by Debby Conrad
Brad swore again. His jaw tightened and his face turned red in anger. Beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead. “The bastard raped Hollin, and now he’s murdered Rachel! I’ll kill him. I’ll kill that bastard!” He kicked the metal desk in front of him.
“It wasn’t Griffin,” Hollin said defensively. “And I told you, he wasn’t the one who raped me.”
Sheriff Tyler stood, looming across the desk. “Mr. MacDougal, you need to calm down. I can’t have you walking around town making threats like that.” His nostrils flared. “Do you understand me?”
Brad clenched his fists and glared up at the man. “Yes.”
The sheriff puffed out his chest, showing Brad who was in charge before taking his seat again.
“We’re bringing Wells in for questioning. My deputy should have picked him up by now. And I’m betting this guy isn’t as innocent as you think he is.”
“He only smokes occasionally,” Hollin said in Griffin’s defense. She looked first at the sheriff then at Brad. “It wasn’t him. I know it wasn’t.” She tried to swallow but couldn’t. She felt the screams of frustration at the back of her throat, pushing forward. Weighing the sheriff’s words, she told herself he was only doing his job. But why question Griffin? Why not Randy Swartz?
She began to grow warm and uncomfortable. It was the first she’d noticed the lack of windows in the office, and she needed air. The stifling smell of tobacco and stale fast food was starting to nauseate her. “I can’t breathe,” she managed to choke out, holding her hand to her throat. Slowly, she rose, then walked out of the room.
Sheriff Tyler and Brad both followed.
“Hollin?” Brad’s face was etched with concern as he came to stand beside her.
“There’s a ladies room, down the hall and on your right,” the sheriff said.
Hollin started toward the hall but stopped when she heard the door to the building open. The place grew quiet. She pivoted around and saw a man in uniform leading Griffin to the opposite end of the building. Seeing her, Griffin stopped, too, locking gazes with her. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His eyes said everything.
#
There were no cameras in the corners, and no two-way mirrors, that Griffin could see, anyway. It was just a four-by-four, hot, stuffy, windowless room with gray walls in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint.
Sheriff Tyler and his deputy sat across the scarred wood table from Griffin. Both had their hands folded on the table in front of them. Both wore the same expressions. Poker faces, as if they’d practiced the look in the mirror dozens of times. A tape recorder sat on the table between them, making a tinny sound as the ribbon slowly spun on the reel.
Deputy Heywood, the man who had picked him up at GW Construction looked barely old enough to vote. He was skinny, about five-eight, had curly blond hair and acne. He’d acted uneasy with the task of asking Griffin to come in for questioning and had apologized several times. But now, under the scrutiny of his boss, he behaved quite differently.
“Did anyone see you last night? Anyone who can give you an alibi?” the kid asked sternly.
“No. I already told you that ten minutes ago.”
“Oh, right,” he said and glanced at the sheriff for confirmation.
Sheriff Tyler shot his deputy a look that said “Shut up, and let me do the talking.”
The kid shut up.
“Mr. Wells.” The sheriff unfolded his hands and pushed his chair back a few inches. Deputy Heywood did the same. “You told me last night that you didn’t smoke.”
Griffin didn’t answer.
“I remember seeing a pack of what looked like Camels in your shirt pocket. And Ms. Pierce confirmed that you smoke on occasion.”
Hollin had told the sheriff he smoked. Griffin shrugged. “So? Just because I carry a pack of cigarettes around once in awhile doesn’t make me a murderer.”
“No one said anything about murder.” He turned his head and stared at his deputy.
Heywood looked down at his hands. “Murder” was the exact word the deputy had used, only Griffin had yet to be told who had been murdered. All the man had told him was that it wasn’t Hollin. There was no describing the relief he’d felt hearing that.
“A young woman was found dead this morning. We’re still investigating. Trying to put the pieces together, figure out what happened to her.”
“What does it have to do with me?”
“The woman may have been sexually assaulted. You’re a convicted sex offender.”
Griffin wanted to scream at the label he’d been given. But what good would it do? Apparently the people in this town were not were not going to change their mind about him. Was Hollin having those same doubts now? Is that why she’d told Sheriff Tyler he smoked?
“I found some cigarette butts down by the boathouse. What would happen if I had them checked for DNA? Would I find your saliva on them?”
“Possibly.” He released an exasperated sigh. “Look. I was worried about Hollin last night. I took a drive, and ended up on the other side of the lake. I walked down the path to the boathouse, smoked a cigarette and went home.”
“From the number of butts I saw last night, you were either there longer than you said, or you’ve been there before.”
He wondered about how much he should say, then finally spit it out. “I’ve been there before.”
“Wanna tell me why you’ve been stalking Ms. Pierce?”
“I haven’t been stalking her.”
“Watching her, then?”
“No.” It was none of his damn business why he’d been watching Hollin. Hell, he didn’t even know if he himself understood why. He supposed in the beginning it was when she’d first returned to town. He was still angry, defiant. And he’d watched her, while trying to think of a way to approach her. To make her listen to him. To let her know she’d ruined his life.
Then later, when she’d told him Neil Thorpe had been bothering her, he’d gone down by the boathouse again because it gave him a clear view of the house. He could see if anyone was lurking around, and no one was. At least not on the nights he’d been there.
“What do a few cigarette butts down by the lake have to do with a woman being murdered?”
The sheriff ignored his question, and instead asked one of his own. “How well do you know Rachel Pierce?”
“Not very well.”
“Were the two of you friends?”
“Not exactly.”
“Did you ever . . . have sex with her?”
Oh, shit. Griffin swallowed noisily. It all made perfect sense now. Rachel was dead. “I’d prefer not to answer any more questions without my lawyer present.”
Sheriff Tyler cocked a brow and grinned. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The autopsy had showed that Rachel had been strangled. There were no signs that she’d tried to fight off her attacker. And that was something Hollin simply couldn’t understand.
Had she been too drunk to fight? Asleep at the time? Had Rachel known her attacker? Or was he a stranger?
Did she know she was going to die? And what went through her mind at the time?
Hollin pressed her fingertips to her eye sockets, willing her migraine to disappear. The pain was so intense, just breathing hurt. She’d been numb the past few days, going through the motions like a wind-up doll for the sake of her mother, Chelsea and Josephine. She had to be the strong one. With the exception of Brad, she’d had no one to lean on. She’d called Griffin’s home several times, but only got the answering machine. And although Frannie had promised to relay all Hollin’s messages when she’d tried him at work, he still hadn’t returned any of her calls.
“Hollin?”
Hollin lowered her hands to her lap, looked up and saw her mother’s nurse standing in the doorway of the library. “Yes, Claudia?”
“Your mother . . . she says she’s too ill to attend your sister’s funeral.”
Swallowing back the lump in her throat, Hollin pushed to her feet and swiftly moved past the woman. “We’ll see about that.” She pounded up the stairs and barged into her mother’s room without bothering to knock.
Angela sat in the wingback chair near the window, a blanket draped over her lap and legs. Her eyes were closed, but Hollin could tell she wasn’t sleeping. Her face was streaked with dried tears. It was the first time Hollin had seen her mother without makeup or her hair styled. Even when Angela claimed she wasn’t feeling well, she was always careful with her appearance.
“Mother?”
Angela didn’t acknowledge. It was as if her lifeless body had been propped up in the chair. Perhaps it had been, by Claudia.
“Get up, Mother. Brad will be here soon, and you’re going to the funeral. No excuses.”
Angela still didn’t move.
“Did you hear me?” Hollin asked, raising her voice. She whisked the blanket from her mother’s lap and tossed it on the floor. “You’re going.” She surprised herself, standing up to her mother that way, in spite of the emptiness she felt over losing Rachel.
She saw a tear slip from beneath Angela’s lashed and roll down her cheek.
“My life is over,” Angela said. “I lost your father, then John, and now . . . your sister.” Slowly, she lifted her eyelids but didn’t look at anything in particular. “It’s just a matter of time before you go back to Boston. You’ll take Chelsea, and then I’ll be all alone.”
Was that what this was about? Her mother was worried she was going to leave and take Chelsea away? She could never do that. This was Chelsea’s home. She had enough to deal with without being forced to leave her home, grandmother and Josephine.
“You’re not going to be alone.” Hollin knelt on the floor in front of her mother and rested her head in her lap. Something she hadn’t done since she was a child. “Chelsea and I are staying right here. And don’t forget Josephine. We’re not going to leave you.”
Angela stroked Hollin’s hair and forehead. “Promise me? Promise you’ll never leave me again?”
“I promise.” She stayed, her head resting in Angela’s lap, thinking about the promise she’d just made. She was not about to let her mother wither away into nothing. She’d gotten away with it for far too long. There were times, like now, when you had to do what you had to do. After some time, she looked up at her mother. “I need you, Mom. I need you to be strong for me. I need you to go to the funeral with me. Please?”
Angela started to protest, then nodded her head in agreement. “I’ll go with you.”
Hollin breathed a sigh of relief. Although she knew in her heart the one person she needed the most was not going to be there for her.
#
It had been three days since they’d buried Rachel. A whole week since she’d died, and still Griffin wasn’t returning her calls. Hollin felt the anger fizz and churn inside her. She was hurt because he’d been ignoring her, and she didn’t understand why. Someone had killed her sister. She understood if he didn’t feel comfortable showing up at the funeral, but couldn’t he have shown a little respect by at least calling to say he was sorry?
Hollin was tired of Griffin ignoring her. She was sure he was angry about the sheriff questioning him and she needed to let him know she still believed in him, to tell him that she knew he was not capable of hurting Rachel, or anyone, that way.
They still had no idea who had murdered Rachel or why. Every time she talked to Sheriff Tyler he turned the conversation back around to Griffin, and she was tired of it. To her knowledge he’d yet to question Randy Swartz. It didn’t make sense. And yet, all the sheriff said when she’d asked him why was, “Let me do my job.”
She scribbled a note and left it on the kitchen counter, then grabbed her keys and purse and went out the back door. At shortly after seven it was almost dusk. Angela had retired for the night, and Josephine had taken Chelsea to a movie. They’d be back around nine, and so would she. She wanted to tuck her niece in bed. She’d promised to read her a story--something she’d been doing the past several days.
Backing her car out of the drive, she was forced to stop when she saw the approaching headlights heading toward her. A sheriff’s cruiser. Sheriff Tyler parked in front of the house and got out of the car. Hollin lowered her window when she saw him walking up the drive.
“Going somewhere?”
“Yes.” She thought about making up a story, then decided not to. It wasn’t any of his business where she was going.
“Alone?” he asked, dipping his head, his curious gaze sweeping the interior of her car. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’ll be careful.” To prove a point, she hit the auto lock button and was rewarded with a clicking sound.
He frowned and ran his thumb and forefinger over his mustache. “I wondered if I might speak with you for a few minutes.”
“Have you questioned Randy Swartz yet?”
“Yes.”
Hollin cut the engine and gave him her full attention.
He glanced around as if he was making sure no one was within hearing distance. Which was silly, since no one could possibly hear them. “You were right. Your sister had been seeing Randy off and on for the last several years.”
Something she’d suspected as well. She swallowed thickly. “And?”
“He claimed your sister was the one who always approached him.”
Hollin rolled her eyes. Of course he’d say that. He was married.
“He also claimed things used to get a little rough between them. Says she asked him to tie her up, and such.” He looked embarrassed, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.
Feeling her lips quiver, she fought back an onset of tears. “Go on.”
“Said the last time he saw her was the morning you happened upon them arguing in the parking lot of the Peacock Motel. Swartz said your sister asked him to kill someone.”
Kill someone? Hollin shook her head fiercely. “He’s lying. Rachel would never do such a thing.” She was sure of it. Or was she? she wondered, her mind quickly filling with doubt. There were so many things about her sister she hadn’t known. “Who did he say she wanted him to kill?”
“She didn’t tell him. When he refused and accused her of being crazy she turned on him. Or at least that’s what Swartz is saying. Besides, he has an alibi. His wife says he was home all night the evening your sister was killed.”
“Well, what do you expect her to say? Randy probably threatened her or something.”
The sheriff quirked an eyebrow and lifted one shoulder, like it was a definite possibility.
Hollin rested her head on the steering wheel and blew out a long breath. She was so tired. Drained was more like it. She shivered from the cool night air and lifted her head. “What about Travis Bowman? Have you talked to him yet?” Travis was the skinny man with the tattoo-covered chest and arms who had answered the door of the motel the night she’d been out looking for her sister.
“Yes. He seemed pretty broken up. Cried, even. Said he’d asked Rachel to marry him. Twice, he says.”
“I didn’t see him at the funeral. If he was so broken up--”
“He was out of town. Visiting his mother in Tennessee. Says he had to move her to a nursing home, put her house up for sale, clean it out and all that. Said he just got back today after being gone two weeks, and had no idea Rachel had died. One of my deputies is checking out his story now.” He shifted his weight again and crossed his arms over his big chest. “Neil Thorpe disappeared. Took a leave of absence and isn’t planning on finishing the school year. One of his colleagues said Thorpe had plans to drive out west. He wasn’t in town, either, the night Rachel died. I’m afraid I’ve run out of suspects, which brings me back to Griffin Wells.”
She shook her head in denial. “No. You’re wrong. Don’t you see? I’d know if it was him. I trust him.”
“Uh, huh.” He ran a finger over his mustache and averted his eyes.
“What? What is it, Sheriff?”
“Did he tell you he’d slept with your sister?”
The words hit her like a fist pounding into her heart. She gripped the steering wheel and tried her hardest to pretend she wasn’t dying inside. “Did . . .” she swallowed. “Did Griffin tell you that?”
“Yes. Him and his fancy lawyer from Pittsburgh.”
Hollin didn’t know what to say. How could he have slept with Rachel? And when?
“Hollin, are you okay? You look kinda pale.”
“I’m fine.” With a shaky hand she started the ignition and put the car in reverse. “I have to go.”
She told herself it was all a lie. Griffin had never had sex with Rachel. Rachel would have told her if they’d so much as kissed. She’d never been ashamed of her sex life, that was for sure.
And how in good conscience could Griffin had made love to Hollin if he’d slept with her sister? It was sick. Disgusting.
She felt disgusting. And dirty. How could he have done something so horrible?
Before she realized what she was doing, she’d pulled into Griffin’s driveway, and was banging on his front door. He didn’t answer, but his truck was in the drive, the lights were on, and she heard Buster barking from somewhere inside. She rang the bell several times, then started pounding on the door again.
She was about to give up when she saw Griffin saunter into the hallway and open the door. He held a glass of scotch in his hand, and from his disheveled looks, it wasn’t his first drink tonight.
She didn’t wait to be invited inside. Instead, she elbowed her way past him, and kept going until she reached the den. Buster was lying on the sofa and wagged his tail, excited to see her. But she ignored him. Her pain and anger were too raw, like acid on an open wound.
Griffin came around the corner then, and joined her in the room. Looking guilty, he set his drink on the coffee table. He pressed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and his head and shoulders slumped slightly forward. It was quite possible he was drunk.
“To what do I owe the honor?”
“Did you sleep with her?”
He glanced up. “What?”
