In the Waning Light

by Loreth Anne White

  She’d been so fired up, and so swept into his laughter. And when she’d felt his mouth against hers … this couldn’t happen again.

  She keyed her phone, put it to her ear.

  He pulled back onto the road. The woman in the SUV spat dirt up with her tires and she hit the gas and honked again as she turned aggressively in the opposite direction. Meg’s heart thudded.

  “Reminds me of the time we stole Mrs. Hargreave’s apples from her prize tree,” he said.

  She shot him a look. Be damned if he wasn’t still grinning, those dimples deep in his cheeks. His eyes danced with light as he met her gaze.

  “Remember? You were just a little older than Noah. Me, around twelve. We bundled the apples into our T-shirts and bolted for the brick wall. She set her sausage dog on us.”

  The memory stirred through Meg, and she couldn’t help the grin that stole over her face. “It bit your big toe.”

  “Moral of the story—never wear flip-flops when stealing apples.” He changed lanes, turning onto the coast highway, heading back toward Shelter Bay. Rain began to fleck the windows. The sea was gunmetal gray, broody. “It was the only time I’d ever been bitten by a dog, and it was a sausage dog. How ignoble is that? At least this one was a Doberman.”

  Her call picked up. “Kovacs.”

  She jerked back to business. “Dave. It’s me, Meg. I know who vandalized my house. It was the Mack brothers, had to be. They have access to bovine blood, and the wording of the graffiti fits someone angry with me, and my father as a killer.”

  Silence.

  “You there, Dave?”

  “Uh, yeah, Meg, can I call you back in a minute?” The line went dead.

  Dave Kovacs killed Meg’s call and continued to watch the interview with Sally Braden through the two-way glass.

  “The .22 rifle we found in your vehicle belongs to your brother-in-law, Henry Thibodeau,” the interrogator seated opposite Braden said. “Is that correct?”

  She did not reply.

  “Did you take it from his gun safe?”

  Silence.

  “We found traces of cattle blood in the back of your SUV, Sally.”

  Sally Braden looked down at the table, a fall of hair screening her profile from Dave’s view.

  “The GPS in your vehicle shows that you came from Braden Cattle farm in Chillmook, where you do the books for your cousin. The GPS shows that you drove directly to Forest End subdivision, and into Forest Lane. Was this where you were at four a.m. yesterday, Sally?”

  Sally cleared her throat, shifted in her chair, but did not reply.

  “We found someone who can place your vehicle there, Sally, parked under a cherry tree. A witness who had the presence of mind to recall your vehicle registration, which is how we found you.”

  Silence.

  Frustration sparked through Dave. Unofficially, very quietly, after listening to Meg interview his dad, he’d reopened the old Sherry Brogan case. He wasn’t sure what he might find, or whether he’d care for the answers if he did find anything. He trusted his dad. He believed his father had acted with the best intent, and out of a deep compassion for people he cared about. But for his own sake now, Dave needed to understand fully what had gone down all those years ago, and how it might come back to bite him during the election. And Sally Braden was a confounding addition to the puzzle. What had driven her to spook Meg like this? Was she capable of worse?

  Sally had known Sherry Brogan fairly well—they’d been in the same class during their final year of school. Her younger sister, Lori-Beth, had been in Meg’s grade. Sally had been driving drunk with Lori-Beth about six years after Sherry’s murder, and had caused a five-car pileup in which her sister had been paralyzed from the waist down. Her family, a branch of the Bradens in Chillmook, had suffered financially as a result. The accident had killed Sally’s plans for college. After serving her sentence for criminally negligent homicide, she’d gone straight to work at the family slaughterhouse. She had never married and spent most of her time visiting and caring for her sister, perhaps out of some terrible guilt.

  The interviewer leaned forward. “Did you intend to harm Meg Brogan?”

  Sally cleared her throat. “I want a lawyer.”

  Dave cursed, and left the room.

  Meg climbed out of Blake’s truck, irritated that Dave Kovacs had not called right back. She reached for her tote and slung it over her shoulder. “Thanks, Blake. I’ll see you at the marina later.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to come with you to see Emma?”

  “She’ll be far more candid with me alone.”

  He held her gaze, his expression intense. Heat rose in her cheeks as she thought of how close they’d come to having sex on the side of the road. “I’ll be fine,” she said.

  But he waited in his truck until she’d climbed into her own rig, started the engine, and pulled into the road. He followed behind her all the way to the coast road intersection, and when she turned north toward town, he tooted his horn, and turned left, heading to the school to pick up Noah.

  Meg drove about a mile before quickly pulling over onto the shoulder.

  Engine running, she dialed Jonah. She needed desperately to hear his voice. Sure, he’d broken it off, but she’d also made it clear to him that she was working to win him back. She just needed to hear him speak, to get a sense of what he was thinking, because she was muddled as all hell now. Kissing Blake like that, just being with him, made her feel as though the ground she knew so well had been ripped right out from under her feet, and she was flailing in some other reality.

  The call kicked to voice mail. She killed the call, chewed her lip, then dialed his city office.

  “Lawson and Associates,” came the crisp French-accented voice of his receptionist, Elise LeFevre. Meg could picture her sitting there in her sleek pencil skirt and white blouse, six languages and two degrees under her belt, an impeccable physique, flawless skin. Mani-pedi once a week. How Jonah had convinced her to answer telephones was still a mystery to Meg. Probably money. Or promise of work on the investigation side down the road.

  “Elise, hi, is Jonah in?”

  A moment’s pause. “Megan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s out of town. On a contract. You … you’ve tried his cell?”

  Genius. “Yes, I’ve tried his cell, and there’s no reply, which is why I’m trying here. Do you know where I can reach him?”

  Meg heard the hesitation. She closed her eyes. So this really was it—she was now an outsider to Jonah’s circles. Bitterness filled her mouth. “It’s important I reach him, Elise.”

  “He’s in Vancouver.”

  “Vancouver, Washington?”

  “Canada. British Columbia.”

  Her brain raced. She thought of the news reports on television before she’d left home. Four running shoes, different sizes, three left, one right, none matching, had been found over a period of eight months along the beaches and river banks of the Seattle area. All containing the disarticulated remains of human feet. There had been similar finds in Canada, just north of the Washington border.

  “Jan Mascioni’s case?” she said.

  “He’s been asked to consult, yes. It’s a cross-border joint task force now. I’m sorry, Meg, I don’t know more. The best number to reach him on is his cell.”

  “Which hotel is he staying at?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  Liar.

  “Would you like me to get a message to him?” Elise said.

  “No. Thanks.” She hung up fast and sat there with her phone in her hands. A heavy, sad feeling of finality sank through her. Had she just not believed him before, when he’d said it was over? Was her hope so blind and stupid? She rested her head back, calling his face to mind. Those dark indigo eyes, chiseled planes. His sleek, muscular body. Gorgeous hands, she loved his hands so much. They could do the most amazing things. Emotion pooled under her lids.

  I don’t believe it. I don
’t fucking believe this. All this time, all these years, and I’ve never shed a tear. It’s like I’m cracked open, and can’t control anything anymore …

  S’okay, Meggie-Peg. Mom always said it was healthy to have a good, solid cry. Salt water, she always said. Tears, sea, sweat. It fixes everything …

  Meg tensed at the sound of Sherry’s voice. It was in her head, had to be in her head. She didn’t dare open her eyes and look over to the passenger seat, where she could feel Sherry’s sudden presence. The air stirred and Meg caught a faint whiff of the perfume Sherry had loved in her final year. Happiness, it was called. And it smelled like sunshine and flowers, and summer. Slowly, Meg cracked an eye open. The seat of course was empty.

  She snorted, and put her truck into gear.

  I’ll take you seriously, Sherry, when you tell me what happened that day … Let’s go visit Emma then, shall we …

  She pulled into the road, and glanced at the clock on the dash. She was going to be late for her appointment with Emma. She’d told Blake she wanted to do this one alone. She believed she’d get more out of Sherry’s best friend just woman to woman.

  Careful who you trust, Meggie. None of us were what we seemed back then … Everyone has secrets, even secrets from themselves. It’s a marvel we can trust anyone at all …

  CHAPTER 18

  “Tell me to stop anytime you feel uncomfortable,” Meg said as she pressed the on button of her digital recorder. It was positioned on Emma’s round dining table. Meg had her notebook with questions in front of her.

  Emma nodded. Dark-haired and pale complexioned, her beauty had worn around the edges. Life and time had not been so kind to Emma Williams Kessinger as it had been to others. Her home looked affluent, though. She lived in it with her daughter, who spent weekends with Tommy. Questions swirled in Meg’s mind.

  “You were Sherry’s best friend,” Meg said for the tape.

  “We were tight. Very. It was terrible what happened, how it tore us all apart.”

  “You ended up marrying Tommy, my sister’s boyfriend.”

  “The tragedy brought us close. Grief can do that. You share a bond through the person you both miss. In trying to work through it all, you take solace in each other. It was our way of healing, I guess.”

  “The fall after the murder you and Tommy parted ways for a while. You went to pursue pharmacology studies in Portland and Tommy went to Ohio State?”

  “We both came home for Christmas, when our relationship developed further,” she said. “And more so during spring break the following year. Tommy injured his knee just before that first spring break, and there were worries he’d never play football at the same level again. He was starting to second-guess his career options, studies, that kind of thing. And his dad was talking about grooming him to eventually take over Kessinger Construction.”

  “My father was in prison on remand during that period, awaiting trial,” Meg said. “You visited my mom, I remember.”

  “Tommy and I both did.”

  Meg smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid I must have been an obstreperous kid at the time. I recall locking myself in my room when you guys came over, and turning music up loud in my headphones. Didn’t want to hear about Sherry or the murder.”

  Emma cleared her throat. “It was a rough time.”

  Meg paused. “Did my mother ever express any doubt to you guys about Ty’s guilt at that time?”

  Emma made a moue, then shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. I don’t really recall.”

  Meg studied her for a moment, trying to get a read on the woman. “When did Tommy move back to Shelter Bay full time?”

  “When he injured his knee again, and he learned the long-term prognosis was not good. That’s when he quit school to work with his dad. I went back for another year, returning for vacations and every long weekend I could. We married the following December. Next thing we knew Brooklyn was on the way.”

  “Which is when you quit school and got a job at your mother’s drugstore.”

  “As a clerk. Yeah. Could have been a pharmacist if I’d stayed at school …” Her voice faded. Something shuttered behind her eyes. “Look, it was never easy. Tommy loved Sherry passionately. His whole teenage life had been defined by his relationship with Sherry. He was defined by Sherry. They were the ‘it’ couple who everyone wanted to be, or be a part of. He continued to idolize her, and Sherry became a saint in death that I could never be in life. If she and Tommy had broken up through an argument, or even if they’d stayed together, over time he’d have come to see the warts and all. It became a trigger point. Things degenerated gradually. He’d stay out nights. Silly arguments.” She paused. Her eyes seemed to go distant.

  “What was the last straw with the marriage, Emma?”

  She moistened her lips, as if casting her mind back, or perhaps deciding how honest to be. Then her gaze met Meg’s cold and square. “I thought this interview was about Sherry,” she said coolly. “Not me and Tommy. Our relationship.”

  Meg nodded. “It is about Sherry. I was trying to get a sense of my sister at the time. For example, if she was going out with Tommy, if they were this perfect ‘it’ couple, why was she two-timing him?”

  “You mean, why did she go with Ty to the spit?”

  “Yes.”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “She didn’t say?”

  “Other than telling me they were going to be intimate, no. Maybe she just wanted a last, crazy fling before heading off to Stanford.”

  “Was she seeing anyone else, apart from Ty?”

  “What? No.”

  Meg hesitated. “Did you know Sherry was pregnant when she died?”

  Emma’s face paled. “Pregnant?”

  “It was in the autopsy results.”

  Her mouth opened. Then closed. “Whose baby? Tommy’s?”

  “No. His DNA was not a match. And neither was Tyson Mack’s. The paternity is unknown at this point. I was hoping you’d have a clue who the father might be.”

  “No. I … I had no idea.” She got up, paced. Meg watched, thinking her sister would be this age. What might it be like to have Sherry around now?

  “There was this guy one night at a beach party early in the summer,” she said. “Tommy was away that weekend. Sherry got really drunk, and she was kissing this guy. She might have had sex with him that night. And if she did, there’s a chance she wouldn’t have even remembered it. She was completely out of it.”

  Meg’s pulse quickened. “Who was he?”

  “He was from Eugene, I think. On holiday with a bunch of guys. A postgrad thing. I don’t know what his name was.”

  “So, you’re saying that Sherry might not have known she was pregnant, if this man was the father?”

  “If she did, she wouldn’t have wanted to keep it, that’s for sure. My guess is that if she did know, she’d have waited until she got down to California, and have gotten rid of it quietly over there. It was almost time for her to leave.”

  “You don’t think, if she knew, that she’d have told the father?”

  Emma stared out the window. “No.”

  Meg was besieged with the distinct impression Emma was hiding something. She’d interviewed so many people through the course of her work—criminals, murderers, victims, lawyers—she’d developed a gut detection for deception that was usually pretty spot-on.

  “I thought Sherry and I shared everything,” Emma said quietly, looking out into the gray, rain-soaked garden. “Guess not.” She turned, reached for her box of cigarettes, tapped one out, lit it, then, as an afterthought, said, “Do you mind?”

  “Your house.”

  She opened the window a crack, stood by it, an arm across her stomach, cigarette in her other hand hovering near her face.

  “Why do you think Tommy kept my sister on a pedestal all those years, if he’d learned after her murder that she willingly went with Ty Mack to the spit?”

  She took a deep drag on her cigarette, blew smoke slo
wly out the window. Trees swooned in a building wind.

  “Tommy refused to see it like that. A lot of others did, too. His take on the whole thing was, yeah, so Sherry went to the spit. She was being flirtatious, but she didn’t want to have sex. Ty must have pressed her. She said no, and he forced it, brutally assaulting her to teach her a lesson for being a cock tease. Tommy blames Mack, not Sherry. She was always sorta flirtatious, but Tom believed it was in a completely innocent way. He liked that his girlfriend attracted the attention of other guys. Made him feel powerful. The alpha.”

  “How do you figure it played out?”

  “Ty was a badass. Just look at the old pictures of him. He cultivated that image. He came from a shitty background, and I feel sorry for kids who grow up in homes like that, but not all those kids become killers and rapists like him. I don’t know what pushed him over the edge that day. But I do know Sherry called to say she was going to do ‘it’ with him. Maybe she changed her mind.” Another drag. “Did you know that Ty’s father did time for attempted rape, when he was in his twenties? Apple never falls far from the tree.” She exhaled smoke slowly.

  Meg held Emma’s eyes, an anger building low in her belly. This was the prejudice that Lee Albies had been talking about. This was the stereotyping and scapegoating she’d volunteered to fight against.

  “Why?” Emma said suddenly. “You think he didn’t do it?”

  “There appears to be ground for reasonable doubt. I think if Ty Mack had been charged, and if the case had gone to trial, he would have been easily acquitted by a jury. He would have walked a free man.”

  She stared. “Because of the pregnancy?”

  “In part. Plus other DNA on the scene. Witnesses.”

  “What witnesses?”