The Death of Life (The Little Things That Kill Series, #2)

by Pamela Crane

  I rose from my knees and sat on the other side of my father, closest to the picture window overlooking the parking lot that glowed with the awakening dawn. With my father the divide between us, my mother gazed at me, her age showing in every crease of skin. I hadn’t realized just how old my parents had gotten since we’d been apart. All those years of aging together, lost. I didn’t have the luxury of daily or monthly visits. When you spend a lot of time with someone, time’s gentle toll on the body—the gradual introduction of wrinkles, gray hairs—goes unnoticed But when you’ve been separated from a friend or loved one for a long time, your mind becomes hyper-sensitive to physical changes. The mother I remembered was fresh-faced and big-haired and pink-cheeked and red-lipped. This ragged woman before me only knew how to drag herself from one day to the next.

  My father appeared so meek and vulnerable with his hair messily poking every which way. His face looked like a wax impression; try as I might, I couldn’t stop my mind from thinking “death mask.” I tuned out the disturbing wooshing of the ventilator, like a faucet being turned on and off incessantly, as his chest rose and fell with a mechanical rhythm. I couldn’t yet come to terms with the possibility that he was involved in a murder. Involved in Battan’s financials, sure, like an aspiring Meyer Lansky, dubbed “the Mob’s Accountant.” But actually killing a child with own hands? No way. Or was there even a difference? He’d taken care of Battan’s accounting for years. Didn’t that make him just as guilty as Battan? Unless it was under duress ... but if he didn’t survive this attempted homicide, I’d never know the truth.

  I needed to know.

  I needed to know who my dad truly was. A man or a monster.

  “Ari,” my mother said, her voice quivering, “do you know who did this?”

  For some reason I got defensive. “What makes you think I would know?”

  She shrugged. “Because you figured out who killed Carli. I never got to thank you for bringing her killer to justice. You gave me, your father, and your sister peace. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, I guess. But I didn’t do it for you. I did it for me.”

  I didn’t know why I had to add that. I had a chance at a nice moment with my mother and I blew it. I could be such a bitch sometimes, but then again, so could she. That question really poked a nerve. Maybe I couldn’t forgive her for abandoning me, the years of foster care, the loneliness, the self-hatred. Maybe she was right—it was unforgivable.

  “I understand. Regardless, it still meant a lot to me that you got justice for your sister.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled. I didn’t know the appropriate response to a thank-you for catching the man who killed your daughter. Maybe one day I would learn it. “And no, I don’t know who did this to Dad. I thought you might.”

  “Do you think one of George Battan’s people did this?” She glanced at her hands cupping my father’s, then lifted her chin to face me again. “I guess you’ve pieced things together—your father working with George?”

  “I know more than I want to know.”

  “So you know about your father’s dealings with that man. Things I begged him not to do, but he was being threatened so he had to. That’s why, Ari. That’s why Carli was killed.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “And it’s why we sent you away.”

  My breath caught. “What do you mean?” Were my ears playing tricks on me? Was I about to get an explanation for over a decade’s worth of questions?

  “I was petrified Battan would come after you next. Carli’s murder was a message—a message telling your father to get in line when he said he wanted out. After losing Carli, I feared he’d come after you next. That man”—her voice shook with emotion—“that monster knew no limits, Ari. Women, children, it didn’t matter to him. He’d kill anyone without blinking. I sent you away to protect you. I didn’t want to—your father and I fought about it constantly—but it was the only way to ensure your safety because I knew he’d never bother to look for you if you were gone.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me this before?”

  “Because I’ve been hiding your father’s secrets for years. I had to. I couldn’t let you find out things that would risk making you Battan’s next target. Besides, back then you would never understand it at that age. You were so young. And what would I possibly say? It was better you didn’t know. Better for all of us. If you knew and told someone ... I can’t bear to think of what would have happened. I couldn’t bury another child. The only one I had left.”

  I was stunned silent. Maybe in the deepest recesses of my heart I had clung to a hope that they gave me up to protect me, but up until now it was just that—wishful thinking. But now ... this confession changed everything. My mother did care, always had, even to the point of the greatest sacrifice in giving me up to protect me.

  “Do you still blame me for what happened to Carli? I remember how mad you were at me when it happened ... and for years afterward.”

  “No, honey. I was never mad at you. I was mad at your father. Mad at George Battan. I took it out on you because it was just easier that way. I was heartbroken and scared for your life. Blaming you helped me let you go, in some twisted way. I can’t explain it. It’s unnatural for a mother to feel this way. It destroyed me. It destroyed you. I don’t know what else to say.”

  As she spoke, the door swung open and Tristan stepped in. Mom rose to her feet as he introduced himself, extending his hand.

  “You must be Mrs. Wilburn. I’m Tristan Cox, a detective with the Durham Police.” He glanced at me with a question in his eyes, like he was asking for my permission. I smirked. “And Ari’s boyfriend.”

  “Oh, nice to meet you. Oh!” My mother gawked at me while shaking his hand with both of hers. “Are you here for Ari or my husband?”

  “Both, actually.”

  Tristan circled the bed, and I rose to my feet where he waited with open arms. “You okay, babe?” he whispered into my hair as I pressed into his chest.

  “Not really,” I said honestly. “We don’t know if he’s going to make it or not. I’m scared.”

  “I’m gonna figure out who did this to him. I promise.”

  “What if he comes back?” My mother’s voice cut in. “If Burt lives, he’ll come back to finish the job, won’t he.” It was more a statement than a question, for my mother knew all too well how things worked in dirty business.

  “Can I ask you a few questions?” Tristan asked. “I know you already covered most of this when the police took your statement, but it’ll help me figure out what could have prompted this attack.”

  Mom nodded. “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know. I just want Burt safe.”

  We all resumed our seats around my father’s hospital bed. “As you’re aware, Mrs. Wilburn,” Tristan began, “Burt’s name was mentioned to the press regarding the murder of Marla Rivers. We brought Burt in for questioning and spoke to him, and right now we’re still investigating various leads. Can you tell me if Burt had a relationship with a George Battan, whether professional or personal?”

  “George was a client of Burt’s at East Coast Bank—I’m sure you know Burt managed the Durham branch. Burt had done some, shall we say, private accounting for George, but when he tried to put a stop to it, George hired that kid to kill my daughter, Carli. I’m sure Ari told you about Carli, right?”

  Mom glanced at me, then at Tristan.

  “Yes, ma’am, and I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m aware of all the details surrounding that case. It seems Burt did a little more than just accounting though, didn’t he?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand ...” my mother stuttered, her fluster dotting her cheeks.

  “Ma’am,” Tristan paused, glanced at me, “I already know about your husband’s nefarious business transactions with Battan. Clearly it was shady enough that George couldn’t hire someone else to take Burt’s place—or perhaps Burt knew too much. What I want to know are the details of what Burt knew, specifica
lly pertaining to Marla Rivers.”

  She sighed. “Look, I don’t know the ins and outs of Burt’s day-to-day activities, but I do know that he tried to quit working for Battan but the man wouldn’t let him. I think Battan hired some goons to try to kill my husband so he couldn’t testify against him. I know he’s in jail awaiting trial, and I hope he fries.” Her voice seethed with hatred.

  “But without warning?” Tristan asked. “It seems unlike Battan not to threaten first, because a potential witness suddenly going missing or dead raises an awful lot of suspicion that I think he wants to avoid right now. This isn’t The Godfather. Even with Carli, your husband was attacked outside of your home as a warning, correct? I’m assuming that was the first time he mentioned wanting out.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “I know a lot more than you might think. That’s why it is important you’re honest with me. Don’t lie. Don’t hide things. For your husband’s safety and your own, please, Mrs. Wilburn, tell me everything so I can stop this killer. He’s out there, frustrated that he didn’t complete the job. He’ll strike again. Next time you might not be so lucky.”

  Tristan’s blunt language shocked me a little. Mom took it in stride.

  “I don’t know what you want from me,” she said. “There was no warning. I think it started with the article in the paper tying Burt to Marla’s murder. I can’t believe they would print his name like that—all because he was brought in for questioning. Isn’t that illegal—libel or something?”

  “Unfortunately, ma’am, if the media catches wind of something, we can’t stop them from printing it. Freedom of the press. But that’s not what matters. What matters is that whoever attacked your husband will probably come back. It’s highly unlikely that somebody attacked your husband just because the paper mentioned he was brought in for questioning. It didn’t incriminate him in any way. My best guess is it’s tied to George Battan. But hell will freeze over before we get him to admit anything, so we need any clues we can find to identify the knifer. And until Burt wakes up, we have nothing.”

  The letter—it was the only clue we had. I needed to tell them about it now, even if it shattered any chance of a long-term relationship with my mother. I couldn’t live with lies, not when I had a chance at a clean slate with the only family I had left.

  “I have a clue, Tristan.”

  He and Mom looked questioningly at me.

  “A threat letter. I took it off of your front porch, Mom.” I sighed. “I was going to tell you about it, get it fingerprinted to see if we could lift a partial.”

  “Why did you take it?” My mother’s eyes blazed with accusation and hurt.

  “I don’t know. I had stopped by to talk to dad about George Battan, and there it was.” I decided to omit the parts where I had broken in and rifled through Dad’s illegal ledger. “Handwritten, unmarked, unaddressed. For some reason I needed to open it; I sensed it was something bad. And when I read it, it was a threat.”

  “And you didn’t think to immediately tell us about it?” Mom gasped.

  “I was afraid for Dad to read it because I thought he’d try to run, which would only make things worse. After the whole Marla Rivers media circus, I didn’t want the cops to question his innocence if he tried to flee. I was trying to protect him, but clearly I screwed up ...”

  Her body stiffening, my mother crossed her arms, rose from her chair, and began pacing. “I don’t know what to think right now, Ari. You stole something that could have saved your father. He could have protected himself. But worst of all, you put yourself in danger! What else are you hiding?”

  “Mom—” I pleaded, but she waved my words away.

  “Just stop. Please.” She approached me and roughly grabbed my shoulders. “Listen to me, and listen good. I don’t judge what you did after everything we’ve done to you. All the lies. Secrets. Pain. I’m just upset, but not at you. I’ve already lost too much. Carli, now Burt is in a coma. You’re all I have left. What you did could have gotten you killed!”

  My mother hugged me then, an embrace I often dreamed about year after miserable year. Her touch was both painful and warming, a confusing mixture of emotions that I couldn’t neatly process.

  “I need some fresh air. I’ll be back, okay?” She released me, kissed me on the cheek, and left, letting the door bang shut.

  When Tristan stepped toward me, I knew I was in for an earful.

  “What the hell, Ari? Why am I only just now hearing about this letter?”

  “Because I was going to take that letter to Battan to try to force information from him. I have more, Tristan. A lot more.”

  His eyebrow rose in that cute way it did when something spectacular piqued his interest. “Like what?”

  “Well, the reason I was at their house was to interrogate my father about Marla and Giana. You know, kill two birds with one stone. Okay, bad choice of words. They weren’t home so I decided to break in and snoop around. And before you yell at me, I found something. A ledger.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t take it, because it would be inadmissible in court.”

  “I know, I know. It has to be legally obtained. I’m not a friggin’ idiot. I only glanced through it then returned it where I found it.”

  “Did you touch it?”

  “Don’t worry, I was careful not to leave fingerprints. I took some pictures of the transactions around Marla’s death then put it back.” I didn’t bother to mention the dates of Giana’s birth. That was between Tina and me, and I needed to keep it that way for now. I still didn’t know how I was going to handle that drama.

  “It’s tucked safe and sound where I found it for the Durham Police to stumble upon. But it shows large sums withdrawn right before Marla’s murder—and partial names. Presumably Battan paid the killer—and fairly well.”

  “How does this link to Burt’s attacker? You think it’s Battan?” Tristan sounded almost excited.

  “Actually, no. So, while I was inside I saw a car waiting out front. By the time I got outside the car was gone, but the letter was left behind. I don’t know if he wanted me to find it or not, but I did. And it didn’t sound like a threat to keep quiet. It sounded more I Know What You Did Last Summer. Like this person knew my dad’s secrets and was gonna make him pay.”

  “Shit.” Tristan propped his hands on his hips and walked to the window, stood, and gazed out.

  “Shit what?”

  “This sounds like the MO of that serial killer I’m tracking. This guy is some sort of vigilante on a warped personal crusade, but I’m not sure why these men are targeted. There’s no apparent connection. And they’re all clean. Like Scott Guffrey. Stabbed to death in his living room. No record. Liked by everyone, even his ex.”

  “Was there a note or anything that we could compare the handwriting to?” I asked.

  “Not that we could find. Then we have Jackson Jones, also stabbed to death in front of his house in his car. No note, but he had just returned home from your suicide support group when he got murdered. You said you vaguely remembered him—right before I showed up in April.”

  I remembered that day well, when I first saw Tristan and probably said something incoherent and dumb, though I couldn’t remember what. I had been smitten ever since.

  I shrugged. “The group’s anonymous. If he’s the guy I think it was, I think he used the name Joe, not Jackson. What’d he look like again?”

  “Nerdy kind of guy with glasses, brown hair, brown eyes. His wife said he was soft-spoken, kind of shy around crowds. Sound like anyone you might remember?”

  Tristan described half a dozen men who had attended, and over time if they didn’t return, the faces all began to blur together.

  “Ah, so that’s why you showed up at the meetings—hoping to find the killer in the group?”

  “That was the original reason. But it actually helped me work through some depression issues I had.” Tristan avoided my gaze as he spoke.

  “Depressed—you?”<
br />
  Tristan the jokester, the adventure-seeker, the never-a-dull-moment kinda guy. I found it hard to imagine someone so confident and outgoing ever feeling lonely or sad.

  “Sometimes life gets rough. It’s not all unicorns and rainbows in my world, you know.”

  Boy, did I know it. I had been the master of facades.

  “What makes you think these guys were targeted and not just random attacks?” I asked.

  “Too organized. Too clean. The killer knew his victims. He knew the layout of their homes. Knew their schedules and routines. Scott had a son, and the killer knew when his son wouldn’t be home. Jackson’s wife was at work when he was murdered. With Burt, he had watched your parents long enough to know that Winnie would be upstairs at a certain time, like clockwork. It seems to fit this killer’s methods. Which leads me to believe he knows something about Scott and Jackson that would warrant their execution—because ultimately that seems to be what this case is all about: a vigilante who’s appointed himself judge, jury, and executioner.”

  “Any ideas what they might have done?”

  “Scott had been questioned in the disappearance of his fiancé’s daughter’s disappearance almost two years ago. But police ruled him out as a suspect. A body was never recovered, and all evidence pointed to a break-in. Plus, where it happened is a popular place for sex traffickers to pick up children,” he explained. “Very rural, lots of unsupervised kids running around. We couldn’t pin anything on Scott so we let him walk. Maybe the killer knew something about it that we don’t ...”

  Sadly, it wouldn’t be the first time a stepfather had killed his stepchild.

  “What about Jackson Jones?”

  “Clean as a whistle. And no connections to Scott. Works in social services. But why was he in your suicide support group? Was it from guilt over something? Something that the killer knew about? That one baffles me.”