by Jo Crow
“The physical evidence found in the home after the fire is damning.” Jerry pushed air through his teeth, then shook his head and sighed. “The shears could be explained away, since the staff house is on the McNair estate, but that they were left in the living room in plain sight? And they were recovered along with a revolver and your mother’s ring?”
“I know,” I murmured. “But I swear, I didn’t put them there. I had nothing to do with it. Someone must have…” I trailed off, my mind pulled elsewhere. I remembered on the night I was in Charlotte, I’d told Amanda where to find the spare key to the staff house so she could get clothes for James. Remembering the way she’d parroted back the information gave me chills.
Blue plastic pot by the side door of Mr. Field’s house … Got it.
I’d given her everything she needed in order to set me up, and I’d done it gladly.
I wanted to be sick.
“Clara?” Jerry asked.
“I’m okay.” I blinked rapidly and shook my head to try to drive my nausea away. “I was just remembering how I’d given Amanda directions on where to find the spare key to the house. She must have asked someone in town to break in and plant the items on me—and to set up the propane tanks. That’s why I never heard anyone breaking in, and probably why the police suspect it was me who set the fire. There was no sign of forced entry.”
“Are you saying someone else in town knows Amanda is the murderer?” Jerry asked.
“I don’t know. But she must have had help.” I didn’t know anything anymore. The longer I spent in Hickory Hills, the more I realized it was true. “According to Detective Elkins, she spent last night with him. Someone else had to be involved. Unless they’re working together.”
“Elkins? You think Tony Elkins set fire to your house to help Amanda?” Jerry narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side as he looked at me. He reached out across the table and squeezed my hand. Even though my lips trembled, I smiled for him.
“There is no perfect crime,” he said. “But proving someone else is responsible is a job for the police. We need to focus on convincing the courts to grant custody to you.”
“But if we knew what was driving Amanda? Why she killed my parents—wouldn’t that help? Maybe it’s connected to her mother’s suicide—”
“Two large problems with that,” Jerry cut in. “The first is Amanda’s disconnection from the crime—twenty years is a long time to hold a grudge, especially since twenty years ago Amanda was just eight years old. Even if we go back ten years, to when Amanda was eighteen, it seems like that’s a long time to wait to get revenge.”
“But I already called the coroner’s office asking for the documents on Rachel Harwood’s suicide to be brought out of storage. I never had a call back, but the request might have been processed by now.” For the first time in this mangled mess, I felt like I’d done something right. Jerry soon squashed that idea, though.
“No.” He was practically shouting. “Forget Rachel Harwood. We need to focus on James; we need to bring him home. We’re working against the clock now. Every second counts. Leave the police to clear your name.”
No one at the coroner’s office answered my call, so I took matters into my own hands and drove there to see if I could speak to someone in person. If I needed to, I was prepared to drive to the archives myself in order to retrieve the documentation. Jerry was right: no court was going to grant me custody while I was a suspect. But he was wrong, too. If I could prove Amanda had a motive for killing my parents, I’d open out the case, and could begin to clear my name and get James back.
But no one was going to believe Amanda had anything to do with killing my parents if her mother’s death was still considered a suicide. I needed to get that coroner’s report on Rachel Harwood.
When I arrived at the small building, nestled away in what felt like the middle of nowhere, I found the lights were turned off and the front door was locked. A small, printed sign had been adhered to the front door.
Office closed. For emergencies, please contact your local PD.
My local police department wasn’t going to help. I looked from the sign to the building, then weighed my options. There was a chance the documents I wanted were already inside, waiting for me. There was a chance they weren’t. I figured I could wait until the office opened again, but who was to say when that would be? Tomorrow? Next week? Time was running out. The longer James was out of my care, the less chance I had of getting him back. Meantime, Amanda could do terrible things to him.
I couldn’t allow that to happen.
I didn’t hesitate—it was time to get back in touch with the Clara I’d been ten years before—I broke in.
33
The coroner’s office was small, but it was a government building, and I was aware of the risks. As far as I could tell, there were no exterior security cameras. I checked as casually as I could, looking for the familiar shimmer of a lens hidden in darkness, or the small red light sometimes visible in sloppy installations, but there was nothing. If there was security, it was far more advanced than I gave a rural office credit for.
I circled the building to look for points of entry. As a teenager, I’d sometimes sneaked into run-down buildings with Amanda to party—and, at times, we’d broken into private property after one high or another. I was older, and less agile, but I was still in shape, and I hoped what I remembered from my wild teenage years would serve me well.
Around the back, facing the woods and the dark looming mountains, well out of sight of the street and any passing traffic, was a double-hung window. It was above my reach. The hill the office was built into tapered down toward the back and partially exposed the building’s foundation, meaning while I could go in through the front windows without worry, I’d need to climb to get in from the back. Luckily, there was a dumpster nearby that I hoisted myself up onto in order to get a better view.
Through the double-hung window was a desk with neatly stacked papers, a few filing cabinets, and various office supplies. Judging by the size of the building and the limited demand of the area, I was willing to bet it was one of the only offices on the premises. A smaller staff would also explain the sign on the door—if an emergency came up and no one was available to work, closure was necessary. It was a long shot, but I was willing to take my chances. At that point, I couldn’t afford not to.
Crouching as best I could atop the closed dumpster, I flattened my palms against the bottom pane of the window and pushed upward. I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my jaw. The exertion made my arms shake and taxed my core as I struggled to keep my balance, but I couldn’t give up. If this window didn’t open, I didn’t know what I’d do.
The bottom of the window was fitted well into the frame, and my first attempt was unsuccessful. I stopped pushing upward and gasped for breath, already hot around the collar and at the nape of my neck. It was still morning, but the sun scorched my shoulders. I filled my lungs and tried again, pushing with everything I had. The window stuck.
Then it lurched upward.
With a startled cry of victory, I pushed it up the rest of the way and braced my hands against the windowsill.
“Feet first, Clara,” I reminded myself under my breath as I readjusted my position. It was tricky maneuvering to reach the open window from my position on the dumpster, but with a little patience and the hope I wouldn’t land on something I would break, I got my calves through the window and shoved off the dumpster to fall the rest of the way. Luckily, my feet met carpet. I took a second to shake off the adrenaline, then forged forward in my search. Unless they were silent, I hadn’t tripped any alarms, so I was hopeful I wouldn’t be interrupted.
I went immediately for the desk.
The papers I’d noticed from the window were unrelated to Rachel Harwood. I worked quickly but with attention to detail, to sort through each stack—to no result. When the top of the desk had been scoured, I pulled open each of the drawers in turn, searching. I had no luck there, either
.
The filing cabinets in the room were locked. Given the right tools, I could have tried to jimmy the lock open, but it was so tiny I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Before I wasted time trying to break into something I might not be able to open, I decided to search the rest of the room to make sure Rachel Harwood’s files hadn’t been left elsewhere.
When I’d called the coroner’s office, I’d assumed the archived information would be sent via courier. It made the most sense to me, as there was likely film footage of the autopsy included in the file, as well as whatever relevant objects were found with the body and tied to the case. But the more I thought about it, the less sure I was. Video files could be digitized, and it was unlikely the archives would send actual evidence to the coroner’s office so a stranger could claim it. The information could have been sent as an email attachment, or…
I scanned the room, examining the setup. There was a desktop computer with a printer, though the printing tray lacked any printed content. But across the room, hidden from sight of the window, was an old fax machine that looked almost as old as I was. Papers had been left in the tray.
I crossed the room and took the papers from where they’d been spat out by the machine.
Autopsy Report. Harwood, Rachel. 1997–0672.
My hands trembled, and I rifled through the papers to make sure I hadn’t grabbed anything unrelated to Rachel’s case. All of the documents—the findings, the body map, the autopsy notes—were there.
I moved from the desk to the window, using the light streaming through to read instead of flicking on the overhead light. Autopsy records weren’t my area of expertise, but there was a cover letter attached from the archive center that made my heart skip a beat.
J—
Found the archived files you were looking for. Emailed you the mp3. However, while I was preparing to fax the paper documents over, I noticed several jarring things about the report. The first thing that caught my eye was that there was only one witness signature. Some Jerry Appleton, a local, according to a quick search. The other field was left blank. What gives?
Then, when I decided to look through the rest of the report, there were a lot of facts casually ignored that I feel would drastically alter the ruling. The bullet trajectory is all wrong for a suicide. Would’ve been the strangest suicide I’ve ever seen. No stippling, either. It doesn’t make sense to me.
Can you look it over, please? Especially the angle of the trajectory and the estimations about height. I know you’re busy, but I trust your judgment.
Also, maybe look into why this Clara McNair person is looking for info on this case. Maybe she knows something we don’t. Might want to get in touch with the PD, too.
Have a good Monday. Talk soon.
—R
I picked up the cover letter and held it in my trembling hands, astounded I’d found a piece of information so valuable. I knew I couldn’t take it from the office, but if the police came after me, I finally had someone in my corner—someone who could vouch that there was something more to Rachel Harwood’s death.
I set the cover letter back on top of the stack of papers but, as I did, I noticed something in the notes at the bottom of the examiner’s report. Whoever had sent the cover letter had mentioned the bizarre trajectory, but it didn’t hit me how bizarre it was until I read it in detail.
Trajectory of bullet indicates the shooter would have been on his knees, or approximately four feet tall.
On his knees? Had there been an altercation?
Maybe my father hadn’t slaughtered Rachel Harwood in cold blood—maybe she’d been in the process of attacking him, and he’d been on the ground before he knew he had no choice but to retaliate in order to protect himself.
And Jerry had signed the report; it meant he had more answers than he was letting on. It looked as if he was as implicated as my father. It struck me that it was probably why he was so adamant Rachel Harwood’s suicide had nothing to do with Amanda killing my parents. The report showed he had everything to do with it. I wouldn’t let him keep his silence any longer.
A door slammed in the distance. I jumped and hit the table, rattling the fax machine. Hissing through the pain, I abandoned the report and bolted for the open window. The drop was going to be brutal, but there was no way around it—I didn’t have time to maneuver myself onto the dumpster and carefully drop down from there.
I went face first through the window, bracing my palms on the wall as I went. If I could stick the landing, I wouldn’t break any bones. If I could stick the landing.
I wasn’t eighteen anymore, and it had been a long time since I’d broken into somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be.
The ground came on faster than I’d hoped, and I landed hard on my arm. Concrete made quick work of my top layer of skin, and I hissed in pain and recoiled quickly so I had my back pressed against the building. There was noise in the office, then the sound of the window sliding shut. Still, I remained where I was, nervous that whoever had closed the window was still overlooking the back lot.
A minute passed. Then two. When I was sure that whoever was in the office had lost interest, I slunk around the side of the building, keeping close to the walls to dodge detection from any outward facing windows. When I arrived at the front of the building, my car was still the only one in the parking lot.
Whoever was inside had been there the whole time.
Heart pounding from the thrill of escaping without being caught, I sank back into the driver’s seat. I needed to get back to Jerry’s office.
It was time I found out the truth.
34
I need to know what happened.” There wasn’t time for courtesy. After all, hadn’t Jerry been the one to tell me every second mattered? He’d withheld the truth from me and put into jeopardy my standing with the law, and for what? To protect my father?
Jerry looked up from his notes, his lips thinned. He set down his pen, then sighed and gestured to the vacant chair.
“You read the autopsy report.” It was a statement.
“You signed it; the only witness. What the hell was going on? The examiner’s notes state the gun was shot from about four feet off the ground. Was Rachel Harwood attacking my father before he killed her?”
I crossed the room, still on edge from my escape from the coroner’s office. With so much nervous energy, I couldn’t bring myself to sit, so I stood behind the chair and gripped the back for support.
Jerry rubbed his mouth, then worked his hand across his short stubble. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come up, to be honest.”
“How could you say something like that?” The statement stung, and I fought against my impulse to lash back. “My son’s life is on the line. My life is on the line. Why would you keep something like this from me?”
“Because I made a vow to your father.”
“Bullshit!” My face was burning. Jerry couldn’t be serious. “My father is dead. I know you were loyal to him but Amanda thinks he’s a murderer, and she killed him because of it. If Rachel was killed in self-defense, that changes the circumstances! All this time I thought he was a monster!”
Jerry shook his head. “It wasn’t self-defense. Rachel Harwood was killed.”
“So… what? He shot her from his knees, like the report said?” It didn’t make sense. “You need to tell me the truth, Jerry. I need to know. James’s life is in danger, and mine isn’t in much better shape. I need to know the truth so I can make things right.”
The silence that stretched between us was strained. At last, Jerry lifted his gaze and looked at me with sad, tired eyes. “Your father didn’t kill Rachel Harwood, Clara.”
“Then who killed her?”
“You did.”
I’d been a fraction of a second away from speaking, but what I’d wanted to say never made it to my lips. I stared at Jerry, searching for meaning in his face, but I only found regret.
“I promised your father I’d never tell you what happened. I swore it. He preferred to take
the blame than let you know the truth.”
“What?” A whisper. I couldn’t bring myself to speak any louder.
I killed Rachel Harwood? How was that possible? When she died, I was only eight years old. My memories from my childhood were foggy, at best, but could I have murdered Amanda’s mother?
“It was an accident, of course,” Jerry reassured me. He wouldn’t meet my eye anymore. “I wasn’t there in person. Your father called me after the fact in a panic, and I heard the story through him. Apparently, you’d discovered your father’s revolver, and you’d decided you were old enough to play with it.”
The weight in my hands. The nightmares.
The grip. The heft. The resistance of the trigger.
How much force would it take to shoot a gun like that? I remembered, in my curiosity, staring down the barrel of the gun, looking through that dark hole so I could imagine its inner workings.
“Your father didn’t know what happened; Rachel Harwood screamed, and in the next second a shot was fired. By the time he entered the room, she was dead, and you were standing in front of her, mute, and holding the revolver.”
As I tested the trigger, trying to see if I could make out any of the gun’s inner parts moving before it fired, I remembered that piercing shriek. I’d been so startled I’d jumped, and my fingers had tightened around the trigger as I swung the gun outward and away from me in shock.
The thump of her body as it hit the floor. The split-second pop of a fired bullet ringing in my ears.
My feet, rooted to the floor in shock. I’d felt so heavy that I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t even cry.
“Your father and I worked quickly to mask the event to make it look like a suicide. He forged a suicide letter and taped it to the inside of Rachel’s locker. I took care of making the small, incriminating details disappear when it came to the autopsy report.”
