Unstoppable: Truth is Unstoppable (Truth and Love Series)

by Bethany Hensel

  “Go, Derek.”

  He doesn't have to tell me twice. Fear literally makes me run out of the place. I’m certain someone will shoot me in the back, but Captain Pearce must’ve called down or something, because no one harms me. Still, I don’t even stop to pick up my shoes. I run out that front door and don’t stop until I reach my car. And it’s only when I’m speeding down Boulevard of the Allies with all doors locked that I call Sabrina.

  “Well?” I ask.

  I can hear typing. Finally, she chuckles. “You did it, Derek. I'm in.”

  VICTORIA

  I feel a pinch in my eyes as I open them and lashes pull out. My entire face feels puffy. More hay stick to my skin. I grimace as I push myself up. As I do so, my pinky hits against something. I look down.

  Derek's ring.

  DEREK

  We click on the autopsy report first. I skim past the general info like Mr. King's name, social security number, age, and all that stuff. I go down to the end of the page:

  Autopsy Diagnoses and Findings:

  Close range gunshot to the chest. Puncture left lung and hit T-spine.

  I take a breath and go down to the next paragraph: Cause of Death.

  The words all tilt and blend together, but two stick out from the rest as if they were typed in capital, bold letters:

  Blood loss.

  I take a breath and click over to the next file. Evidence. I sit forward in my seat. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

  Handprints matching Victoria Elizabeth King were found on the gun. The gun was found in a 7” long, 5” wide handbag, which was recovered in a dumpster 2.4 meters away from marker 1.

  Sabrina gasps. “Holy shit.”

  I lean back like that stupid air gun just went off on me again. No wonder that Corps captain thinks Victoria did it. It’s damning evidence to be sure, but that doesn’t mean it’s right evidence. A picture is still worth a thousand words.

  Suspect Deposition. I click on it and then turn the volume up on the speakers as a woman's voice begins to play.

  “My name is Lieutenant Opal Hanspree. This is Specialist Maeve McAndrews. You are required to answer all questions verbally and clearly. You are required to wear a heart monitor and lie detector bracelet under questioning. You are required to submit a blood sample, palm print, and retinal scan. You will not be given food or drink until questioning is over and the presence of legal council will not be accepted until all questions have been answered. Do you understand these requirements and regulations as I have read them to you? Miss? I need you to verbally answer the question. You must quit crying. Do you understand these requirements and regulations as I have read them to you? Please speak up.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. Tell us what occurred on Friday, October 8th between 8PM and midnight.”

  The tape plays for five minutes and, the whole time, the only thing I hear is Victoria’s crying. The soldiers with her must deal with this a lot, because they just wait her out.

  “There was someone there. He told me to give him my purse. He told my dad to give him his wallet. And then, we struggled. He grabbed my purse and....”

  She begins to cry, but then she suddenly screams—a piercing, shrill wail, as if someone is ripping off her fingernails or stabbing her through the chest. I shut my eyes and ball my hands into tight fists. I don’t want to imagine what they must have done to her to force that scream, and yet it’s all I can think of.

  “Answer our questions, Miss King, when we ask them.”

  “He,” Victoria is gasping now, “he pulled out a gun. He shot my father. He shot him.”

  “What did the man look like?”

  “Dark hair. Dark skin. Tall.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. He could’ve been in a crowd. My father…someone had been stalking him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “A car drove by our house late at night. A few times. And my dad mentioned that he kept getting threatening phone calls. He said he felt like someone was following him.”

  I take a breath and open my eyes. Sabrina is looking at me. She touches the back of my hand before she focuses on the computer again.

  “Go back to the night of the shooting. What happened once the gun went off?”

  “He ran away. And my dad…he was just lying there. His eyes were shut and…there was so much blood. There was so much blood.”

  “Thank you.”

  The audio goes silent. My stomach churns as I pull up the Corps report next. It's three pages long and broken down into several sections: Victim, Suspect, MO Information, Property, and Narrative. There’s a file called Sample and when I click on it, the letters of the alphabet pop up, all written in Victoria’s handwriting. Her signature is at the bottom. I try to rationalize why they’d want her handwriting on file, but it’s like ramming my head against a wall.

  I close the document and read the Suspect information next. There are two names listed. The first is John Doe and he is described just as Victoria stated. But his name is highlighted in red, as if he has been deleted as a suspect. The second name is Victoria’s.

  She is described in detail, from age, weight, height, whether or not she wears glasses, to whether or not she dyes her hair. My lips thin as I read this, once again thinking how wrong they are and how much time they’re wasting.

  I go down to the Narrative next. It says that at ten minutes after eight, a 911 call came in from a girl about a shooting. The victim was taken to the hospital, where he then died. He was shot with a Sig Sauer 9mm handgun.

  There are two links, one that says 911 Call #1, and one that says 911 Call #2. I click on the first. The operator’s voice comes on and then a click. Hang up. I open the second link. A different operator speaks.

  Operator: 911, what is your emergency?

  Caller: My dad is shot! My dad is shot! He’s bleeding and…he’s not moving!

  Operator: I’ve dispatched an ambulance to your location. Is your father breathing?

  Caller: I don’t know! I—I—I can’t tell.

  Operator: Miss, try to calm down. Tell me what happened. Miss? Miss, I need you to answer me. You’ve got to calm down and answer me.

  A siren blares and I hear loud, urgent voices. The ambulance must have arrived then, because the recording ends. I taste metal in my mouth and my throat starts burning. I rub my eyes and take a steadying, readying breath. I click on the Investigative Statement folders.

  There are several statements here, mostly from people Mr. King worked with. I listen to each one carefully, but it's when the last one comes on that I turn up the volume and rewind it, unable to believe my ears.

  I stand and hurry out the door, Sabrina calling my name.

  VICTORIA

  Jace is back. I'm used to his face and voice.

  My mouth is dry and my tongue sticks to my teeth but I say, “I'm sorry.”

  He looks at me.

  “I'm just...scared.”

  He nods. “Thank you.”

  Jace sets a tray in front of me. Broccoli and two small red potatoes are the only things on it. There are no utensils.

  “Where are you from?”

  He stands and steps to the wall, leans against it. I notice he’s holding a clipboard.

  “Bethel Park.” After a small pause, he continues, “But I moved when I was two with my father to London. The school systems are better there, and my family wanted to take advantage of it.”

  “I thought that was an English accent. I’d never heard one before.” I wipe my nose. I've been coughing all day. “So why'd you come back here?”

  “Necessity.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I was twenty-two.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Do you have family here?”

  “No.”

  “Are you married?”

  His gaze goes to the tray beside me. His sigh is ba
rely audible. I wouldn't even have heard it really, but the subtle rise and fall of his chest tips me off.

  “It's rare,” he says, “that they give you potatoes. You shouldn't waste them.”

  Now that's true. In my short time here, I've only been served peas. I take a potato and eat it like I would an apple. The skin cracks when I bite down. It’s barely lukewarm.

  As I continue eating, Jace walks back to me. He squats down and extends the clipboard to me. I’ve seen them at junk sales and in antique stores, but I’ve never used one. But what’s even more astonishing is what it holds in place: a single sheet of snow-white paper.

  Jace explains: “It’s for your handwriting. So then no one could be accused of forging it.”

  “It?” I ask as I take the clipboard and pen he gives me.

  “We allow you to write one letter, to family, or friends, or anyone you wish. If you should,” he clears his throat, “if you’re given the maximum sentence, a Corps soldier will deliver it upon completion of the ruling.” He stands. “I know you’re about to write something personal, and I wish I could give you privacy, but it’s protocol.”

  A deep, desperate chill rolls through me. “I understand.”

  And I do. The tip of the pen is sharp. It’s a weapon. I may use it to kill myself before the Corps gets the satisfaction. It’d probably hurt less, to just bleed out nice and slow and—

  “Your trial is scheduled. And on the chance you're found guilty, you won't have time to write your letter. You should start writing it now.”

  I smile at his words. My letter? He means my will. My goodbyes.

  DEREK

  I hurry to the door and pound on it without pause until it finally opens. William's face is passive and bored, as if I were some sales guy trying to sell him the latest in vacuum cleaners.

  “Yes?” he says, his voice clearly just humoring me.

  “You won’t help me, I know that. I asked you once and you said no. But why do you have to actively work against me?”

  He sighs and mutters, “This again.”

  “Yes, this again. And this again and again until you tell me why. You're her family. You told me you know her better than anyone. If that’s the case, you should know she would never shoot her father. She’d never hurt him. You know that, William. You know that!”

  William turns and heads inside. I follow. He doesn't face me again until we're in the kitchen. But even then, it's only for a moment. He makes eye contact with me for about three seconds before he busies himself with getting a high-ball glass from the cabinet, and then he walks to the opposite counter to grab a square, ornate bottle of what I assume is whiskey. He downs it in one swallow.

  “What are you here for? To try to persuade me?”

  “No. You’ll never help me; you made that clear. I’m here because I want to know why.”

  “Why what?”

  “Why you don’t believe her. Why you’re so hell-bent on blaming Victoria for her father’s death.”

  William chuckles. He pours another drink and gulps it down fast. He refills the glass instantly. His eyes burn into me, “It’s very simple, actually. I don't believe her because she’s not innocent. She killed my father. And I know it for a fact.”

  The air around us grows sharp. It’s like barbed wire digging all around me. Too many emotions push and pull until I can’t decipher one from the other. Suddenly, I'm thousands of miles off the floor, and all I can do is think about the fall and how much it's going to hurt when I land.

  William must read my face and all the emotion on it. He says, his voice a fine wire, “Oh, don't tell me. Now you're afraid to have this conversation?”

  “How can you possibly know that? You weren’t there. Victoria didn't kill—”

  Surprising me to my core, William winds his arm up like a MLB pitcher and throws the glass against the wall to the left of me. He screams, “Wake up! For God's sake, Derek! Quit being so naïve! Stop saying Victoria didn't kill him because she did!”

  “No,” I yell right back, “there was someone else there. She said he was being stalked and—”

  “And Victoria is such a paragon, right? She'd never tell a lie, especially not one that could get her off the hook for murder.” He scoffs and pushes past me. I follow him and almost slam into him when he turns around. He is inches from my face as he says, “Thirty-seven and a half minutes. Did she tell you that?”

  “What?”

  “That's how long it took for my father to bleed out. Over half an hour from the time he was shot to the moment he died.”

  “She called for help. She tried—”

  “She did nothing!” he yells again. “She just stood there. And even if I do believe there was someone else—which, make no mistake, I don’t—she still did nothing. She let that bastard run past her. You keep saying her father, but he was my father too. And she let him bleed to death! And that's what makes her guilty.”

  “What could she have done? He had a gun!”

  “That's bullshit. The gun was found in her purse.”

  “Yeah, which the guy stole from her. Of course he'd shove the gun in there; it'd be easier to run away with.”

  William steps up to me, his nose close to mine. I can smell the alcohol on him. “Let me tell you something. You’re twisting facts to suit you. You’re purposely choosing to see a different angle. But it’s clear, Derek. There are no shades of gray here. This is black and white at its finest. My father is dead because of Victoria!”

  Breath leaves me. I feel as if I'm staring at a monster. His cheeks are flushed, and his hair is in disarray. I’ve never seen him so undone. I'm disgusted, disturbed. I can't believe the words he's saying.

  “Did that make you feel better?” I ask.

  “I've given up on ever feeling better.”

  I shake my head. “I feel sorry for you.” William scoffs but I continue, “If you knew your sister at all, you'd know how wrong you are. You'd know that she'd kill for her family, not the other way around. I’m going to prove she didn’t do this.”

  “You're on a fool's errand. The Corps investigated, Derek. And say what you want about them, but they’re good at this. If there was something to find, they would have found it.”

  I don’t reply. Anything I say would just shatter on the ground. For a moment, we both just stand there, silent, waiting, letting the words sink in. And that’s when he cants his head and narrows his eyes, as if a light bulb just went off above him.

  “How did you know?” He steps toward me. “How did you know she said someone else was there?”

  I take a breath. A step back.

  “She’s a level five prisoner. No one is allowed to speak to her. So how did you know?”

  My voice is hoarse, weaker than I would’ve liked, when I answer, “I don’t need to explain anything to you.”

  “Derek.”

  “I’m leaving. I don’t owe you anything.” I turn and head toward the door, my movements stiff and jerky, adrenaline making me feel like I’ll burst at any moment. William says my name, but I’m already at the door. Just before I step out, he grabs my arm and whips me around. His face is inches from my own.

  “You don’t know anything.”

  “You’re wrong.” I uncurl his fingers and push his hand away. “I know Victoria.”

  I head into the night with William still calling my name.

  VICTORIA

  Dear William

  My dearest Derek,

  Dear Derek,

  You are the man I always knew

  Everything perfect in my life

  I have no good memories without you in them, from the first time we kissed to that art gallery

  Dear Derek

  Love of my life, Derek Archer

  Derek

  I love you.

  DEREK

  My phone rings on the way back to Lucas’s house. I can’t check the caller ID as there is none, but I know it can only be one of two people.

  I put the phone to my ear an
d his voice flows over me like a salve.

  “I got your message.”

  “Dad. Hey.”

  “This a new number?”

  “For now.”

  “Well, look, I know you said you needed some time, and I’m sorry to call…”

  My heart squeezes painfully at his apologetic tone.

  “…but I thought you would want to know that someone is here to see you. He says his name is Rick.”

  “Rick?” I repeat, my brows furrowing. “I don’t know anyone named Rick.”

  “That’s the name he gave me.” Dad’s voice drops down to a whisper. “To tell you the truth, I’m pretty sure he’s lying. He uh, he looks kind of homeless.”

  My grip tightens on the wheel, something cold races through me. “I’ll be right there.”

  I hang up and step on the gas.

  <><><>

  I recognize him instantly. Cigarette Guy. I throw my car in park and slam the door shut. I storm over to him. “You have two seconds to get out of here before I call the Corps.”

  He scoffs. “Man, I’m here ‘cause I got information. On that girl.”

  “How’d you get this address?”

  He reaches into his back pocket and holds up a small card. My ID card. Somehow during the fight, it must have fallen from my wallet. Probably when I was taking out my cash. Cigarette Guy flicks it at me. It lands by my feet.

  “You gonna listen or what?”

  “Listen to what? That same information you gave me the other night?” I shake my head. “You don’t know anything. Now get out of here.”

  Cigarette Guy clicks his tongue against his teeth. “I know stuff, man. I ain’t lyin’.”