Dark Road Home

by Anna Carlisle

  The detectives exchanged glances.

  “I think it’s possible that it was ours.”

  “Your family’s?”

  “No . . . the five of us kids. Me and Lily, the Parker twins, and Jake. Jake got it from a friend of his dad’s, and we kept it hidden up by the creek that summer to keep our lunch in.”

  “Why would you want it?” Witt asked.

  “It was free,” Gin admitted. “Our parents didn’t know everything we did up there, and they wouldn’t have approved. We used to stop by the gas station and buy beer and sandwiches and sodas and ice. Sometimes we brought food from home. With the cooler, we could stay out there all day.”

  “You weren’t worried someone would steal it?”

  “Not really. It’s huge, too big for one person to carry off without difficulty. Plus it was in pretty bad shape—you’ve seen it. Lawrence’s friend was just going to take it to the dump if we hadn’t taken it. If someone stole it, it wouldn’t have been much of a loss.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything about this sooner?”

  “I don’t really know. I guess I thought someone else already had. I just—I thought you should know before the test results come back. I’m sure all of our fingerprints are on there.”

  “Christ,” Witt said, sighing. “That’s just great.”

  “If we’re done, I need to get going,” Gin said. “I need to help make arrangements for Lawrence.” She had meant it as a dig, a reminder that the man who’d died would be mourned. It was an impulse she’d seen many times from the other side of the desk: the family members she talked to wanting to explain all the ways their loved one would be missed.

  “I suppose you’ll be a big help to Jake,” Stillman said, standing.

  Gin didn’t bother responding, aware she was being baited.

  “You’ll be in town for a while, right?” Witt said. “We’d like to be able to get ahold of you until we figure this all out.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  21

  Gin assumed that the Trumbull patrolman who’d responded had gone to notify Jake in person once the scene was secured and the county detectives arrived. She wondered if he’d found Jake on the job, if Jake had had to learn of his father’s death in front of his crew at some half-finished construction site, or whether he’d had privacy to absorb the shock.

  His house was on her way home . . . sort of. Well, not really; it was a detour of several miles, but checking on him would be the decent thing to do. She owed him that.

  No matter how often she’d entertained doubts about Jake and Lily, or if he’d had anything to do with her death, no one would ever convince her that Jake could have harmed his own father. The two men had been exceptionally close; unlike other adolescents, Jake never railed against his father, never rebelled. And he’d given up his dreams of leaving Trumbull to work in a big city, just to be close to Lawrence after his heart attack.

  Jake didn’t kill his father.

  Lawrence’s death had to be connected in some way to the investigation into Lily’s death. Gin knew this reasoning wasn’t entirely solid, but she felt it in her blood.

  If Lawrence’s killer had wanted him dead because he was too close to the truth, and that person wasn’t Jake . . . did that make Jake innocent?

  It wasn’t an argument that would stand up in court, but this had never been about a legal judgment, at least not to Gin.

  It was too much to contemplate all at once. As Gin took the turn that led to Jake’s, she tried to redirect her thoughts to practical issues, to finding some way to help. Jake had once had an aunt somewhere, Lawrence’s sister. Gin wondered if she was still alive. There were relatives on his mother’s side, but Jake had never known them. He might be completely alone now.

  Pulling up in front of the house, Gin wondered if she was making a mistake. The elegant building looked leaden in the gloomy weather, the roof almost disappearing against the slate-gray sky, the flowerbeds flattened from the rains. The drapes were pulled shut, and the wind chimes hanging from the eave sounded a few doleful notes.

  She knocked, suddenly anxious about what she would say.

  Jake opened the door and regarded her stoically. He didn’t look surprised to see her. “Come on in. I’ve been thinking of having a drink. You can be my excuse.”

  Nothing looked out of place in the spacious main room, but the mood had palpably changed. Even Jett barely lifted her soft muzzle from her paws, thumping the floor with her tail before sighing and resuming her nap.

  Gin took a seat at the table where the food Jake had prepared had gone uneaten only the other night. He brought a crystal decanter half filled with amber liquid to the table, along with a couple of jelly glasses, and raised his eyebrow questioningly.

  “Just a little,” Gin said.

  He obliged, handing her a glass containing a half inch of the stuff. She took a sip and nearly spit it out.

  “Not everyone likes scotch,” Jake observed mildly.

  “I don’t often drink it,” Gin admitted. “In fact I think this is the first time I’ve tried it. Is this . . . typical?”

  Jake gave her a faint grin. “If you’re asking if I’m serving you the cheap stuff, don’t worry. That bottle cost me almost a hundred bucks. I don’t drink it often, so when I do, I make it count.”

  “I’d say you used to drink me under the table, except we never had a table,” Gin said. The second sip wasn’t quite as jarring.

  “Yeah, I put away quite a few PBRs out of that cooler,” Jake said.

  “But now . . . ?”

  “After Dad’s heart attack, when he was convalescing, I let it get out of control for a while. Gave me the idea I might need to keep an eye on my habits.” After a moment, he added, “Now that he’s gone, I’ve been sitting here thinking about what else I can give up. Some sort of atonement, I guess.”

  “I’m so, so sorry,” Gin said. “I don’t even know what to say. Where to begin.”

  “He lived a good life,” Jake said. “Not everyone gets to the age of sixty-eight while still getting in a round of golf or a trip to the lake every week. I mean, that’s what I’ve been telling myself.”

  “Is there . . . anyone you should call? Other family?”

  “Nope.” Matter-of-factly. “Just me. And I suppose that’s my fault—Dad probably wouldn’t have minded if I’d given him a grandkid or two. Even a girlfriend who stuck around long enough to be introduced.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” Gin said uncertainly.

  “Sure.”

  “When you told your dad you were giving up your scholarship, did he try to talk you out of it?”

  “Nah. You know Dad—he always trusted me to make my own decisions. The only thing that bothered him . . .” His voice trailed off, and he stared out the window.

  “What?”

  “You, actually. I was so . . . angry with you, that you could ever believe I hurt Lily.”

  Gin winced. The words were nothing she hadn’t suspected, but the pain they reflected was almost overwhelming.

  “Dad kept trying to tell me you were coping any way you could. Looking back on it . . . but we were all new to it then. We didn’t know how to behave, what was called for. Dad just told me that if I let you go without a fight, I’d regret it.”

  The unasked question—Did you?—hung between them. Gin inhaled the smoky, acrid scent of the scotch. Its beautiful shade reminded her of her mother’s bottle of perfume, something Lily was always getting into trouble for using when they were little. Lily had loved to spritz it on her wrists and inhale deeply. “Everything should smell like this,” she’d declared, when she was only eight or nine.

  “Dad didn’t kill himself,” Jake said suddenly. “It’s ridiculous. Anyone who knew him . . .”

  “Jake, I think Witt and Stillman have something, more evidence. I don’t know, they were leaning on me pretty hard. I feel like they were holding something back.”

  “But there’s not a lot of incentive for them t
o shift over to investigating Dad’s death,” Jake fumed. “Especially if they’ve already concluded it’s a suicide. The media’s focused on Lily. The department’s going to want to clear that as soon as they can.”

  “But what if it’s connected? I mean, it has to be. Whoever killed Lily . . .”

  Jake let his head fall into his hands. “I hate to say it, Gin, but I’m starting to think they may never find out who did it. It could have been someone just passing through town.”

  “The hitchhiker that witnesses saw.”

  “They never found the guy. I thought most people finally figured he didn’t exist.”

  “Except he could have gone anywhere. Especially if he was guilty . . . or he could be dead himself now.” Gin turned the possibility over in her head, tried to contemplate a life in which she never had an answer, never knew what had happened to her sister. It didn’t feel real.

  “And that’s got me thinking we might never know what happened to Dad, either. Everything’s . . . everything’s so fucked up.”

  “But they’re investigating. It’s too early to give up,” Gin protested.

  “I wish I had your confidence in the county police, but I think they’ll take the easy way out. With the evidence pointing to Dad taking his own life, why would they dig deeper?” He took a sip of his own glass of scotch. “I don’t know how to make them see how crazy it is to think Dad would do something like that. I mean, even if he decided to kill himself, he never would have done it there, in his house. Or with a gun . . . I mean there’s so much wrong with this picture, but it’s nothing I can prove.” Jake gave her fingers a squeeze and withdrew his hand. “That’s why I want to ask you to find out what happened.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I can’t exactly do anything in this town without drawing attention to myself. Half the people around here think I’m a murderer. And you . . . well, I mean, no offense, but you’ve done a pretty good job of disappearing from everyone’s radar.”

  “I—yes. That’s fair.” Gin took a breath and exhaled slowly, sensing that the tide between them had turned. The doubt she felt had vanished the moment she saw Lawrence lying on the floor. Now Jake was asking for her help, and it felt right to give it—if she could. “Jake, I’ll do what I can, but you know I’m just an ME. Despite the way we’re portrayed on TV, my job doesn’t really involve much investigation beyond the actual body.”

  “They’ll do an autopsy on Dad,” Jake said. “There’s got to be something there. Some sort of proof.”

  Gin was shaking her head ruefully. “Again, I’m afraid a lot of what’s on TV doesn’t really hold up in the lab. If there’s something irregular with the wound, or residue on his fingers, something simple like that, they’ll find it. And beyond that . . . well, there’s a lot of room for interpretation.”

  “Look, you managed to attend Lily’s autopsy. Isn’t there any chance—”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she promised. “But Stephen Harper may not even have caught the case, and I don’t think I can try to get any of the other staff to talk to me. It would just be too irregular.”

  “Just try, Gin. I know I have no right to ask . . .” Now, finally, his voice broke. He quickly mastered it, clearing his throat and looking away, but Gin couldn’t help but break a little herself.

  Jake had always been the strong one. That’s how she’d consoled herself, all those late nights in college when missing him had become almost more than she could bear, made worse by the knowledge that she had been the one to push him away, had been the one who gave in to doubt.

  At least he’d been strong enough to endure. Not just Lily’s death, but Gin’s betrayal.

  Now, looking at the man he’d become, she had to face a truth she’d learned in the intervening years.

  No one was that strong. Not even Jake.

  ***

  Gin was almost back at her parents’ house when her phone rang. She pulled over to check the caller ID, denying to herself that it was Jake’s name she hoped to see.

  It was an unfamiliar number with a Trumbull area code. Feeling the now-familiar pang of fear that more bad news was coming, she answered. “Hello?”

  “Gin?”

  “Christine?” It took only one syllable for Gin to be able to recognize the voice of the woman who had once been her best friend, after Lily.

  “Oh, I’m glad I caught you. I heard about Lawrence. I can’t even believe it. I know you were close to him . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Yes.” Gin tried to swallow the lump that formed in her throat, hearing Christine speak of him in the past tense. “It’s awful.”

  “I would totally understand if you didn’t want to come to the party tonight, in light of the circumstances, but—well, I hope you will. Olive’s mentioned you several times. I think she took a real shine to you.”

  “Of course,” Gin said, grateful for the distraction, though given everything that had happened already today, the party had completely slipped her mind. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Oh, I’m glad. I’ve got my hands full with last-minute details—the bakery lost the cupcake order and my housecleaner canceled on me this week, and I had a meeting come up at work that I can’t get out of this afternoon. I’m going to have to dash back here to make it before people start to arrive.”

  Gin had a flash of inspiration. “Can I help? I could pick the kids up at school and bring them home so you can be here for your guests.”

  “Oh, I—that’s—that’s very generous,” Christine said hesitantly. “But truly unnecessary.”

  “But it would be a perfect chance for me to get to know them better,” Gin said, warming to the idea. “Plus I’d love to see the old school. It’s been ages.”

  “Be prepared for some changes,” Christine said. “The pool’s gone, and they put up a performing-arts building. Look, I hate to ask you to take time away from your folks. I know they need you right now.”

  “But my parents will both be at work. It’s really no problem.”

  “Well . . . all right. I’ll call the school and let them know you’ll be coming. I’d ask Tom to do it, but he and Dad are down in DC at a conference through the weekend.”

  “Let me help at the party, too,” Gin said impulsively. “I didn’t realize you were doing everything yourself.”

  “The fate of the single mother,” Christine said. “I invited Brandon, but naturally he already committed to doing something with Glenda the Good Witch.”

  “Glenda . . . ?”

  “Sorry, I really shouldn’t call her that—one of these days I’m going to slip and say it in front of the kids. She’s just so very insincere, and she has all this long highlighted hair. As if having an affair with my husband wasn’t enough—it’s like she wants everyone to think she had no choice but to rescue him from my clutches. Sorry.”

  “Christine, really, you don’t have to apologize. I think you’re allowed to hate your ex.” Gin guiltily realized she’d never even met him; after missing their wedding, she’d felt too sheepish to call on her brief visits home.

  “Listen, if you want, stay around after the party. I’ll open a bottle of wine and we can catch up.”

  “I’d love to,” Gin said.

  As she hung up, the pleasure of talking to an old friend was tinged with guilt. Christine was just one more person Gin had abruptly cut from her life.

  22

  A little after three, Gin was in the carpool line at the school, a new innovation since she had attended Trumbull Elementary all those years ago. Back then, everyone walked to school except for a few kids who lived out in the country east of town and rode the bus. Now there was a line of minivans and SUVs stretching past the new building and around the corner.

  Tucked into her purse, wrapped in pink tissue and tied with a silky bow, was a gift that Gin was worried Olive wouldn’t like. Most thirteen-year-old girls would probably be thrilled with the birthstone necklace, but Olive appeared to be a tomboy
; maybe she didn’t even like jewelry.

  As Gin worried about the gift, she spotted Olive’s bright yellow ponytail, bobbing as she raced across the school’s front lawn, chasing a boy who was holding something tucked against his chest. She tackled him just short of the sidewalk and they both tumbled onto the pavement, Olive landing on her knees holding her prize aloft: she had taken a book from the boy. Gin grinned, seeing so much of her sister in the exchange; if Olive was anything like Lily, she’d been the aggressor, but the boy would get the blame.

  When Olive spotted Gin, she dropped the book on the ground and ran over, pulling Austen out of a group of his friends on the way. “Shotgun!” she yelled before yanking open the passenger door and plopping in the seat. Austen, relegated to the back, gave a brief howl of protest. “Hi, Miss Sullivan,” he added.

  “Call me Gin.”

  “Thanks for picking us up, Gin,” Olive said. “Otherwise we would have had to walk.”

  “Your mom and I used to walk every day,” Gin said, easing her car carefully past the kids and moms. “Believe it or not, we survived.”

  “Did your mother really take care of my mom and Uncle Tom? Mom says it was like you guys were all one family.”

  “When we were young, yes,” Gin said. “I don’t remember much, because we were so little. After my sister Lily was born, your grandpa hired someone to help when he could, but your mom and your uncle still came over quite a bit.”

  “It’s like you were sisters,” Olive marveled. “I wish I had a sister instead of Austen.”

  “Hey!” he protested from the backseat, over the beeping of whatever game he was playing on his phone.

  Olive continued to chatter all the way home. Gin couldn’t help her growing fondness for the girl, who was every bit as high-spirited as Lily had been. Times had changed; Olive seemed to have turned her personality to her advantage, unlike Lily, whose behavior provoked teachers and her friends’ parents to implore her to settle down. To “act like a lady,” in Madeleine’s words. Good for Christine, Gin thought, allowing her daughter to be herself without censure.