Dark Truth

by Mariah Stewart

  What if he’d said something terrible to her in that letter? Nina found herself thinking. Something unforgivably painful, like, I never loved you, I never cared about Kyle.

  What if he confessed to having murdered those girls?

  What if he told her things that would hurt Kyle to hear?

  She was still staring at the letter. Maybe she should take a look . . .

  She slit open the envelope with the paring knife and began to read. Before long, her bottom jaw had dropped and her heart had all but stopped beating.

  She read all three pages again, certain she had misunderstood. But the words were the same, and the meaning was perfectly clear.

  My dear Olivia,

  I know I’ve been a failure to you in so many ways and have caused you nothing but grief and heartache, and I’m more sorry than I can say for what I’ve put you through. I know an apology alone is unacceptable—there’s no atoning for what I’ve done to you—but I’ve come to the realization that there is one way I can give you peace of mind.

  I know your secret, Olivia, and I will keep it. I will go to my grave professing my innocence, but I will never tell anyone what I know about what you did.

  I found what you’d hidden, and I immediately knew exactly what the brown stains on the handle represented. I’d meant to talk to you about it the following day, when I returned from my last afternoon class. Unfortunately, that was the day of my arrest.

  It never occurred to me that you’d be following me when I left campus at night, that you’d know where I went, and who I met. Was I so caught up in my own fantasies that I never knew you were watching? I cannot begin to imagine how it must have hurt you. For that, I am more sorry than I can say. I never meant to hurt you, Olivia. And if you believe nothing else, believe that I loved you then, and that I love you now.

  My addiction was something apart from what I felt for you. For me, sex was nicotine, it was alcohol, it was cocaine, it was heroin. It was all those things and more. I’ve long acknowledged, if only to myself, that this is something I can’t control. Frankly, I never wanted to control it. I was happy enough to allow my addiction to control me. As long as there were willing partners—and there was never a shortage of girls eager to have me—I was very happy. As happy as a gambler who never lost a hand.

  I suppose it was inevitable that you would find out, and would want to exact your price. But I never—never—thought you capable of such things. When I found the evidence of what you’d done, I admit it made me physically ill.

  But all that being said, I know that my actions drove you to do what you did. If I’d been the husband I’d promised to be, none of this would have happened. I know that my sins led to yours, and I am willing to take the punishment for both of us. The fault is all mine.

  I can’t even begin to ask your forgiveness for all I’ve put you through. I know I will burn in hell, and that no amount of repentance could be enough to wash this sin from my soul. You, however, can be forgiven.

  Talk to Father Tim. It’s no secret he’s loved you for years, that he’d do anything for you. If you haven’t already done so, ask him for absolution, and set your soul at peace.

  Your loving Stephen

  “Holy shit.”

  Nina read the letter through a third time, but the words remained the same.

  How could her father have thought Olivia guilty when the girls had been raped?

  They had been raped, hadn’t they? The papers all said that they had.

  The Stone River Rapist. Right.

  She sat on the sofa, chewing on a fingernail, something she hadn’t done since she was twelve and her mother had painted some foul-tasting liquid on her nails to keep her from biting them.

  Surely it would have occurred to her father that Olivia could not have raped the four victims. So how could he have concluded that she had been responsible for their deaths?

  The more she thought about it, the less sense it made.

  And what to do about the letter? She certainly couldn’t turn it over to Kyle, not with its blunt accusations against Olivia.

  But what if her father had been telling the truth all along, that he hadn’t killed those girls? Then someone else—how could it have been Olivia?—had committed four murders, four murders for which her father had been sent to prison.

  What was the evidence her father had found that had made him believe Olivia was the killer?

  She reread the letter, looking for the part about the evidence. Here, on the first page: the brown stains on the handle.

  A knife? Had all the victims been stabbed? She had only a vague recollections of the facts. She’d never wanted to know the details. She’d left Stone River to live with her mother’s sister within days of her father’s arrest. She didn’t follow the news reports and had turned off the television any time there was a mention of it. She’d been so afraid of accidentally finding some reference to Stone River that she’d stopped reading newspapers for several years.

  She’d pushed all memories of her father, good and bad, to the farthest reaches of her mind, and left them there.

  And now, this.

  She’d seen the way her father had been led out of Celestine Hall, his head high and defiant, his eyes cold and icy blue, staring straight ahead. Had he already decided to atone for his infidelity by sacrificing his freedom for Olivia’s sake?

  After seeing her father’s face that day, Nina had never considered that he might be innocent. Now, sixteen years later, the very possibility took her breath away.

  She stared at the letter she’d dropped on the table, and wondered what the hell she was going to do about it.

  Six

  “So, did you get a chance to talk to Regan? What’s she thinking about working on next?” Phoebe stood in the doorway of Nina’s office.

  “She has several ideas she’s kicking around. Any one of them would be great. We agreed we’d talk about it again,” Nina told her.

  “When?” Phoebe leaned a hip against the doorjamb.

  “Soon.”

  “She’s coming up for contract. Let’s see if we can nail her down. I don’t want to lose her.”

  “I’d be very surprised if that happened.”

  “Surprised and unemployed.” Phoebe smiled and continued her walk down the hall.

  Well, that was subtle, Nina thought as she went through the current profit-and-loss statements that she’d found in her IN bin that morning. Phoebe’s title may have been director of marketing, but everyone at Griffin knew she was just a few months away from being named publisher. The current president of the company had been hired by Phoebe’s grandfather, who’d groomed him for the job, but Phoebe, as majority stockholder, had made it known that she expected to take the reins come the first of the new year.

  Nina wasn’t worried about Regan, who’d always proven herself to be a straight shooter. If Regan was restless, she’d have said something when Nina was in Maryland. Of course, there was always the possibility that another publisher could come along and dangle a huge contract in her face, but Nina would be surprised if Regan jumped ship. For one thing, she didn’t think Regan needed the money, nor did she think that her author’s head could be turned by big numbers. She’d already proven that she valued loyalty when she insisted on working only with Nina, rather than with Carlos, who was the big-name editor at Griffin. No, Nina told herself, Regan is solid.

  Still, it wouldn’t hurt to keep in touch.

  Nina smiled grimly. Who was she kidding? She was dying to talk to Regan, and it had nothing to do with her upcoming contract.

  Since discovering the letter from her father to Olivia, Nina had been haunted. She’d barely thought of anything else.

  What to do about the letter? How could she find out if in fact her father was right? Could Olivia really have been involved in those murders? What was the evidence her father spoke of, and where was it now? And even if it was true that Olivia, not her father, was guilty—then what?

  And what of Kyle? How cou
ld she face him if she was actively trying to prove that his mother—not her father—was a murderer?

  And how in the name of God could Olivia have been the Stone River Rapist?

  Nina knew she was in way over her head. She didn’t even know where to begin to unravel the mess she’d found when she’d read that letter. She’d been tormented for the past week. It tortured her to think that, if her father had been innocent, she’d turned her back on him and had rejected his every attempt to contact her after his arrest. If she somehow found a way to prove or disprove his accusations, there’d be consequences that she—and others—would have to live with. Did she really want to reopen those old wounds?

  Then there was the matter of the letter her father had left for her. She still wasn’t ready to read that.

  Chiding herself for her cowardice, she swiveled around in her chair so that she was facing the one tall, narrow window that graced her office. Outside, clouds were gathering, making good on the weather forecast for more rain. All over the city, the lights in the buildings seemed to glow brighter in the growing dark of late afternoon. Nina moved the chair closer to the window, and watched the clouds roll closer as the storm approached.

  If she tried to ignore what she’d found, it would always be in the back of her mind. It would never go away, and she’d always be wondering. She’d never know the truth.

  Without giving herself the opportunity to change her mind, Nina reached for the phone and dialed the number in Maryland.

  “Regan, hi. It’s Nina. Listen, I was wondering if you had a free day or two this week . . .”

  “So, what’s this case you stumbled over that you think I might be interested in looking in to?” Regan tossed another small log onto the fire in her cozy sitting room. She’d welcomed Nina warmly, insisted on having her stay there in the house with her instead of at the B and B down the road, and had a wonderful lunch waiting for Nina when she arrived earlier that afternoon. The prior week’s warm streak—not quite Indian summer, but close—had come to its inevitable end, bringing with it the clear chill of November. The cord of wood Regan had ordered last week had arrived just that morning, and she’d brought enough into the house to last for a day or so. She’d started the fire right after lunch, and brought their coffee and dessert into the comfortable room off the kitchen. It was her favorite room in the house, with book-lined shelves and deep-cushioned chairs.

  She draped a cashmere throw over the arm of her guest’s chair before she snuggled into her favorite seat.

  “This is a wonderful room.” Nina looked around admiringly. “No wonder it’s your favorite place. It would be mine, too, if I lived here.”

  “I spend more time in here than I do anywhere else in the house. I read here; sometimes I work here on a laptop. I love the view of the bay through the big window there, and I love the little fireplace.” Regan smiled. “I’m always comfortable here.”

  “A warm fire, a cushy place to sit and put your feet up. Good coffee—fabulous coconut cake. I’m not going to want to go back to New York.”

  “Hey, fine with me. I love the company. And we can justify your stay by talking about work. I have any number of future projects. We can pick one each day and discuss it. By the time we’ve exhausted my proposals, spring will be sprung.”

  “I like the way you think.” Nina tucked her feet under her and sipped her coffee.

  “But right now let’s talk about this case you said you heard about. Something about someone being convicted of a crime they’ve accused someone else of having committed?”

  “Here are the bare bones.” Nina switched into editorial mode, presenting the scenario as she might propose a book to the staff at Griffin Publishing. “A college professor is arrested and charged with raping and murdering four coeds. He’s tried and convicted, gets the death penalty. He appeals his conviction, and while on the way to court, the prison van he’s riding in flips over, and he’s killed.”

  “Saves the state a few bucks,” Regan murmured.

  “I imagine a lot of people were thinking that exact thing at the time. Now, jump forward . . .”

  “How many years?”

  “Oh, fifteen, sixteen or so.” Nina shrugged as if vague on the time frame. “Someone finds a letter the professor had written to his wife accusing her of having killed the girls.”

  “How could that be?” Regan frowned. “I thought you said the victims were raped and murdered. Why would he have accused her?”

  “He says something in the letter about having found the evidence she’d hidden, about how he knew what the brown stains on the handle were . . .”

  “The girls were all stabbed, then?”

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  “So he writes this letter, says he’s going to spill what he knows, or what he thinks he knows?”

  “No.” Nina shook her head. “Just the opposite. He says he knows that his infidelities—he’d apparently slept with each of these girls, probably many others—caused her to do what she did, so he’ll take the blame for her crimes.”

  “That’s noble of him. But why write the letter?”

  “I’m guessing to let her know that he knew, and to let her know that he felt responsible for what she did, and that he loved her enough to take the punishment for her. And he also asked her to talk to this priest they knew. To ask for absolution for her sins so that she could be forgiven.”

  “Wow. That’s some guy.” Regan set her cup down on the table that stood between her chair and Nina’s. “I’ve never heard a story like this one. It has everything. Murder, sex, romance, intrigue. The possibility of a wrongful conviction, a jealous wife. A wandering husband . . .”

  She stared into the fire for a long minute, then said, “I like it. This one has real possibilities. Where can I find out more?”

  “Ah, I’m not sure.” Nina was suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Well, where did you get your information from? Where’d you hear the story?”

  “I read it someplace, some time ago, and it just stayed with me, I guess.”

  “I guess I could track it on the Internet,” Regan murmured.

  “How would you go about getting information on the case? I mean, once you had the name of the person who was convicted, you could enter the name and pull up all the news articles, I guess.” Nina felt a flush begin to creep up from her collar. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought to do that.

  “That’s the easy part. Yes, you’d read it, but you make notes as you go along. You know, who the defense attorney was, who prosecuted the case. Who testified at trial. Who the arresting officers were, the witnesses.” Regan reached for her coffee. “You interview everyone you can find—hopefully the key players are still alive and well and can be found—and you get your hands on the old police reports. What evidence did they have that led to a conviction? What evidence did they have that they concluded the victims were all raped? What was the cause of death?”

  Nina turned to the window, afraid of what would show on her face.

  “I’m assuming the police already know about this letter, right?” Regan was asking.

  “I, ah, I don’t know. Maybe not.”

  “Who has the letter?”

  “I think a relative.”

  “Of the professor?”

  “Yes.” Nina cleared her throat. “At least, that was what I understood.”

  “And no one else has seen it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then who wrote the article?”

  “What?”

  “The article you read about this case. If only one person has seen the letter, I’d have to assume the person who wrote the article was the relative who had the letter.”

  “I suppose.” Nina nodded. “That makes sense.”

  “So why hasn’t this person gone to the police with the letter? Wouldn’t you think that that would be the first thing they’d do?” Regan turned to her. “If it was someone in your family, wouldn’t you want his name cleared as
soon as possible?”

  “Yes, I do.” She caught herself. “I mean, I would. Of course I would.”

  “What was his name?”

  “His name?”

  “The professor. I want to pull up everything I can find about him, but I need his name.”

  “I . . . I don’t remember his name.”

  Nina could feel Regan’s eyes studying her. She should have anticipated this, should have realized that Regan would not be content with supposition. She’d want to go straight to the source and find every scrap of information possible about the case. Suddenly, Nina felt uncomfortable, trapped.

  “It’s really going to be tough to work on this without knowing the names of any of the players, Nina.” Regan spoke nonchalantly, but Nina knew there was nothing casual about Regan’s curiosity.

  She was debating whether to tell her the truth when the phone rang.

  Yay, Nina thought. Saved by the bell, literally. She immediately began to think of ways to distract Regan when she completed her call. Maybe she could suggest that they watch a movie. Or go for a walk . . . or shopping . . .

  Regan glanced at the caller ID.

  “Oh, good. It’s Mitch.” Her face brightened.

  Whoever Mitch was, Nina was thinking, he certainly put a smile on Regan’s face. She tried to recall what Regan had said about this new man in her life.

  “Hey. Hi,” Regan said as she answered the phone. “How are you?”

  Regan toyed with her spoon as she listened to the caller.

  “I didn’t forget. Why not pick me up on Friday, and we’ll drive up together? That would be fine. Hey, Mitch? While I have you on the phone . . . I could use those expert computer skills of yours. Not to mention that super-fab FBI equipment . . .”

  Nina froze in her seat, recalling the conversation she’d had with Regan a few weeks ago. Her heart sank as it all came back to her. Mitch was a special agent with the FBI.

  She gnawed at her fingernails as she listened to Regan repeating the facts she’d shared earlier, and chastised herself for being so stupid. How could she have thought for one moment that Regan wouldn’t be able to trace the case? What would she think of her once she found out the truth? Would she ask for another editor? How could someone like Regan, who’d had such a wonderful and open relationship with her own father, possibly understand Nina’s situation?