No One Can Know

by Lucy Kerr

  I thought about Rowan and how noisy she was, constantly squeaking and sighing. If Trey was here, wouldn’t he make the same sorts of noises? But the car seat was still outside—he couldn’t have left.

  My search of the bedroom—opening closet doors and peering under beds—had turned up nothing. They couldn’t have run out the back; the cottage wasn’t big enough to sneak out without me spotting them. If Jess and Trey were here, they must be upstairs. I approached the staircase, heart hammering and palms damp.

  “Kate helped you, when you and your brothers were kids, didn’t she? She found you a home, made sure you could stay in contact with them. She was your friend.” I eased up the stairs, the treads creaking underfoot. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to get out, to run, to turn back. “You must have been so devastated when she came into the ER that night, and none of us realized it. I’m so sorry. I’m sure it gave her some peace to know that you were helping Trey into the world. That you were taking care of him.”

  Something hovered at the edge of my mind, gossamer and haunting as the brush of a moth’s wing, but it disappeared under the fear shrieking at me. I forced myself up the stairs, up to the eerie, echoing loft.

  “Jess, we don’t have much time.” My voice faded to nothingness, my mind going blank. My words hadn’t made a difference up to this point; there was no reason to think that was going to change.

  The loft came into view slowly. The air up here carried a thick, unwashed scent, like a house closed up too long in the heat. Jess and Trey must have been cooped up here the entire time they’d been missing. Another step, and I spotted the baby gear Jess had purchased: a box of newborn diapers, and a stack of neatly folded onesies on the nightstand next to the bed. A half-empty bottle and burp cloth were tucked into the seat of a rocking chair. The bed itself was a massive four-poster, the kind you’d need a step stool to get into, and my feet made no noise on the plush carpet as I moved closer. A baby name book lay facedown atop the patchwork quilt. And tucked into the corner, an empty crib.

  I swore under my breath. They’d been here. I’d missed them, and the knowledge tasted bitter and ashen. Noah was going to be furious, I was certain, but it’s not as if I’d scared her off. The house had been empty the moment I stepped inside. Maybe she’d always planned to run, or maybe something had spooked her. Either way, I was about to be in trouble.

  I could hear the sirens, far away but growing louder by the second. Resigned, I sat down on the edge of the bed, paged through the baby name book, noting all the ones Jess had marked. Would she try to forge a birth certificate? Take him out of the country? How was it possible that a girl who’d spent her entire life in the system could disappear so completely?

  A rhythmic thumping joined the sirens. A massive picture window overlooked the lake, and I could see its deep-blue surface churning into whitecaps, signaling the helicopter’s arrival. Might as well face the music, I thought and then stopped short at the sight of a not-quite-closed door in the corner. A closet? A bathroom? Either way, it was the one place I hadn’t checked.

  “Jess?”

  I set the baby name book down and crossed the room on graceless feet, as if some invisible hand was prodding me. I reached for the doorknob, then drew my hand back and gave a gentle push, the noise of the helicopter outside drowned out by the sound of blood rushing in my head.

  Then I stopped, helicopter forgotten at the sight of Jess.

  Or rather, Jess’s body, splayed in the bathtub.

  *

  I’ve lost count of the number of gunshot wounds I’ve seen. GSWs, we call them in the ER, because we see them so often, we need an acronym.

  The thing about a gunshot wound is that you expect it to be a bloody, gaping mess. But unless the bullet is designed to explode upon impact—hollow-point, for example, the kind people call cop-killers—they’re actually small wounds. It’s the damage that they do inside that is so deadly. The damage you can’t see.

  I’ve seen patients where the entry wound is so small, you could fit a pencil snugly inside, but once we’re in surgery, we discover that the patient’s entire chest cavity has been shredded.

  So if you didn’t look at Jess’s stomach, you might mistake her expression for shock, as if she was aghast to find herself lying fully clothed in a bathtub, blood pooling around her.

  But the sky-blue T-shirt she wore was soaked through with blood from neck to hem, the material stiffened and nearly black. Her expression was contorted in pain, not dismay. And the smell, thick and unmistakable, was one I’d encountered in the ER too many times to count. Without thinking, I reached for a pulse, knowing I wouldn’t find one.

  I tucked my hands in my back pockets, mindful of how angry Noah had been the last time I touched a body, and knelt next to her. My mom had been right. Jess had dyed her hair a flat, unremarkable brown, the ends darker where the blood had soaked in.

  She’d taken a single shot in her lower left abdomen. Tear tracks marked her cheeks, salt trails that spoke of her struggle to live. Not that there was a pleasant way to die, but this was one of the cruelest—a slow, painful bleeding out. Hard to fix in surgery. Impossible to save away from a hospital. Bile rose in my throat.

  There was blood on the floor, where she must have fallen before the killer shoved her into the tub, and smeared red handprints on the wall where she’d tried to boost herself out, maybe to call for help.

  More likely to try to get to Trey.

  “Trey?” I gasped, as if he might answer me. There was no sign of him. I checked in cabinets and behind doors, ran to the bedroom to check underneath the bed. Nothing to see but a wide expanse of carpet. I’d already searched downstairs, and there was no other place in the loft to hide a baby.

  Whoever had shot Jess had fled, taking Trey with them. No doubt it was the same person who’d killed Josh Miller. Was the killer their partner, or were Jess and Josh merely pawns?

  The police would be here any moment, and I didn’t doubt they’d lock the cabin down. Quickly, I stood and returned to the small stack of baby gear on the nightstand. Without touching the bottle, I sniffed it—the formula inside was definitely going off. Combined with the sticky, drying blood on Jess’s shirt, I guessed it had been at least half a day since she’d been shot. The killer had left all the baby gear behind, even the diapers and cans of formula I’d spotted downstairs. Why not take them with?

  I returned to the baby book. My fingerprints were already on it, so there was no reason not to. Jess had used a credit card receipt to mark her place, and I peered at it, hoping it would be just that easy to find out who her accomplice—and killer—was.

  Naturally, I was wrong.

  Kate Tibbs had bought the book a month ago. How had Jess gotten hold of it?

  I felt that whisper at the back of my neck again, the touch of ice in my gut. Before I could figure out why, I heard the front door bang open downstairs, the sound of boots on the hardwood and the shouting of cops.

  “I’m up here!” I called. Then I knelt on the floor, put my hands on my head, and waited for the cavalry.

  Twenty-Three

  Noah had one of the deputies to follow me home and ordered me to stay put once I got there. “I’ll deal with you later,” he said as coolly as he’d speak to any criminal.

  I tried not to feel hurt. After all, when I was knee-deep in a crisis, I did the same thing: narrowed my focus to the most acute problems. Anything on the periphery didn’t just fade—it fell away completely. Even so, the dismissal rankled.

  Police swarmed over the building, gathering evidence and processing the scene. As I pulled away, a police cruiser in my rearview mirror, I tried to figure out what would be next.

  Had Jess wanted a child of her own? If that was the case, why wouldn’t she adopt? She knew from experience what the foster care system was like and how adoption could transform a child’s life. With Kate vouching for her, she could have easily been approved.

  I knew what the police and Steven would say: Kate’s dea
th caused Jess to snap. She’d pivoted from grief to greed, wanting to take over Kate’s life, wanting to raise Trey as her own.

  It was a convenient explanation, but it didn’t fit. It relied on coincidence, dismissing the interactions we knew about—Kate and Josh, Steven and Josh, Kate and Jess—in favor of the one we’d never proved: Jess and Josh. The killer was in the middle of it all, the spider at the center of the web, picking off prey one by one. Now he—or she—had Trey.

  By the time I got home, all I wanted was a shower and perhaps a cookie the size of my head. Noah had assigned Travis, the boy deputy, to follow me. Now he rolled down his window as I stumbled toward the house. “Ma’am? Deputy MacLean wanted me to remind you that he expects you to stay here unless he tells you otherwise.”

  I resisted the urge to remind him that Deputy MacLean was not the boss of me. Instead, I raised a hand in acknowledgment and trudged up the front walk.

  Riley came tearing down the steps to greet me. “Company for dinner!” she cried. “Grandma made me to set the table with the good silver.”

  “Fancy,” I said, and she bobbed her head eagerly. “Who’s the company?”

  “Reverend Tim.”

  “Grandma invited a priest to dinner?” I followed in Riley’s wake, my steps leaden.

  “Francesca,” my mother trilled when I walked inside. Her bright expression dimmed as she took me in—bedraggled, bereft, with bloodstains marring my clothes. “What on earth? We have a guest.”

  She nodded meaningfully to the man on the sofa. A platter of her famous artichoke dip and slices of French bread sat on the coffee table, nearly gone. Riley dashed by and scooped up another helping, then ran upstairs.

  “Sorry?” I said, though I was fairly certain I didn’t have anything to apologize for.

  Her lips pursed, she gave a sharp nod. “Reverend Tim, my daughter, Francesca. Francesca, Reverend Tim is the new assistant pastor at the Methodist church.”

  I gave a small wave. Reverend Tim, eyebrows raised at my appearance, returned it.

  “We’ll let you get changed,” Mom said pointedly, “and then we can eat.”

  “Mom …” I was in no mood for a meal. Any appetite I might have had vanished every time I thought of Jess’s blank eyes, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  “Upstairs,” she said in a voice that brooked no argument. Too tired to argue, I made my way to the bathroom and scrubbed up as thoroughly as if I was heading into surgery. Despite multiple rounds of soap and water, I still felt Jess’s blood on my skin.

  Back in my room, I stripped off my clothes and dropped them in the trash, pulled on the first clean pajamas I could find, then crawled in bed. Guest or no guest, I was done.

  “We’re eating soon,” said Riley from somewhere above me.

  “I’m not hungry,” I said into my pillow. “Who is that guy?”

  “Reverend Tim. He works at a church.”

  “I know that,” I said, rolling over to face Riley, who was hanging upside down from her bunk, pigtails dangling. “Why is he here? Is someone’s soul in danger?”

  She shrugged, an impressive feat considering her position. “Grandma invited him. She said you had a lot in common.”

  “Reverend Tim? And me?” Somehow I doubted this. “Like what?”

  “You’re both from Stillwater.”

  “So is everyone else in Stillwater.”

  “He spends a lot of time at the hospital. On the Jerry floor.”

  “Geriatric,” I corrected absently. “It’s not a person, it’s … oh. She’s trying to set us up.”

  Riley bit her lip to keep from grinning.

  “I do not want to be set up.”

  “I didn’t invite him!” she protested.

  “I don’t need a relationship right now. I don’t want a relationship right now. I’m only going to be here for a few months. Does she really think a minister is going to be interested in a no-strings—?” It occurred to me that Riley, who was staring at me, mouth agape, was probably not the best audience for that line of argument. “Never mind. The point is, Riley, a woman should be safe in her home. She should be able to walk in the door after a long, unspeakably awful day and put on pajamas, eat some breakfast for dinner, and go to bed.”

  Riley jumped down with a thud. “This isn’t your home.”

  I blinked at her. “Well, not technically. But—”

  “You said you’re only going to be here for a few months. That’s what you tell everyone.” Her little face darkened. “But if this isn’t your house, then you’re a guest. And guests are polite,” she said, warming to her theme. “Guests have manners.”

  “I didn’t mean …”

  “So if you’re a guest, you should go downstairs and make conversation, like Grandma says.”

  “Riley,” I wheedled. On top of everything else, I hadn’t expected to have to make my case to an eight-year-old. But she wasn’t interested. What had I said to anger her?

  This isn’t your home.

  Realization smacked into me like a two-by-four to the back of the head. “Riley, you know I love being here with you, right?”

  “No, you don’t. Grandma makes you nuts. You miss your cool apartment, and Chicago, and all your friends at your big hospital.”

  “Hey, Grandma makes you nuts sometimes too.”

  She folded her arms and looked away.

  “But you know what?” I continued. “My apartment doesn’t have you. Which makes this place infinitely cooler than Chicago. And I’d much rather hang out with you than with Reverend Tim or anybody at my old hospital.” I tipped my head toward the closet, where the board games were stacked up. “In fact, why don’t we forget dinner? We can stay up here and play Monopoly.”

  “Can’t. Company,” she said and skipped out of the room, pigtails swinging. “And no wearing pajamas.”

  Riley, it seemed, could hold a grudge.

  I switched clothes again, into jeans and a polka-dotted blouse, giving the pajamas on my bed a longing look. “Soon,” I promised and went downstairs.

  *

  “How are you settling into Stillwater?” Reverend Tim said as I passed him the platter of roast chicken.

  “It certainly hasn’t been boring.”

  “Your mother was telling me about your involvement in the Jensen case.” He shook his head. “Tragic, really, how greed can motivate people to do such terrible things.”

  “I don’t think we need to rehash that situation,” my mother cut in smoothly. “Certainly not over dinner.”

  “No shortage of tragedies around here,” I said, ignoring her. I was still rattled from finding Jess, and my fear for Trey had robbed me of my appetite.

  “Kate Tibbs, you mean.” He nodded sadly. “Hard to fathom how someone could harbor such evil in their heart. Certainly, she worked with troubled souls …”

  “Did you know her?”

  “A bit. First Methodist does quite a lot to help social services when we can—a coat drive for the children, a food pantry, other initiatives. Several of our families have fostered children, so we’ve interacted with her. The entire congregation is praying for Baby Trey’s safe return.” He gave a rueful smile. “People are always looking for connection, aren’t they? Tragedies carry greater meaning if there’s even the most tenuous of threads to bind you to them. We can only trust that the poor troubled girl who took him will see the error of her ways.”

  “Jess,” I said hoarsely. “Her name was Jess Chapman.”

  Noah, of course, wouldn’t have said anything. He would have held his cards to his chest, followed the appropriate protocols. But I was tired, and sad, and my own tenuous connection had bound me so tightly to Trey Tibbs that my worry overrode any thought of discretion. “And she’s dead.”

  Twenty-Four

  “Of all the ways to ruin a dinner party, Francesca,” my mother scolded as we washed up from dinner. “We didn’t even get to the pie.”

  “If you would stop trying to set me up, I wouldn’t have
had to ruin your dinner party,” I retorted.

  “New rule,” she said, handing me a baking dish to dry. “No talking about murder at the table.”

  “He was going to hear about it anyway. I’m surprised you didn’t hear it over the scanner.”

  She glanced over at it. “Why on earth would I? They’re so cautious about what they say over the radio these days, it’s hardly worth turning the thing on. Regardless, the Reverend didn’t need to hear you’re involved. How are we supposed to find you someone if you’re constantly getting caught up in these horrible crimes?”

  “I don’t need you to find me someone,” I said, frowning at the scanner. I could have sworn I’d turned it off earlier. “A relationship is not in the cards for me right now. I have work. I have the store. And I have you guys. Isn’t that enough?”

  She softened. “But I’m worried you’ll be alone.”

  “I am never alone,” I said grimly, just as the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” shouted Riley, shooting down the stairs and across the living room.

  “Officer Noah!” she squealed from the other room. “Hi, hi, hi! Daddy has a night class.”

  Matt and Noah had become friends while I’d been away, but I didn’t think this was a social call.

  “Actually, I’m looking for your Aunt Frankie,” Noah said.

  “Ohhhhhh.” Riley drew out the word. “Is she in trouble?”

  “I need to ask her a few questions, that’s all.”

  “She’s in the kitchen.” I heard the screen door open, then shut, and Riley confided, “She has dish duty because she ruined Grandma’s dinner party.”

  “She did?” For a moment, amusement overtook the strain in his voice. “What did she do?”

  “Talked about dead people. Grandma wanted Aunt Frankie to make a good impression on Reverend Tim, and she says talking about dead people during dinner isn’t polite.”

  I shot a glance at my mother, whose shoulders were shaking with laughter.

  “Well …” Noah began.