouldn't have called. I…"

  "I remember Joy talking about Rachel," the woman's voice said sadly. "I couldn't believe when I heard…"

  "I was wondering if I could meet with you?" Michael cut her off, not wanting to hear the words he knew she was on the verge of saying.

  "Of course, dear," she said sweetly. "Come by tomorrow, anytime." She gave him her address, which he scribbled on the paper with her number.

  That night Michael barely slept; his mind was filled with memories of Rachel and the questions he had surrounding her death. In the morning, he was glad to have something to do, instead of spend the entire day in his house, like he did most days.

  The Reynolds's house was about fifteen minutes outside of town. He arrived at roughly 8:00am the next morning. He thought it might have been too early, but he couldn't sleep, and had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. It was a nice, simple house, with a large wrap-around porch and a bright red front door. As Michael climbed the creaky wooden steps, his hands became sweaty. He had faced many adversaries in his life, and they didn't make him nervous. Coming face to face with grief—that terrified him. What was he going to say to this woman?

  "You must be Michael," a woman smiled weakly at him as she pulled open the front door before he had the chance to knock.

  "Mrs. Reynolds?" he asked looking at her carefully. She was a larger woman, with a sturdy frame and thick arms, but somehow she appeared weak, drained—like the slightest breeze would wash over her and knock her to her knees. She's grieving. Michael wondered if that's what people saw when they looked at him.

  "Come in, dear," she said pushing open the screen door and stepping to the side.

  He followed her down a short hall and into a cozy family room. Everywhere he looked he saw pictures. Some were of the entire family, others were of her children, now all grown, but in the pictures they were all at different stages of their lives. "This was our Joy," she said picking up one and handing it to Michael. The girl smiling up at him couldn't be more than twelve years old. Her hair was pulled back in pigtails, her teeth crooked, and her smile infectious.

  "She was adorable," Michael said handing the picture back to her. He pulled out his phone, pushing the home button, causing the screen to illuminate. His background was a picture of himself with Rachel. It was one they took when they went to a baseball game the summer before. She hated the picture, saying it made her face look fat. It was his favorite picture of her; she looked purely and completely happy. "This was Rachel," he said turning the screen to show Susan the picture.

  "She was beautiful," she said quietly, studying the picture closely. She leaned back, looking from the phone to Michael. "What brin
gs you here, Michael?"

  "First, I wanted to extend my condolences," he said sympathetically. "I know how hard this can be." She smiled at him, a tear forming in the corner of her eye. "But, I also wanted to ask you about Joy's accident," he said the words carefully, trying to judge her reactions before continuing. "I guess I haven't been able to move past Rachel's death," he explained. "And hearing that another employee of Hamilton & Lewis…" he didn't want to finish the thought for fear she would dismiss him the way everyone else did.

  "Joy never drank," her mother answered. "Never." She stood up and began pacing back and forth across the room, her arms crossed at her chest, and her hands shaking. "Her daddy was an alcoholic, you see," she continued. "He ended up drinking himself to death when Joy was in junior high. She swore she would never touch the stuff."

  "So, what do you think happened that caused her to…?"

  "That job was stressful," she replied. "That's what I keep coming back to. The job. Maybe it was the stress? Especially after what happened to Rachel," she said looking at him remorsefully. “She just seemed so on edge all the time.”

  "Rachel had to work long hours, stay late, go in early."

  "Joy would go in early, but she refused to stay late," Susan smiled a little. "She had a baby at home, you see. His name's Joshua, he's three. She insisted on being home to spend her evenings with her son. She had to leave him enough when he was a little one, studying for the bar and finishing up her classes. She didn't want to miss anything else." Susan stopped her pacing, biting her bottom lip, trying to stop the flood of tears that was welling up in her eyes. "Maybe it was the stress of the baby, the job… I just don't know," she choked.

  "Mrs. Reynolds," Michael said hesitantly, "if I told you that I think somehow Rachel's death and Joy's are related, would you think I'm completely crazy?"

  She looked at him slowly, her eyes filled with an expression he couldn't interpret—maybe it was hope, maybe it was relief, maybe it was just exhaustion. "What do you mean, dear?" she urged him to explain.

  "I don't know," he said standing to his feet. "I really don't know. But I do know that something in my gut tells me that there's more going on here than it appears on the surface."

  She walked across the room hurriedly and threw her large arms around him, hugging him tightly, almost cutting off his breathing. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, Michael!" she exclaimed in his ear.

  He pushed her away slightly. "I haven't done anything, Mrs. Reynolds."

  "You have, dear." She ran her palms along her cheeks, wiping away the tears.

  "I could never believe that Joy would drink, and not just drink, but then drive!"

  "Mrs. Reynolds," he said firmly. "You can't tell anyone about this. Let's just keep this between us, okay? For now at least, let's just keep this to ourselves."

  "Okay," she said smiling a little. As he turned to walk towards the door she stopped him. "Even if you don't figure it out, Michael," she started, "I'm just happy to know that someone else doesn't believe that my little Joy would do something like that."

  Walking out into the crisp air, Michael felt a sense of purpose. Something inside him shifted, and he became motivated, driven. He had the feeling that he was going to start taking steps forward. They may not be the steps that his family and friends had been urging him to take, but they were going to be steps. He was going to figure this out; he was going to get to the bottom of Rachel's death. He didn't know how, but he was going to do whatever it took.

  As he started his car, he peered into his rearview mirror. There was a car parked about a block away. He was sure he had seen the same car drive by as he pulled into the Reynolds's driveway. It was a black Impala. When he turned around in his seat to get a better look at it, the car took off, quickly speeding down the street, and turning out of sight.

  Chapter 3: A Meeting with Mr. Hamilton

  When he got back to his house, his mind continued to race back and forth. Something had to be there; there had to be a connection between Rachel's death and Joy's. Walking determinedly through the front door, he let it fly back and bounce against the wall, echoing down the hallway.

  He had no idea what his next step should be. He had to get evidence; he had to get answers. "Ugh!" he yelled out, slamming his fist down angrily on the counter. As he did so, the ever-growing stack of mail that was collecting on the corner shifted from the vibration, and began spilling over. "I need answers!"

  He slid down onto the floor, placing his head in his hands, trying to decide what to do. As he thought, he shuffled his feet back and forth in front of him, moving the papers around in tiny circles. That's when he saw it. Stuck between the pages of an old magazine, he recognized the light beige corner of Derek Hamilton's business card.

  "Got it!" he exclaimed reaching and pulling the card from the pages of the magazine. "What better way to get answers than going straight to the source?" he said determinedly to the empty room.

  His first thought was to call Hamilton, to talk to him over the phone. But, he knew that would be too easy for him to cover up anything he may know. He didn't need it, but he placed the card with the address in his pocket and headed to Hamilton & Lewis. He had been to the office a handful of times before. He brought Rachel lunch her first full day on the job, and then again a week later.

  Walking into the room, he was immediately surprised by the clean, sleek décor, the large windows, which filled the entire wall across from him, and the overall sense that everything was meticulously kept in order. It didn't seem to be a place grieving the tragic loss of two of its employees.

  The reception area of the law firm was small, with a large, plush leather couch, and three wooden chairs that lined the beige and green wall. There were two people sitting in the area, waiting to be seen by their respective lawyer. Moving past them, he walked straight up to the receptionist's desk. She was a curvy, attractive young woman, in her mid-twenties. She had dark brown skin, wavy black hair, and large, innocent eyes. "How can I help you?" she asked him sweetly, looking up at him from her desk chair.

  "I need to talk to Derek Hamilton," he demanded.

  She seemed slightly taken aback by his tone. She squinted her eyes slightly, studying Michael's face. Then, after she looked nervously over her shoulder, she leaned in and said, "he's not in right now. Can I take a message?"

  Michael looked behind the small desk, and to the door directly behind the woman. The blinds of the office were drawn, and nothing but silence came from the room. To the right of that door was another office, also with the blinds drawn. The name on the door read, "MARK LEWIS, J.D." Further down the small hall to the right were a few more smaller offices. That was where Rachel had her desk; that was where she was shot. He turned his attention back to the woman in front of him, not letting the emotions he felt boil over. She looked up at him nervously, her eyes darting from his face to the wall behind him, and then back. Reading the name plaque on her desk, he continued, "I was wondering, Tasha," he said leaning closer to her, "is Mark in by any chance?"

  She turned to look at the second office behind her. "Oh," she said softly, "no. He's not in either."

  "Interesting," Michael said standing up straight and nodding his head. "So, on a Friday morning at 10:30, neither of the partners are in the office?" he asked, eyeing her carefully.

  She turned back to him, wringing her hands and looking down, "they had a meeting with an important client."

  "Did they now?" Michael said, his voice becoming more aggressive. "Did they, Tasha?" he yelled. He turned to look at the faces of the two people behind him—a middle-aged woman, and a younger-looking man. They were staring at him, their eyes wide. "And what are these people," he began pointing at them before turning back to Tasha, "waiting for then? Can I ask you that?" His voice had reached a loud, aggressive tone that he had become familiar with. Since Rachel's death, rage had been one of few the emotions he did let himself express regularly. "It seems ridiculous to schedule appointments when you're meeting with an impo
rtant client! Don't you think?"

  As he continued yelling, he moved around the side of Tasha's desk and began walking towards the door which had "DEREK HAMILTON, J.D." written across it in large block letters. "I'm willing to bet that if I pushed this door open right now, I'd find Derek sitting at his desk, just praying I'll go away!"

  "Sir," Tasha pushed her chair out quickly and followed him over to the door. "Sir, please," she urged, "if you would like to speak to Mr. Hamilton I'll be happy to take a message for you."

  "That's okay," Michael said, trying to turn the silver doorknob, to find it locked. "I'll just speak to him now," he said, stepping back and kicking at the wooden door forcefully.

  "Mr. Kent!" Tasha yelled at him. "You have to stop this! You have to leave!"

  Michael continued kicking at the door, leaving dents all along the wooden panel. With the fourth blow, the door flew open. Before stepping into the office, he turned to look at Tasha, "I never told you my name," he said to her quietly, letting her know her mistake. She looked at him, and her jaw dropped open slightly. She was obviously flustered and not sure what to say. "Don't worry!" he yelled out to the man in the reception area, who was now on his feet, "I'll just be a moment."

  Michael turned his attention to the small man sitting behind the large wooden desk in the center of the room. "Derek!" he yelled out as he marched his way towards the desk. "You really should have your receptionist work on her delivery," he said mockingly as he approached the man.

  He was young for a partner level lawyer, looking to be in his early thirties. He had a head full of wavy blond hair, that was slicked back, and large blue eyes that seemed magnified by the wire-rimmed glasses he was wearing. "I'm sorry sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he said, standing to his feet quickly, and taking a step back.

  "Why?" Michael asked confidently. "I just wanted to talk real quick," he leaned forward, placing his hands on the edge of the desk. "Just ask a few questions."

  "I have a meeting…" Derek started, stuttering.