“But you became a legend in your own time,” Gin said, wishing she had some crystal ball that could reveal whether Jake was being honest or was attempting to manipulate her with his words. “Mom always manages to sneak in a report when we talk—how your business is growing, how you’ve been seen with one woman or another.”
“Your mom was always kind to me,” Jake said. “I tried to stay out of your dad’s way but . . . it meant a lot to me. That she didn’t just assume that the rumors were true.”
“I’m . . . glad, that she could be there for you,” she said, the words forced. “But I—”
“Don’t say it,” he said. He touched a fingertip to her lips, caressing them lightly, his touch searing. “Please. Just let it go for tonight. One night.”
He knew. Even without her voicing her doubts, her suspicions, he knew.
For a moment, they stood suspended in the net of their emotions. All it would take was a single step forward. A hand on his arm. His name, spoken with the weight of the longing she still felt. The promise of a kiss was so real that it was as if she was already losing herself in his arms.
But there was a very real chance that he had stolen something precious from her. That even if he hadn’t taken her sister’s life, he at least knew more about her death than he was letting on. She crossed her arms and stepped away from him.
“Look, Gin—there’s one more thing,” Jake said. “I probably should have mentioned it earlier, but . . . well, Dad wants to talk to you again.”
Gin was rocketed back to reality. Surely Lawrence would step down soon. It might be natural for him to want to clear his son’s name before he did. But how far was he willing to go to protect Jake?
She’d come here hoping to determine once and for all whether Jake was guilty or innocent. That hadn’t happened. She hadn’t posed the right questions that might have sussed out the truth. It was hard to resist being distracted by the attraction between them. Talking to Jake was easy—natural in a way that it never was with Clay or anyone else.
If only that were a sign of innocence.
Gin didn’t doubt that Lawrence believed in his son. He was gambling his reputation, his career, to prove it. But if Jake was going to go down, Gin didn’t want to see the old man go with him.
“Jake. I’m not sure it would be . . . appropriate. Me speaking to him. I mean, when he came over the other day, I felt like he was trying to run interference with the detectives. Surely there’s some conflict of interest? I mean, is he even going to be able to stay on the investigation if . . .”
“If I’m arrested?” Jake’s eyes had gone opaque, his voice hard. “It’s okay, Gin, you can say it. It’s not like I haven’t thought about it a dozen times. When Dad told me about Lily’s pregnancy, I was almost glad, because I know the DNA test will prove I’m not the father. But then I realized that people will go right on suspecting me anyway, no matter what.”
Gin swallowed, processing his words. Jake wasn’t afraid of the DNA test. That had to prove something—but what?
“And then I started hoping that, by some miracle, they found evidence in the cooler,” he went on. “The problem is, there’s probably my DNA on the cooler. Not to mention the rest of you—Tom and Christine, too.”
“Your dad said they haven’t officially questioned you yet.”
“No. Stillman wants me to come in tomorrow morning.”
“Are you going to tell them about the cooler?”
“Yes.” His gaze didn’t waver. “It’ll be worse for me, I imagine, if I don’t.”
“Then . . . that’s why Lawrence wants to talk to me? After they interview you?”
“If I were a betting man, I’d say so. Look . . .” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “It would almost be easier if Dad wasn’t involved. He wants so much to protect me but—I mean, I’m thirty-six years old. I’ve weathered the suspicions of this town for half my life. If I’m officially accused, so be it. Eventually, something’s going to prove me innocent.”
“But—what if no further evidence surfaces?”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. He must have known what she was really asking—she could read the disappointment in his eyes. He had hoped she’d finally believe him, she realized. Had still hoped his word would be enough.
“I’ll deal with that when the time comes,” Jake said, turning away from her. “Dad said to let you know he’ll be at home Friday morning. He’s not going in to the office until after lunch.”
The night, along with all its fragile promise, was over.
19
Sleep didn’t come easily in her parents’ house.
Gin read one of her mother’s paperbacks until the wee hours, going over the same pages again and again while waiting for fatigue to overtake her. She finally gave up and turned out the light. The night plodded on, punctuated by nightmares and waking spells, and when a thin, dreary dawn arrived, she was exhausted.
She lay in bed until she heard both her parents leave. Then she got up and drank the coffee her mother had left, not bothering to microwave it. She showered and dressed in her last clean outfit, noting that she’d either have to do laundry or go shopping. She dotted on concealer in an attempt to cover up the dark circles under her eyes, but when that didn’t work, she gave up and settled for just a quick swipe of mascara.
Driving to Lawrence’s house, she avoided the downtown streets, not wishing to be reminded of their deterioration. Even when she was young, many of the shops had been boarded up; now, there were only two stores still open, and they were both the sort of places that sold more beer and cigarettes than anything else.
Instead, she drove up into the streets lined with what had once been company housing, square little structures built for the families of the men who came to work in the processing plant. Now, very few of the residents worked in the remaining active plants along the river. In fact, very few of the residents worked at all.
Still, there were people outside enjoying the weather. Young mothers bounced babies on their laps in the shade while children played in the street. Old men walked slowly down the sidewalks, hunched low in their clothes, stopping to chat with anyone they knew.
What about these people, the ones who lived at the heart of the town because they couldn’t afford to move to its edges? Who also bore the opprobrium of what was left of the middle class? Did any of them believe Jake Crosby had killed her sister? Did any of them care?
When she got to Lawrence’s house, his cruiser was in the driveway, but he didn’t come to the door when she knocked. She tried twice, and then gave the door a tentative shove. It opened, and she walked into the house.
“Lawrence?” she called. “Lawrence, it’s me. Virginia Sullivan.”
A rinsed plate and cup lay next to the sink; the morning paper was neatly refolded on the kitchen table. She walked through the living room, letting her gaze linger on the photos of Jake in his baseball uniform, Jake’s high school graduation photo, a candid shot of Jake and Lawrence on a wooden dock, Lawrence holding a good-sized trout.
She paused at the door of his study, a place she’d never ventured as a teen. The walls were lined with shelves sagging with the weight of detective novels and biographies and books about the civil war, an old passion of Lawrence’s.
Her gaze fell on a shoe lying askew on the rug near Lawrence’s oak desk.
Except it wasn’t just a shoe. It was attached to a leg. Lawrence’s leg. She took two steps into the room and saw that he was lying at an unnatural angle, crumpled on the floor, his eyes staring at nothing and his head resting in a pool of inky black. What was left of it, anyway. Most of his forehead was gone.
And in his hand, a gun.
20
It wasn’t the first time Gin had been in an interrogation room in the tiny Trumbull Police department.
Two days after Lily went missing, she’d been ushered into the same room with her parents. Lawrence and Lloyd had dragged chairs in from the conference room. An officer fr
om the county was present, though later that day he would tell Lawrence the case didn’t merit their participation. Lawrence had given her an apologetic smile and offered her a soda. Her mother had squeezed her hand so hard she thought it might bruise.
She hadn’t had much to say that day. She’d returned the day before from freshman orientation, sure that her parents had gotten it wrong, that she’d walk into the house and hear Lily’s voice calling down the stairs to greet her. Instead, she stumbled to answer the police officers’ questions about her sister’s routines and habits, her friends, Tom. It hadn’t yet come to light that Jake had been with Lily that afternoon; that would come the next day when the witness made her statement. The witness recognized Lily from when she’d had her appendix out—it was pure serendipity that she’d been the nurse who cared for Lily post-op. She wasn’t as certain about Jake, but it turned out not to matter, since he admitted readily to having been with her.
But none of them had known that yet. Lawrence had been the one to ask most of the questions, with Lloyd nodding along earnestly and the county officer looking bored and checking his watch, making it clear that he thought a teen runaway was a waste of his time. Had Lily’s habits changed recently, Lawrence asked gently. Had she argued with anyone? Skipped school? Seemed depressed or frightened?
No, no, no, no. Gin grew increasingly upset as the questioning progressed. Up until then, everyone had said there was nothing to worry about. Even her parents, who tried to convince each other that Lily would come walking in the door any second, who’d told Gin not to get ahead of herself.
But Lawrence’s kindness seemed like a clue. The way her parents’ expressions seemed frozen in place, another clue. The dawning realization that they’d already had the same conversation, already answered the same questions.
They had all failed to help.
Now all these years later, sitting across from Witt and Stillman, she felt just as helpless. And she couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that, back then, Lawrence had been the one sitting across from her—and now he was dead.
She answered the detectives’ questions as succinctly as she could, trying to stifle both annoyance and fear that they were treating her like a suspect. She described arriving at the house, calling for Lawrence, then discovering him in the study. She submitted to a cheek swab and fingerprinting. Now she was ready to leave, but the detectives were still asking questions, mostly repeating themselves.
“So you have no idea what he wanted to talk to you about today?” Stillman asked. He had a habit of twisting one of the loops on his belt, worrying the fabric between finger and thumb.
“I assume it was about Lily. He knew I sat in on the autopsy; I assumed he had questions about that.”
“I’m still not really clear on how you came to be present at the autopsy,” Witt said. Gin couldn’t tell if his scowl had anything to do with her or whether it was his perpetual expression.
“I offered to help because of my extensive experience with decomp cases,” Gin said. “It’s really not all that unusual for an ME’s office to reach out when specialized expertise is needed.” Two partial truths—she couldn’t remember a similar situation at Cook County, and she was pretty sure Ducky would have raised his eyebrows if a victim’s relative asked to sit in.
“I know we’ve had decomp cases before,” Witt said. “I’ve testified in one or two myself. I don’t remember them having to bring in any outside experts.”
“As I said, I offered. It wasn’t a comment on the county medical examiners’ skills.”
“This was your thing with the Red Cross,” Stillman said skeptically.
“Yes,” Gin said, irritated by his choice of words. “The ‘thing’ where a team of volunteer forensic pathologists recovered the remains of victims of war crimes during the Bosnia conflict. The ‘thing’ where I worked in a mass grave . . . that thing.”
Any attempt to shame him over his word choice went unnoticed. “Help me understand why someone like you would do that,” Stillman went on. “Did they pay you?”
“I—it’s not—” Gin stuttered. “It’s not relevant, and it has no bearing on my sister’s death, but many of my colleagues from all over the country have participated. We do it for the families—in hopes that they’ll get a sense of peace over having their loved ones’ remains returned to them. And our testimony is used in international court as well.”
Stillman shrugged, and Gin silently fumed. But she hadn’t told him the entire truth. Because the truth brought her shame. When the opportunity came along, she’d taken it—not out of a strong desire to do good, but because she had stopped feeling anything. Had become increasingly numb, at her job and in the leftover hours when she was essentially just waiting for it to be time to go back to work.
She’d hoped that seeing the evidence of the atrocities firsthand might jar her back into living. That the emptiness inside her might be assuaged when she saw how much worse the lives of people in war-torn countries were. That, perhaps, she’d be guilted into appreciating her blessings.
“So these mass graves, they held bodies that had been buried as long as Lily?” Witt asked, in a gentler tone than his partner.
“Yes.”
“I guess I can see why they’d want your input,” Witt said. Gin was grateful, even if he was only pretending to be sympathetic. “And were you able to offer any insight that they didn’t reach themselves?”
“Yes and no.” Images of her sister’s body, images she’d given herself permission to forget, crowded her mind. The tiny skeleton nestled in its sac. The filament of an umbilical cord that had connected it to Lily. “I’m sure that Dr. Harper would have reached the same conclusions. I may have helped him arrive there more quickly.”
“But the baby,” Stillman said. “Any chance he would have missed that? I mean, I saw it, and I wouldn’t have known what it was.”
“With our specialized training, it would have been hard for him to overlook.” As long as he’d opened the uterus, she thought. As long as it hadn’t disintegrated from handling like some of the other organs.
“Is it possible,” Witt asked, “that there was anything you saw that you didn’t report? Or that you reported only to Lawrence Crosby?”
“Absolutely not,” Gin said. “Don’t you think I’m desperate to know who did this?”
“It’s kind of an odd coincidence, though,” Stillman said. “Crosby killing himself the day you were supposed to talk to him.”
“If he actually killed himself,” Witt interrupted. “Here’s the thing. We’re bringing Jake in this afternoon. Under the circumstances, we had asked Lawrence to step aside. We told him we’d keep him posted and that if he had anything to add, to go ahead and let us know, but for all intents and purposes, he was off the case. Now given that, it makes me wonder about the timing. I mean, maybe he found something on his own . . . something he didn’t share with us.
“I have some ideas,” Witt continued. “One, someone may have been afraid he would reveal something he had been keeping to himself. Or two, they thought he was about to find out something they wanted kept secret.”
“Like who killed your sister.” Stillman was smirking now, giving up any pretense of sympathy.
“Look,” Gin said. “Lawrence was . . . I was very close to him, at one time. If you’re trying to imply that I might have wanted him dead . . .”
“Just one possibility!” Stillman held up his hands in a “no harm, no foul” gesture. “We’ve got to look at everyone in your sister’s life, especially those who might have had some reason to be upset with her.”
“And how does that include me?” Gin had a pretty good idea, but she was going to make them spell it out. She had worked with enough detectives on enough cases that she was familiar with the techniques they used to get people to open up, not just to confess but to reveal more than they intended.
They were making it hard for her to remember that they all had the same goal: to identify Lily’s killer. Besides, she was ti
red . . . so tired. Despite the difficulty she’d had sleeping last night, now she felt like climbing into bed and staying there.
“Jake Crosby was your boyfriend.” Stillman ticked his points off on his fingers. “Jake was secretly seeing your sister. Jake knocked her up. You found out.”
“Even if that were true,” Gin said stiffly, “there’s still the problem of who killed her. I trust you’ve reviewed my alibi—the fact that I was two hours away at a college orientation.”
“Yeah, I read that,” Stillman said skeptically. “Of course, it wasn’t a murder investigation then, so I’m sure they just took your word for it.”
Gin was dumbfounded. “That’s—that’s crazy. There are photos of me at the orientation. Counselors who knew I was there. The other kids. There’s no way I could have faked that.”
“Even so, you could have found out about Jake and your sister, you could have been angry, you could have talked about it with other people. Maybe convinced someone else to harm her.”
Witt cleared his throat. “Funny thing about people who remember her disappearance. At first they want to tell you how devastated the whole town is about her death. But dig a little deeper, and quite a few people characterized Lily as moody and temperamental. A Mr. Viafore said he often heard you two fighting. Others suggested you envied her.”
“Tom Parker gave conflicting statements,” Stillman said. “At first he said Lily got along with all of you. Later he said she fought with you and with his sister.”
“Look,” Gin said. “We were typical sisters. Just kids, in some ways. We fought over the usual things, but we were also really close. I was devastated when she disappeared. And again when I learned that her body had been found. I don’t know what else to tell you about our relationship.”
She paused, wondering if she was about to make a mistake. But holding back seemed like the greater risk. “I do, however, have something I would like to say about the cooler.”
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