by Lisa Harris
Five minutes later, she let out a sigh as Garrett pulled the vehicle against the curb a couple houses down from the Kerrigans’ two-story home. Ahead of them, the driveway was filled with cars, as were the curbs on both sides of the street.
Garrett shut off the engine but didn’t make a move to get out of the car. “You ready for this?”
“You’ve already asked me that at least once.”
“I know. You’ve just been quiet since we turned off the highway. I was wondering if you’re having second thoughts.”
She’d tried to pin the heavy silence that had developed between them to her wanting to avoid the past. But she knew that wasn’t the only thing bothering her. She couldn’t shake the haunted images of Julia Kerrigan. “I’m used to sitting behind a desk, giving out advice over the phone to precincts around the country after I’ve sorted through piles of evidence, interviews, and depositions,” she said. “I don’t normally have a lot of interaction with the victims’ families. Okay, normally I don’t have any interaction with the victims’ families.”
It was easier that way. She was never required to show any kind of emotional response to loss or experience it firsthand in the eyes of the victims’ families. She didn’t have to deal with the tears, anger, and questions. She’d learned to disconnect herself from the photos and crime scene descriptions. All she had to do was analyze the facts.
“You don’t have to do any of the talking,” Garrett said, grabbing his coat from the backseat. “Just hang back unless someone gets out of control.”
“No. I didn’t come this far to shy away from what has to be done, but that doesn’t mean I feel prepared to do this part of the job. Telling them they’ve just lost their daughter. How do you even begin to do that?”
“Losing a child is probably the worst thing a parent will experience in their lives, and for me, informing them of their loss is one of the worst parts of my job. The only thing I know to do is try to be as compassionate as possible, because there’s no way I can really know what they’re going through.”
Jordan grabbed her scarf off her lap and looped it around her neck. “I think one of the things that frustrates me the most is that I joined the FBI to help people. To help them find justice and answers. But no matter what I say to this family, they are going to hurt. And honestly, that terrifies me.”
“You’re a whole lot stronger than you think, Jordan. If I’m remembering correctly, you were always the toughest one in our academy class. In PT you were the one outscoring most of the guys.”
“That was the easy part.” She hated feeling vulnerable, especially in front of Garrett, but he’d always been able to break through her walls. “And forget what they threw at us at the academy. Quantico’s training made the academy look like a walk in the park. And in my job now, I deal with analyzing the carnage left behind by killers like this one every day, but it’s never personal. Tell a family they’ve just lost their daughter, though, and the case is no longer a file on my desk.”
“It never is just a file on a desk.”
She nodded as she opened her door. “Exactly. Which is why dealing with the fallout can’t be something I choose to avoid.”
She looped her scarf around her neck a second time in an attempt to block the chilly night air. A vigil was being held outside the Kerrigan home with signs, cards, stuffed animals, and written prayers begging God to help Julia come home. The yellow light of a battery-operated candle flickered in the darkness. Jordan walked past a color photo of Julia, showing her smiling as if she didn’t have a care in the world. But now everything her family had hoped and prayed for was about to be shattered, and somehow they’d have to figure out a way for life to go on despite what had happened.
An older woman stood alone on the porch, a trail of smoke from the cigarette in her hand blowing in the wind. Garrett stepped up the stairs with Jordan right behind him.
“I’m Special Agent Addison with the TBI, and this is FBI Special Agent Jordan Lambert.”
“I’m Janet Kerrigan, Julia’s grandmother. I flew in from Atlanta yesterday.”
“I’m so sorry for what you’ve had to go through these past few days.”
“Would you believe it if I told you I haven’t had a cigarette in twenty years, and now all of a sudden tonight I couldn’t live without one?” She dropped the cigarette onto the porch and ground it out with her shoe. “Do you have news about Julia?”
“We need to speak with her parents.”
“Julia’s mom—my daughter-in-law—is upstairs in Julia’s room. I could take you there, though she’s asked to be alone.”
“We’d appreciate that,” Jordan said.
They followed her into the house, past a room filled with people who were talking quietly in small groups, and up a narrow flight of stairs. No one seemed to acknowledge their presence. At least not outwardly. Clearly, they’d seen their share of the authorities over the past few days. Family photos hung on the white walls of the stairwell and upstairs hallway. Family Christmas portraits . . . Disneyland . . . candid shots of a holiday somewhere in the tropics . . .
Julia’s grandmother stopped in front of the open doorway. Jordan stepped into the room behind Garrett, feeling as if she were intruding.
“The police are here,” the older woman said from the doorway. “I can stay if you’d like.”
“I’m sure she could used the support,” Jordan said.
Mrs. Kerrigan shook her head. “I’m fine.”
Jordan recognized the woman from photos in Julia Kerrigan’s file. Midforties, bleached hair, arched eyebrows, but no trace of makeup. Her eyes were red and glassy, both signs that she’d been crying. But today, Dana Elaine Kerrigan wasn’t just another name in a folder, or another file number on Jordan’s desktop. Instead, she was a mother who was about to be given the worst news any parent could ever hear.
The woman sat on her daughter’s bed, staring at the pink-and-white-striped wall with black accents and Paris theme, including an Eiffel Tower lamp. But the details of the room quickly faded in comparison to the enormity of the situation. It felt cold, as if all the warmth had been sucked out of the room.
“Mrs. Kerrigan,” Garrett said. “Is your husband at home? We’d like to speak to both of you if possible.”
“That can’t be good, wanting to speak with both of us.” She pulled a pink throw pillow against her chest and started slowly rocking back and forth. “He went out about an hour ago. Told me he needed to go to the store to buy batteries for the TV remote. Can you believe that? Our daughter’s missing, and he’s off to the store to buy triple-A batteries.”
“We’d be happy to wait downstairs until he gets back.”
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Mrs. Kerrigan caught Jordan’s gaze. “My Julia’s dead.”
“Mrs. Kerrigan,” Jordan said. “I think it would be better to wait—”
“Stop. Please. Why else would you be knocking on my door? If it were simply an update on her whereabouts, the detectives from Missing Persons would be handling things. But she’s not missing anymore, is she? My baby’s dead.”
Jordan turned to Garrett, waiting for his lead, trying to ignore the sick feeling spreading through her stomach. She’d been right. She’d rather be chasing down the bad guys right now than standing here having to tell this woman that her daughter had been murdered.
Garrett’s nod was barely visible. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you this, but yes. Authorities discovered your daughter’s body this morning. Because there was no ID, it took us time to identify her.”
“And you’re sure it’s her?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re sure.”
“Clark won’t believe you. Not until he sees her. He kept promising me we’d find her. I don’t know how, but something told me she wasn’t coming home.” She clutched the pillow tighter against her chest. Beside her, a pile of makeup spilled across a computer desk. A corkboard on the wall above it held a dozen photos of selfies with friends. “How did she die?”<
br />
Garrett hesitated again. “The coroner’s report hasn’t come in yet.”
“But you know, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”
His jaw tensed. “It appears she was shot. More than likely she died instantly.”
“Where did you find her?”
Jordan caught the lack of emotion in the woman’s voice. She wondered about the wisdom of her hearing all this by herself. She looked toward the hallway, wondering if they should call for Mrs. Kerrigan’s mother-in-law to come or someone else from downstairs.
“Please tell me. Where did you find her?”
“In a wooded area a little over an hour from here,” Garrett said. “A couple hiking on some of the local trails found her.”
“And do you have any idea who did this?”
“Not at this time, but I can assure you that we are doing everything we can to find out.”
“Detective Everston kept telling me the same thing. He promised he was doing everything he could to find her. Kept telling me how only a small percentage of kids were actually taken by abductors, and that more than likely she would come home on her own. But I knew he was wrong. We aren’t a perfect family, but she never would have run away.” She drew in a staggering breath. “And Clark . . . How do I tell him? Julia was always his princess. He would have protected her with his life.”
Jordan sat down on the empty desk chair across from the woman and said the only thing she could think of. “Tell me about your daughter. I can see from her picture she was beautiful.”
A slight smile registered across Mrs. Kerrigan’s lips. She was crying now. Silent tears of grief. Shock had yet to wear off, but when it did, reality was going to hit like a flash flood.
“She loved sports, books, art.” She glanced around the room. “We just redecorated her room last month for her sixteenth birthday. She wanted a Paris theme. It’s not always easy connecting to a teenager, but I had so much fun helping her. We found this online boutique that sold all kinds of things she liked. I’m not sure how this happened. Three days ago she was begging me to buy this clock she found for the wall, and today . . . today I’ve got to start planning a funeral.”
Mrs. Kerrigan took a photograph off the desk, the tears continuing to flow as she sobbed. “Do you have any children?”
Jordan looked at Garrett, but he had taken a few steps back, leaving her to deal with the grieving mother on her own.
“No,” she finally said. “I don’t have any children, though I hope to one day.”
Julia’s mom ran her finger across the glass. “We tried for ten years to have a baby. When I found out I was pregnant with Julia, I didn’t believe it. I don’t think I really believed it until I felt her kick. And when she was born . . . she was so perfect. I remember looking at her the night we brought her home from the hospital. It was as if I was looking at a clean slate. I knew I was going to be the perfect mother. Attentive. Fun. Not too permissive, but still giving her everything she needed. And now she’s not coming home.”
“I’m so, so sorry.”
Jordan clasped her hands in front of her, wishing she knew what to say. Wishing she didn’t feel so awkward. But this wasn’t about her or how she felt. It was about a mother who’d just lost her child.
“I don’t know how people deal with loss like this. I feel so . . . numb.” Mrs. Kerrigan caught Jordan’s gaze. “Tell me how I’m supposed to tell those people downstairs. How am I supposed to go to sleep tonight, knowing Julia’s dead? How do I wake up tomorrow and function? She has an orthodontist appointment at ten in the morning. They were going to do an evaluation to see if she needed braces. Do I call them and cancel, or just not show up?”
“Right now,” Jordan said, “all you have to do is think about yourself and your husband, and let those who are here with you help get you through this.”
“But what if I don’t know what I need?”
Jordan pressed her lips together. There were no answers. Nothing that could make the horror of what had happened go away. Nothing she could say that could bring Julia back or even offer the slightest bit of hope, for that matter.
“I had a dream last night.” Mrs. Kerrigan was staring at the photograph of her daughter again. “Julia was floating face up in a river. She was dead, but she looked so peaceful. So serene. This morning all I’ve been able to think about is what would have happened if she hadn’t gone to work that day. I didn’t even have a chance to tell her goodbye.”
“Mrs. Kerrigan, there was no way you could have known what was going to happen.”
“Maybe.” She looked back at Jordan. “Do you believe in God?”
Jordan paused, surprised by the woman’s question. “Yes, I do.”
Mrs. Kerrigan drew in a deep breath. “I just wish I knew where he was when my girl was dying. Was he watching? And if he was watching, tell me why didn’t he stop her from being murdered.”
She kept looking at Jordan as if she was waiting for an answer. But Jordan didn’t have any answers. She didn’t know why God chose to save some people and others he didn’t.
Jordan glanced again at Garrett, swallowing the guilt pressing against her chest. Maybe the woman wasn’t even looking for answers. Maybe she just needed someone to listen. “Honestly, I don’t have all the answers.”
The words sounded hollow. Empty.
“But I do know one thing,” Jordan said. “When I walked into your house, I saw a roomful of people who love you and your husband and Julia. Let them help you through this.”
Mrs. Kerrigan grabbed a tissue from the desk and shook her head. “What about when they tell me that God needed Julia in heaven, how I didn’t have enough faith, or that they know how I feel because they lost someone they love?”
“Some of them will say the wrong things,” Jordan said, “but all you need to remember is that they’re here, right now. They care, and they want to support you.”
A man stepped into the room, interrupting their conversation. He stopped short when he saw Mrs. Kerrigan’s tearstained face.
“Clark—”
“Dana . . .What’s going on?”
There was a slight pause before she spoke. “Julia’s dead.”
No softening the blow of her words or lessening the effect of what had happened. Not that either was really possible. Jordan watched the reaction of those two words on the man’s face as he fought to comprehend what he’d just been told.
“That’s not possible. There must be a mistake.” He moved in front of Garrett, his body posture tense. His words clipped. “Who are you? Where’s Detective Everston?”
“I’m Special Agent Garrett Addison, and this is Special Agent Jordan Lambert with the FBI. Our criminal investigation division has taken over the case.”
“I don’t understand. Julia can’t be dead.”
“I’m so sorry. I wish it was a mistake, but your wife is right.”
“So have you found him yet?” Mr. Kerrigan asked.
“Found who?” Jordan asked.
He fixated on his wife, the veins pulsing in his temples. “Martin Quinn. The man who murdered our daughter.”
5
7:14 p.m.
Kerrigan home
Garrett took a step back from Mr. Kerrigan at the accusation, knowing he was going to need to proceed extremely carefully. “Mr. Kerrigan, who is Martin Quinn?”
“I just told you. He’s the man who killed my daughter.” Mr. Kerrigan’s loud voice echoed through the room, his fists balled at his sides. “And you didn’t stop him.”
“I know this is difficult, but why don’t you sit down next to your wife and tell me what you are talking about.”
“I don’t need to sit down. I need to know why you let this happen. Why you let this monster get his hands on my daughter.”
“Clark, stop—”
“No, Dana. Julia’s dead because these people didn’t follow up on the lead I gave them.” He turned back to Garrett. “I told those officers who was behind her disappearance. I gav
e them proof that Martin was behind this and they did nothing.”
Garrett glanced at Jordan before speaking again. Grief tended to manifest in numerous ways, both physically and emotionally. Anger and blaming others were perfectly normal. “I remember seeing Mr. Quinn’s name in your daughter’s case file. He was brought in yesterday as a person of interest, but he had a solid alibi for the time she disappeared. They had to let him go.”
“No.” Mr. Kerrigan jabbed his finger at Garrett. “I don’t care if he said he was singing a solo at the Grand Ole Opry on national television. I know he did this. He wanted us to suffer. And now my daughter is dead. You can’t tell me that’s a coincidence.”
“Then talk to me, because I’m listening. How do you know he wanted you and your family to suffer?”
“You need proof? I gave them proof. He completely lost it at my work in front of half a dozen witnesses, but that’s not all.” Mr. Kerrigan took his phone out of his pocket. “There are texts. You can read them. There’s half a dozen threats he sent to me, starting two weeks ago.”
Garrett took the phone and scanned through the string of messages. There were threats against Kerrigan and his business, but none specifically against his daughter.
“You went to the authorities when you started receiving these?” Garrett asked.
“Not at first. In the corporate world there is always someone angry at you. But then a few days ago, my tires were slit. That’s when I first went to the police. And when Julia disappeared, he stopped texting me. You can’t tell me this is all just some big coincidence.”
“Tell me exactly who you spoke to,” Garrett said.
“I filed a police report down at the precinct when my tires were slit. Then later, I told Detective Everston—the officer handling Julia’s case—about the other texts.”
“What did the detective tell you about the threats?” Garrett asked.
“He said they couldn’t trace the texts, because they were made on a burner phone, but that they’d do everything they could to find out who’d sent the messages.” He was pacing again. “That’s what they said about Julia too. That they’d do everything they could to find her. But they didn’t do everything they could. I kept telling him they were looking in the wrong place, but no one listened to me.”
