Smoke and Mirrors

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  I shook my head. “I’m looking for the parents of Evan Hall.”

  “I’m Beth. I was his mum. And you are?”

  Complicated, on a good day.

  I did my best to explain why I was there, without making the story too overwhelming to understand. I stuck to how I knew Caroline and that I’d found Evan’s obituary while going through her things following her death.

  “Caroline was a nice woman, from what I understand,” Beth said. “Evan spoke highly of her. That’s why we asked her to speak at his funeral.”

  “How did Evan know Caroline? Was she his therapist?”

  Beth placed a hand on her hip and stared at me as if trying to decide what to say, making me realize I’d led into my more aggressive questions a bit too soon. I needed to take a step back for a moment.

  To climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.

  Great.

  Now I was quoting Shakespeare.

  “Would you like to come in?” she asked.

  I nodded, switched off the faucet to my mouth, and followed her.

  “Pardon the outside of this place,” she said, “and some of the inside too. I haven’t been able to keep up on things since my husband was injured trying to replace the doors. He was carrying them all himself. Can you believe it?”

  “Sorry to hear he was injured.”

  “This was our son’s house. We own it, though. We’ve been here for a week now, cleaning up and getting it ready to go on the market. We tried coming out sooner, but neither of us had the heart to be here. We still don’t, but every month that passes there’s more work to be done than the month before, so we decided it was time to deal with it before it falls into even more disrepair.”

  As she spoke, tears formed in her eyes. She attempted to laugh and wiped them away, but her suffering was evident.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know I should be stronger. It’s just ... Evan was our son, our only child, and we never thought we’d outlive him. I don’t think parents ever plan on outliving their children. It shouldn’t be that way.”

  It was the kind of moment where most people, whether they were familiar with one another or not, did things like reach out and give the other person a hug. I smiled and patted her on the back, a gesture suitable to my comfort level.

  “I lost someone I care about not long ago,” I said. “She was like a daughter to me. I still think about her every day.”

  “You know my pain, then.”

  “I do.”

  We walked into the living room and sat down. On the mantle was a photo of a man I assumed was Evan. He was sitting on the same couch I was on now, holding a cat. His thick, chestnut-color hair was tucked beneath a hat, but what struck me most were his eyes. They were dark and sad, like he was completely lost in them.

  I pointed to the photo. “Your son was very handsome.”

  She nodded. “We bought him the shirt he’s wearing for his thirty-fourth birthday, which took place a few months before he died. He wore the shirt all the time. Ah well. Can I offer you a snack? I’ve just taken some biscuits out of the oven.”

  Biscuits, I had learned, were cookies.

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  “What about a beverage?”

  “Sure. Can I have a—”

  I was about to ask for water when she winked at me and said, “Vodka or gin? I don’t have a lot here, but I have mixers.”

  When I first arrived, her speech had seemed a bit slurred, which I’d assumed might have been a speech impediment. It seemed I was mistaken. It was the middle of the day, and she was sitting in a home that stirred up painful memories. She didn’t look like someone who took to the bottle on a regular basis, but today, and I expect many other days of late, she had treated herself to some liquid courage to get through it all. If I hadn’t driven and didn’t need to keep my wits about me, I probably would have joined her.

  “I’d just like some water,” I said. “If that’s okay.”

  “Sure it is. Be right back.”

  She shuffled out of the room and returned with one glass full of water and another glass only a quarter of the way full, which looked like water, but probably wasn’t. She handed my glass to me, swallowed half of the contents of hers, and plopped it on the table, staring down at it like she was tempted to polish it off and make another.

  “My son sought help from Caroline for depression,” she said, “which I believe he suffered from because of an issue in his past that he never quite came to terms with, even as an adult.”

  “Can I ask what happened?”

  She nodded. “When he was ten years old, he was climbing a tree with a couple other kids. One of the kids, Randy, had a fear of heights and didn’t want any part of going up the tree like Evan had. But Evan was a charming little fellow at that age, and he convinced Randy to do it anyway. About three-quarters of the way up, Randy panicked and started to cry. Evan slid down and held his hand out to him. Randy reached for it, but before he could take it, he fell out of the tree.”

  “Did Randy survive the fall?”

  “He did, but he would have been better off if he hadn’t. He’s still alive now, but he hit his head so hard when he fell, he has permanent brain damage. Poor thing doesn’t know his left from his right, and Evan never forgave himself for what happened.”

  I crossed one leg over the other, taking in everything she’d just said. “Do you think Evan ended his life because he couldn’t live with the memory of it anymore?”

  She pursed her lips for a moment, then said, “I told you before that Evan was fond of Caroline, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about her myself.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “When he first went to her, he seemed better.”

  “How so?”

  “For the first time in his life, he was letting go of the past, starting to move on, creating a real life for himself. He asked us to help him buy this house. We were thrilled.”

  “What changed?”

  “Caroline’s treatment of him changed. She talked him into doing a few sessions with her where he went back into his past and faced what happened. She said it would help him move forward, but it didn’t. It did just the opposite.”

  “These sessions, did he call it regression therapy?”

  She nodded. “I believe that’s right, yes.”

  “Did he ever tell you how it worked?”

  “He didn’t like talking about the details of what went on, so I don’t know much more than what I’ve just told you.”

  “These meetings ... were they held at her office?”

  “I don’t think so. They were in a house somewhere on the beach.”

  Brad’s house.

  I found it strange that Caroline was hosting private weekend sessions away from the office, and I was starting to wonder if her services with Evan included a lot more than just therapy. Perhaps it wasn’t therapy at all. Perhaps Caroline had started seeing Evan in a personal, romantic way, and they had to meet somewhere in secret. As much as I didn’t want to think it was possible, I didn’t have a better explanation at the moment.

  “Did you think it was odd that your son went somewhere other than Caroline’s office as part of his therapy?” I asked.

  “I did, at first. And I said something to Evan about it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he wasn’t alone. There were others there with him.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know the exact number. He never told me. I don’t think it was a lot. Two or three maybe?”

  A group therapy session. That explained the need to rent a place with five bedrooms.

  “The last session they had was right before Evan’s suicide,” she said. “All I know is he left that weekend in a good mood, but when he came back, it was like all of the time he’d spent in therapy had been for nothing. His depression returned, and it was worse than before. He clammed up and wouldn’t talk to me about it. Wouldn’t say a single word.
He just locked himself up in this house and shut the rest of the world out.”

  “Did he ever mention the names of anyone else in the group?”

  She shook her head. “If he did, it wouldn’t have meant anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “They didn’t go by their real names. Everyone in the group session made up a name for themselves—which I found silly, to be honest. It was what Caroline wanted, apparently. She thought it would protect their privacy in the real world, but this isn’t a big city.”

  “What name did Evan use?”

  “He didn’t feel like making one up, so he went by his middle name, Peter, and then the first time they all got together someone else in the group said he looked more like a Petey than a Peter, and from then on, the name just stuck, and that’s what they called him.”

  The man sat inside his car, listening to it idle and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking about what to do next. It was clear Sloane Monroe wasn’t going to relent, wasn’t going to stop searching until she’d found him. In a way, he admired the tenacity and drive she had to do what she thought was right. It showed integrity and strength of character.

  For this reason, there was merit in sparing her life.

  But she had become involved in something that wasn’t her business, and although she was a private investigator who sought people out for a living, it was something she was paid to do, it seemed to him that she did it for monetary gain and not because she had a personal investment or concern for those affected by what she was doing.

  For this reason, she had to die.

  And die she would.

  He glanced in his rearview mirror. “What do you think, Petey? Should I spare her today and kill her tomorrow or shall I kill her today and be done with it?”

  Petey rolled his eyes.

  “Are you tired of me talking about her?” the man asked. “Is that it? Maybe if I wasn’t always talking to myself these days and you joined in the conversation for once, you could have a say in the topics up for discussion.”

  Petey remained silent, as he always did, staring out the window like he was bored. “When we get home, you should consider changing your shirt this time. You’ve been wearing that tired, worn red shirt for months, even though I’ve repeatedly asked you to change. It’s rude, you know? I try to give you some advice, as your friend, and you don’t seem to care.”

  The man watched Sloane’s car pull out of the driveway of the house Petey lived in. He wondered what she’d talked to his parents about. It seemed he was always wondering when it came to her. An idea crossed his mind. Perhaps if he wanted to know what she knew, he should ask.

  For the first time in days, I felt like I was making a different kind of progress, the kind that was getting me close to the man I was hunting. About ten miles down the road, I discovered I had a travel buddy, a small red car that turned when I turned and really wasn’t hiding the fact he was tagging along, either. It was late afternoon on an open, public road, and one thing was certain: he wanted me to see him.

  What I hadn’t decided was what I was going to do about it.

  Winding my way back down to the city, I spied a place to pull over. It wasn’t the most public location, but it was public enough for now. Right before I pulled to the side, I second-guessed myself, deciding to wait just a little longer and see what became of my tagalong. I kept going.

  I put my phone on speaker and called James.

  “I’m on my way back from visiting with the parents of Evan Hall,” I said, “and someone’s following me.”

  “Who’s following you?” James asked.

  “I’m not sure. Might be our killer. Might be someone else. Whoever it is, he’s not trying to hide the fact that he’s tailing me.”

  “What do you mean? What is he doing?”

  “He speeds up and gets within inches of my car, and then he backs off. A couple minutes go by, and he does the same thing again.”

  “Is he trying to run you off the road?”

  “No, not yet. I think he wants me to pull over.”

  “Where are you?”

  I gave him my location.

  “You’re still at least twenty-five minutes away from the city,” he said. “Do not pull over.”

  “How fast can you get here?”

  “I’ve just dropped Grace at the house to have lunch with my sister. Dad’s with me. He’ll call the police and give them your location. For now, stay on the phone and keep coming down the hill. We’re heading your way now.”

  It was a good plan, but it was also safe. If the killer was in tow, this was my opportunity to face him.

  “I’m pulling over,” I said.

  “What? No!”

  “I’ll keep the call active so you can hear what’s going on. If it’s him, I need to do this.”

  James was yelling into the phone, but his words washed out, like he was speaking to me through a tunnel. My heart was racing too fast to focus on him. I needed to focus on me now ... and on the moment. I pulled the car to the side, and a man pulled alongside me. He put his window down. I shushed James and did the same.

  “Stay in the car,” I said to the man. “If your door opens, or if you make any movement to come near me, I’m gone.”

  I revved my engine to make sure he received the message.

  He nodded. “As you wish, Detective.”

  I lunged for the glove box and opened it.

  “Don’t bother with the gun,” the man said. “It’s no longer loaded.”

  I reached for it anyway. He was right. It was empty.

  For an assumed killer, he certainly didn’t look the part, not that all killers looked the same. They didn’t. But most had similar eyes, wild and hungry, eyes that always looked more dead than alive. His face was hidden, his eyes covered by dark glasses and his head by a dark-gray fedora. He looked clean and polished, like a well-groomed politician about to sway me with a moving speech. He was mid-forties, I guessed, and slender, with dark, short hair. Most of it was tucked under his hat.

  “Have you finished?” he asked.

  “Finished what?” I asked.

  “Critiquing me.” He smiled. “I’ve seen you, and now you’ve seen me. What do you think? Do I fit your mold?”

  “I don’t think anything yet.”

  “Sure you do. You look confused, Detective. Are you wondering why my cookie doesn’t fit into your cutter?”

  “I’m wondering what you want,” I said. “Why were you trying to get me to pull over?”

  “I want to talk, of course.”

  “All right, let’s talk.”

  “And here I was thinking you would have so many questions I might not get a word in.”

  “I do. They can wait.”

  He shook his head. “Ladies first. Go ahead—ask what you will.”

  I decided to go straight for the jugular.

  “Why did you kill Caroline?”

  “You know the answer to that question now, don’t you? She killed Petey. Only some people never actually die, do they? I’ve come to realize they return to us in one form or another. I have to say, I never believed there was life after death until now. I always assumed we all became one with the earth again, dust scattering in the wind after we’re dead. I was wrong.”

  He glanced in his rear-view mirror. I looked around, didn’t see anything.

  “Caroline didn’t kill Petey,” I said. “He committed suicide.”

  “There’s where you’re wrong. She put thoughts into his mind, ideas that made him see himself for who he was instead of who he wished to be. I really believe she thought she was helping him, but she pushed too far, you see. She could have stopped, but she didn’t. She pressed on, doing irreversible damage. It was wrong. Unethical. I told her as much, and all she kept saying was she knew what she was doing, and we all needed to trust her. She pretended like she was trying to help, but the only one she was helping was herself ... to further her own career.”

  “Why do you
think that? What was she doing at the house on the ocean?”

  He raised a brow. “Oh, I see. Now, this is interesting. You haven’t learned everything about her yet, have you?”

  “Tell me what I don’t know.”

  “That would be too easy. It would rob you of the chance to seek it out for yourself. I have no intention of spoiling it for you. You’re so close.”

  “Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?” I asked. “You killed Adelaide, and yet you spared me. You killed Caroline, and yet you spared Tommy. What makes you decide to kill one person and not the other?”

  He frowned. “I made a mistake with you.”

  “By keeping me alive, you mean?”

  “I suppose so, yes. But then again, maybe not. I quite enjoy this conversation.”

  “And Tommy?” I asked.

  “Has the little sparrow started to sing?”

  “He’s confessed to the murder of Hugh, just like you wanted.”

  “Well then, there’s your answer.” His gaze shifted from me to his wrist. “You have four minutes left. Better make the most of it.”

  “Why only four?”

  “I saw your mouth moving before, while you were driving. You were talking to someone. Is he there now, listening to our conversation? What are you worried about? That something might happen to you if you don’t have a lifeline to depend on? Do you fear I’d finish the job and kill you this time? I’m giving you the chance to talk to me before they get here. One chance, that’s all. Don’t blow it. I’ll disappear long before they arrive, and they’ll never find me.”

  “They’ll find you, and if they don’t, I will.”

  “This area has many back roads, and I know all of them. So, what is it you want to know?”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Be smart, Detective.”

  “All right. Where do you work? What do you do? Was Caroline the first person you ever killed?”

  “Next question.”

  “When you stabbed Caroline, you were precise. She died right away. Do you have medical training? Do you work in the medical field?”

  “Rapid-fire questions. I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

  “And yet, so far you’ve been unwilling to answer.”