Blame

by Jeff Abbott

  “You will? You said I had to either be in school or here.”

  “Well, I was wrong. I won’t have you in that situation anymore.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” She wasn’t sure if she could believe this new promise.

  “But don’t make that video. It’s a bad idea. At least not now.”

  Jane didn’t say any more.

  “How do breakfast tacos sound? I’ll run over to the Baconery and get us some.”

  “Wonderful,” Jane said.

  Her mother left and Jane went straight to Laurel’s computer. She awoke it and it asked for a password. She slid the hacker flash drive into the port. The windows for the various programs opened. She selected the PasswordCracker; it asked for information such as pet names, anniversaries and birthdays of family members, streets one lived on, and other common denominators of passwords. She entered all that and within two minutes the password was cracked. She went to her mother’s e-mail application. Her mother had a home address; one for the charity; and a couple of others, spares Jane supposed, that she didn’t seem to use much.

  She searched for “Cal.” She found old e-mails, from before and after her dad died, but nothing romantic. Many offers of help and solace from the Halls after Brent’s death. Nothing suspicious. She searched for “Perri”—more of the same. She found a few e-mail exchanges after the crash, pleas that Jane tell what happened, angry e-mails doubting her amnesia, rejections of Laurel’s pleas to publicly forgive Jane. Those were hard to read. And then nothing.

  She went to the charity e-mails, paged through them. Notes to Laurel’s assistant, drafts of e-mails soliciting funds. A note to a bank about an unusual deposit, her mother had to fill out some paperwork. It had been a large overseas donation.

  Jane skipped to the accounts she hadn’t seen before. They looked mostly like spam; perhaps these were the accounts her mom used when shopping online or enrolling in a loyalty program. But there were several from banks overseas, and they recorded deposits and withdrawals. Like the spreadsheets she’d seen in her father’s file she’d taken from Randy Franklin. She even recognized some of the abbreviated names: HFK, Alpha. Those had been entries in the spreadsheets.

  Were the spreadsheets in her father’s file not her dad’s at all but her mother’s? Why?

  She printed out a couple of the bank e-mails, folded them, and tucked them into her jeans pocket.

  She went back to the search window and searched for “Jane.”

  She found two recent e-mail threads. The first was with a private mental hospital just outside Austin. Questions, arrangements, discussions about whether or not it was the proper place for Jane. How the involuntary-commitment process would work, if that was the path she chose to pursue.

  She means to lock you up. Or she did.

  And then the second batch of e-mails, all variations found in a drafts folder. She read them, her heart hammering in her chest:

  As you know I wrote the Blossoming Laurel: Modern Mom blog for many years, being one of the top five parenting blogs for an extended amount of time, generating both substantial advertising revenue and readership. I wrote primarily about the challenges of raising my daughter Jane (while running a successful charity) and then later about the tragic loss of my husband, Brent. I am proposing a new book project, dealing with my daughter’s traumatic accident and resulting amnesia, the crash investigation and how it made us pariahs in our small tight-knit suburban hometown. I especially wish to focus on the way amnesia patients are ignored by our medical system and how my daughter Jane was reduced to living on the streets (against my wishes), my difficult decision to commit her to a mental facility…

  Jane closed her eyes. Her life, her problems, the current disaster, were fodder for her mother’s career, still. And she was writing like the commitment had already happened. Like it was just a chapter. The same way she had treated the rest of Jane’s life. She Internet-searched the intended recipient’s name: it was a top literary agent in New York.

  She went to her mother’s browser and went through the history. Many views of the video of Perri attacking Jane. Searches for names like Brenda Hobson, Shiloh Rooke, Amari Bowman, Randy Franklin…but all from the week before.

  Had her mother been building a list? Jane had never checked if her mother had an alibi for the night when Brenda Hobson’s home burned.

  It couldn’t be. Her mother. But…if those spreadsheets her father had been investigating belonged to her mother…

  She thought of the odd code written in her father’s file: R34D2FT97S. She had written it and the other odd numbers in the file down on a piece of paper in her wallet. She entered the number into the search window for the computer. Nothing. She entered it into a browser search window. Nothing.

  Then she noticed the two entries under the long code. U: and P:, each with their own entry. Username and password? Typical log-in requirements if it was a website. Maybe the long code was a website address. She copied R34D2FT97S into the address line for the browser, added the usual “.com.”

  The browser jumped to a clean black page. A message on the page read, You are not authorized for access from this system. Thank you.

  It was a website, but it couldn’t be accessed. No way here to enter the username and the password. What did that mean? What was it? It wasn’t the kind of website address a person would enter, just looking to see what it was. It made her uneasy.

  She heard her mother enter through the garage door. Jane wiped the browser history, yanked the drive from the port, and put the computer to sleep. The stray bits of the world she knew had been shredded, and she forced a smile to her face as she walked into the kitchen. Her mother unloaded the foil-wrapped tacos.

  “Hungry, darling?”

  “Yes, Mom.” She sounded subservient, but for the moment that was the role to play. She had to figure out a way out, a place to go where her mother couldn’t find her and stick her in a padded room.

  She needed a weapon with which to fight back. A secret to stop her mother cold. And if her mother was Liv Danger…she needed a way to put a stop to this now, before someone else got hurt. She didn’t want to call the police on her own mother.

  They ate and then she went upstairs to text Trevor. She had changed her plans.

  51

  SOMETIMES SMALL TALK stuck in Perri’s mind; such knowledge had been a good way to navigate the social strata of Lakehaven, to remember where someone went to school or whose brother married whom or that someone’s parent worked in an unusual field. She had made small talk a few times with Randy Franklin during the investigation and it seemed a miracle that any of it had stuck in her head during the haze of David’s death—but it had. She remembered once that he’d mentioned he was from La Grange, a town halfway between Austin and Houston on Highway 71, famous for its kolache bakeries—sweet and savory pastries that Czech immigrants had brought to Texas. When driving back from Houston the Halls would often stop at a certain bakery, but Randy insisted that a rival bakery a block down was better. This smallest of details had stuck in her mind.

  She did some Internet searching and found Randy Franklin’s parents still lived in La Grange; his father had been a coach at the high school there. She called the number she found, and Randy Franklin answered with a hesitant yes. She said, “Oh, sorry, wrong number,” and hung up.

  It was about a sixty-five-mile drive. She would go as soon as Cal left. He did not seem the least bit inclined to do so, standing in the kitchen showered but in yesterday’s clothes, sipping coffee. He eyed her over the mug.

  “What’s on your agenda today?”

  “Lots of errands to run. I need to get going.”

  He didn’t take the hint. “Jane posted a video about you.” He held up his phone and thumbed the control.

  Jane, sitting at a desk. “My name is Jane Norton. Recently a video of me being dragged toward a grave has gone viral on the Internet, and many harsh comments are being directed toward Perri Hall, the woman in the video. Please don’t hold t
his against Perri. She is the mother of my dear friend David, who was in a car crash with me and died. David’s grave had been defaced and Mrs. Hall was understandably devastated, as any parent would be. She is a good person who has suffered a terrible tragedy. Put yourself in her shoes. Please don’t post that video anymore, take it down if you’ve shared it or put it up. You are mocking a woman who lost her only child. I don’t want to be a part of that. Thanks for listening.”

  Perri watched it and then turned away. Her eyes and face stung.

  “Wonder why she did it. I guess it gets the original video ever more attention. The press revisits it because she spoke out,” Cal said.

  “Or maybe she just did it out of kindness. Cal, I hate to kick you out, but I need to go.”

  “Um, sure,” he said. “We’ll talk later. I’ll check in with you, make sure you’re all right.”

  “I’ll be fine. That’s not necessary.”

  “I saw a news report this morning. Two people attacked. On social media one of the local news stations says that one of the victims is Matteo Vasquez.”

  She said, “Is he OK?” She betrayed no emotion on her face.

  “They just say they’re in the hospital. A crowbar was left at the scene.”

  “I know you think I’m capable of violence…”

  “You were here last night,” he said. He softened his voice. “I’m sorry for what I said the other night, about everything, you attacking Jane, suggesting that you could be involved. I was upset. I don’t want the divorce. And…I know you couldn’t take a crowbar to two people.”

  “But you thought I could burn down a house with people in it.”

  “Perri…”

  “We are in this together,” she said. “We have been in it together since David died. I know I hurt you with the divorce. I’m sorry you’re hurt. I never wanted that. But us not being married doesn’t mean I don’t care deeply about you or that we’re not still a team when it comes to David’s memory, or to getting through this nightmare.” So tell him about Shiloh. She started to and then stopped. She had watched Shiloh leave after Vasquez, but that didn’t mean he’d followed the man. It wasn’t proof. Still, the police would have to be called. Shiloh could accuse her of being a coconspirator, even though she had known nothing of his plan. Guilt wrenched her. She would be at the station all day. And she would know nothing more about who had started this. If she knew…she could cut a deal with the police, and both Shiloh and whoever was Liv Danger would both be caught. But how long until the police knew Vasquez had talked to her and to Shiloh at her house? If Matteo awoke and could talk, it would be soon. She was running out of time, so she had to act now.

  The words started to form and then failed her.

  “Are you all right?” Cal asked her.

  “Yes,” she managed. “I guess.”

  Cal watched her, concerned, as if he knew she was lying to him. “OK,” he said. “We’re in this together. I’ll talk to you later.”

  He left. Ten minutes later, she headed for Highway 71 East, and drove to La Grange.

  * * *

  Randy Franklin wasn’t happy to see her. He knew who she was the moment he answered the door. “What do you want?”

  “To talk to you.”

  He looked past her. “Why, Mrs. Hall?”

  “Who is it, Randall?” she heard an older woman’s voice call.

  “A former client with a question, Mom.” He stepped out onto the porch.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but this is important, and now your voice mail message says you are shutting down your practice.”

  “The rent’s paid for the next three months. I’ll see then.”

  “Are you waiting out a bad situation?” she asked bluntly.

  “My parents are both ill. I needed to come home to take care of them. Why is this any of your business?”

  “Brent Norton.”

  His mouth thinned.

  “His daughter, Jane, came to see you and the very next day you basically vanish.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Jane told me.”

  “That’s not how it is.”

  “She told me quite a bit late last night on my porch. Like the fact that she came back after you left town. She stole two files from your office—one on my son, one on her father. Here’s the weird thing. She says the file on her dad doesn’t list a client.”

  “The client was anonymous. I was paid in cash.”

  “That would seem to violate some kind of licensing, I would think. An off-the-books job?”

  He said nothing.

  “There have been several people attacked and hurt who were connected to my son’s crash. When you vanished, I thought you were one of them. But you’re just here, hiding, and the attacks have changed. Gotten directly violent. Almost like someone else has done them.” She wanted to see what Randy Franklin would say—he hadn’t been hurt, or damaged, he had just withdrawn from Austin.

  “Are you accusing me?”

  “I don’t know. Who was the client who hired you to follow Brent Norton?”

  “If I told you, there wouldn’t be a point to anonymity, would there?”

  “Did someone come after you? Threaten you?”

  “I’m not having this discussion.”

  “Matteo Vasquez is in the hospital. I assume as a journalist he won’t be scared off by the attack on him; he’ll redouble his efforts, and other journalists are going to close ranks around him and write about this now. I don’t think you just came out here for an extended stay. I can either aim him at you or away from you. Who was the client?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Are you scared, Randy? Did someone threaten you? What Brenda Hobson wanted most was her house. What Shiloh wanted most was his fiancée. Both, lost to them. What matters most to you? Your parents, that they’re safe?” She took a step forward. “If you’re scared of being killed, me knowing the secret means you’re safer. Don’t you see that?”

  Either he was tired of hearing her or she convinced him he couldn’t stay silent. “My client was his wife. Laurel Norton.”

  She had to struggle to keep the smile of triumph off her face. “Why?”

  “She wanted him shadowed. Who he met with, who he spoke to, where he went.”

  “And then he ended up dead.”

  “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “But…his file. Jane told me there were spreadsheets in it. Was he hiding cash?”

  “How did she manage to steal my damn files?”

  “She’s clever. She always has been; it was easy to forget, considering how she was after the wreck,” Perri said.

  Randy Franklin gave a disgruntled sigh. “I took those spreadsheets as insurance.”

  “From his computer?”

  “No, he had printed those spreadsheets out. I copied them and took them from his rented office. But I don’t know where the spreadsheets came from.”

  “Was he cheating?”

  “No, not a sign. But…in her reports about Brent, she did not want any mention of your husband.”

  Perri frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “If I saw Cal and Brent meeting, or having lunch, I was not to report it. She did not want Cal’s name in any reports.”

  How strange. “Why would Laurel ask that?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I can suspect.”

  She made herself say the words. “That there was something going on between her and Cal?”

  “Maybe. And if she filed for divorce against Brent, she didn’t want Cal’s name in the proceedings.”

  “How long did you follow Brent?”

  Now the pause was long and she thought he wasn’t going to answer her. “Until he died.”

  His meaning, so blandly said, took a moment to sink in. “Wait. You followed him to his uncle’s house that day?”

  “Yes. That was my assignment. After I arrived, I was called and told the assignment was canceled and to write my final report.
”

  “Do you think he died by accident?”

  His voice was soft. “No. I think I was not supposed to be there to witness anything.”

  Shock thrummed through Perri’s chest. “Laurel killed him?”

  “Or had him killed. But I had zero proof. Zero.”

  “Did you see any signs he was suicidal or depressed?”

  “I would find it depressing if my wife paid a guy to follow me around. He was up to nothing. No other women, no drugs, nothing illegal. He went to his office—he was starting up a business for tax preparation, I think, a chain of those offices—and then he went home. He went to his daughter’s events at school and sometimes he drove his daughter and her friends around. He went to his uncle’s house because he’d inherited it and had some remodeling done and was getting it ready to put on the market.”

  “And after his accident you didn’t go to the police?”

  “No.” He cleared his throat. “I hadn’t even heard about his death. The next day there was a box, like I’d ordered books online, at my office door. Inside was thirty thousand in cash.” He looked away from her. “The cops didn’t think it was murder. Suicide or accident. So I kept my mouth shut. My parents…they don’t have much retirement savings. So. I stayed quiet.” Shame colored his voice. “This is all going to come out, isn’t it?”

  “And then it was just coincidence my husband and I hired you to investigate the Nortons’ daughter?”

  “Your husband told me he knew I did good work and could be trusted. He didn’t want to say who had recommended me to him.” He bit his lip.

  She kept very still, but her mind raced. “OK. I want you to think. You said you had to purge anything regarding Cal from the reports at the request of Laurel. Did you follow Brent Norton anywhere else? Any other place?”

  “If you want to tell the cops about me, fine. Go ahead. My folks needed the money. They can come after me, not them. They didn’t know. My brother and sister both died young and I’m all they’ve got.” Now his whisper had grown into a growl of defiance.