Secrets We Keep GO PL

by Barbara Freethy

  And what about the other missing girl? Was Cassidy right—that the Faulkners had hurt other children?

  Or was any of this real? Was Cassidy telling him the truth? Was she a trusted narrator of the story?

  She'd already admitted that her social worker thought she was crazy, that her foster mother said she made up people in her head.

  Maybe there was something wrong with her.

  But every instinct he had rebelled against that thought.

  Was that because he really believed in Cassidy, in the girl he thought he knew, or because he just didn't want to have been wrong about her?

  No. He wasn't wrong about her. She wasn't crazy or a killer. She was…

  He wasn't sure exactly who she was, but he did know that she'd grown up to be a beautiful woman. She wasn't as thin as she'd been in high school. Her jeans and T-shirt had clung to some very nice curves. Her blonde hair was longer and lighter now, but she had the same full, pink lips, he'd spent hours kissing, the same dark-brown eyes that had always held shadows even when he'd sometimes teased a laugh out of her. That laugh had never quite erased the haunted look in her eyes. He'd always wanted to protect her, to take care of her, to wrap her in his arms and hug her until she lost the chill, let down her guard, trusted him completely.

  Now, he realized why they'd never gotten to that point. She'd never trusted him—not even a little bit. He wanted to blame her for that. He wanted to still feel the anger that had come with every single thought of her since that day she'd left, but he had more information now, and he was also an adult. He had the perspective of a thirty-year-old man and not a sixteen-year-old kid. He was still pissed off that she hadn't chosen to confide in him, but he could see the extenuating circumstances and the fear that came into her eyes even now when she spoke about the Faulkners.

  As they stopped at a light, he saw her gaze move to the rearview mirror.

  Was she thinking of ditching him?

  He really hoped not. She couldn't run away from this, and it wouldn't look good if she tried. There was no way she had anything to do with Tommy's death, but the police might have different ideas, especially if Mrs. Faulkner threw the blame on to Cassidy. But Cassidy had been Tommy's friend, and he might be called on to attest to that.

  Thinking about Tommy tightened his jaw. He had hated that kid since the day he met him, jealous of his relationship with Cassidy. But now he felt an intense wave of anger and a determined need to help the police find Tommy's killer and get him justice.

  When the light changed, Cassidy moved through the intersection at a normal speed, and his tension eased. She wasn't going to run—at least, not yet.

  His phone buzzed, and he punched the button on his steering wheel to answer the call. His cousin Emma's voice came over the speaker.

  "Hi, Hunter. I just got back from the house on Coleman Avenue."

  His gut tightened. Emma was a fire investigator, and since her husband was now involved in the homicide case, obviously, she was getting into the arson investigation. "Did you learn anything new?"

  "The fire was deliberately set. There were two ignition points—one in the garage, one on the first floor. The materials used were rudimentary—rags and gasoline. He or she didn't leave any clues behind, which is not unusual. As you know, arson cases are very difficult to solve because the evidence goes up in smoke, but in light of your terrible discovery in the garage, my guess is that this was personal in some way."

  "Someone wanted those bones to be found."

  "Or they just wanted that house to burn to the ground. Max said they have a long list of people to interview because of the large number of foster kids who lived there over the past two decades. Hopefully, one of them will provide a lead."

  "Hopefully."

  "Did you find your old girlfriend?"

  "Yes. Max pointed me in the right direction. I'm actually following her to the police station right now."

  "I remember the two of you together. Her name was Cassidy, right? She was a pretty, thin blonde. Although, to be honest, you had a lot of pretty blondes hanging around in high school," Emma said with a teasing note in her voice.

  "Cassidy was…different."

  "Because she left you?"

  "Even before that. She was…I don't know, I can't even describe it. Maybe it was all an illusion."

  "I'm sure it wasn't. Are you okay, Hunter?"

  "I don't know. I didn't sleep at all last night and today has been chaotic."

  "What did Cassidy have to say when you told her about the kid you found?"

  "She was horrified. Tommy had told her to leave without him, and she feels guilty that she did that."

  "Did you believe her reaction?"

  "I did. She's pretty sure her foster parents were involved. She hasn’t told me a lot, but from what she has said, that home is beginning to sound like a house of horrors. I hope the police can get something out of Mrs. Faulkner, but I have a feeling she's going to hide in hysteria as long as she can."

  "She'll talk. Max is very good at his job."

  "I know that. I'm glad he's on the case."

  "Be careful, Hunter."

  "I'm not worried about some evil foster mother, who must be in her sixties or seventies by now."

  "I wasn't talking about Mrs. Faulkner; I was talking about Cassidy. She hurt you once, probably more than anyone in the family realizes."

  "Yes, but I didn't know the whole story then."

  "Are you sure you know it now?"

  "No, but I'm going to find out everything." He cleared his throat. "And I'm not looking to get involved with her again. I just want to know the truth of what happened, and so does Cassidy. That's it."

  "Oh, Hunter, when it comes to a first love, the truth is never all there is."

  Emma was probably right, but he didn't want to admit it. "I'm almost at the station now. We'll talk later."

  "Definitely."

  As he turned in to the parking lot, he thought about Emma's words. Cassidy was his first love, but he wasn't sure he'd ever been hers. She'd said he'd been her escape. Maybe that's all he'd been.

  * * *

  Cassidy parked on the lowest level of an underground parking lot adjacent to the station and took some calming breaths before getting out of her car and joining Hunter by the elevator. They didn't talk on their way up to the lobby level, or as they made their way into the station and waited for the clerk to let the detectives know they were there.

  Despite the lack of communication between them, she was acutely aware of his presence. He'd told her he was a firefighter now, and she wasn't surprised by that, considering half his family was in the firefighting business, but she wondered what else he did, if he was involved with anyone. Her gaze moved toward his hand. He didn't wear a ring, but that might not mean anything. He could be engaged. He could be living with someone.

  She could be, too, as far as he knew. But she wasn't.

  While she had let other men into her life, she'd never found anyone she could trust completely, no one with whom she'd been willing to lay herself bare, so no relationship had gone on long. There had always been a wall that she couldn't let anyone over, and she didn't see that changing soon.

  On the other hand, she hadn't gotten up this morning, expecting Hunter to show up at the nursery. And she'd certainly never imagined the shocking and horrific news that he had delivered. Her heart hurt for Tommy, for the loss of his young life, for the lack of justice in his murder. And that ache was followed by guilt. Unfortunately, she knew better than anyone that changing the past wasn't possible. She'd chosen to save herself that day she'd gotten on the bus; now she would choose to get justice for Tommy, even if it meant putting herself in the hot seat.

  The door opened, and a man came into the room. He had brown hair and green eyes and wore black slacks and a dark-gray shirt. He gave Hunter a friendly smile and a quick handshake before turning to her. "Ms. Morgan? I'm Max Harrison."

  "My cousin Emma's husband," Hunter put in.

>   "Okay," she said, feeling like it was wrong to say nice to meet you in these circumstances.

  "Thanks for coming in. Detective Randall is waiting for us in the conference room. We're working the case together, and we have some questions for you."

  Her gut clenched at the thought of all those questions. "I don't know anything about what happened to Tommy. When I left the Faulkners' house, Tommy was alive."

  "We're still very interested to hear your story. Come with me."

  Following him out of the lobby and down the hall to an interrogation room reminded her of being young, homeless, parentless, terrified… And it took every bit of courage she had not to bolt. Not that she could have run with Hunter's solid body right behind her.

  Max opened a door and waved her into a small room with a table and three empty chairs. An older man sat at the table, a couple of file folders in front of him as well as a yellow pad, upon which he was scribbling some notes.

  He set down his pen and got to his feet as she entered the room.

  "Ms. Morgan," he said. "Appreciate you coming in. Mr. Callaway, will you be accompanying all of our witnesses?"

  "Only this one," Hunter replied.

  She and Hunter took seats across from Detective Randall while Max sat next to the other detective. "Can I ask where Mrs. Faulkner is?" she inquired.

  "She's in the hospital," Max replied.

  "Has she said anything about the murder?"

  "Not yet. She's sedated."

  "That's convenient."

  Detective Randall gave her a sharp look. "You don't like her?"

  "No, I don't."

  "You ran away from her home when you were sixteen, is that correct?" he continued.

  "I did."

  "Why?"

  "Because another girl had disappeared from the house, and I got a bad feeling from Mr. Faulkner. I thought I might be next, so I left."

  "Did anyone physically abuse you while you were in the Faulkners' care?"

  "No." As she answered his question, she felt like she was talking to the social worker again, trying to explain that there was something wrong in that house, even though she couldn't quite put her finger on exactly what it was. "Look, it doesn't matter what happened to me. Tommy's death is what is important."

  "Hunter said that you and Tommy were supposed to have run away together," Max put in.

  "Yes. But Tommy didn't show up, so I went without him. I didn't have any contact with him or with anyone from that life after I left."

  "Who would have wanted Tommy dead?" Max questioned. "Do you have a theory?"

  "Yes. I think it was one of the Faulkners or both of them."

  "Not another kid?" Detective Randall asked.

  She shook her head. "If another kid had killed Tommy, the Faulkners would have called the police, not hidden the body in the walls of the garage. And no one went into that garage. It was Mr. Faulkner's private space. He made it clear it was off-limits."

  "It had to be the foster parents," Hunter agreed. "Cassidy is right. No one else could have hidden the body in the garage without their knowledge."

  "You said a girl disappeared while you were living there. Who was that?" Max asked.

  "Her name was Molly Bennett. But when I reported her missing to my social worker, she said they didn't have a record of anyone by that name being in the house. But she was there. I roomed with her for three weeks."

  "And she just vanished?" Detective Randall asked, clear skepticism in his gaze.

  "Yes. And the Faulkners got rid of her stuff the next day. They told the social worker that I had made her up, that she was my imaginary friend. That wasn't true, but their word was valued more highly than mine."

  Max and the other detective exchanged a quick look.

  "I don’t care if you believe me," she added. "But if you want to find Tommy's killer, you might need to find out what happened to Molly, too."

  "We'll take all the information you can give us," Max assured her. "Let's start with who else lived in the house with you."

  "Besides Molly, there were five other kids in the home while I was there. Jada Washington was a ten-year-old African American girl who was partially deaf. Quan Tran was a fourteen-year-old Vietnamese kid, who had been given up by his adoptive parents, because they thought he had behavioral issues. David Bellerman was a year older than me, and Jeremiah Hunt was a year younger. Rhea Paris was eight or nine. She and Jada shared a room. The four boys were in bunk beds in one bedroom, and for a while it was me and Molly in the other room. The Faulkners had the fourth bedroom upstairs."

  "Who else was around the house?" Max inquired. "Were there other family members who came by? Were there house cleaners, gardeners, who were at the house?"

  "All of the above. Donald's younger brother, Evan, would come by with his son, Colin. Evan was divorced. I don't know where his wife was, but he seemed to have custody of Colin. I remember Colin as a sullen teenager about three years younger than me, who was obsessed with video games. When he was in the house, he was on the computer in the family room. He'd play games until he had to leave."

  Max jotted down notes as she spoke.

  "Did they live nearby?" he asked.

  "No. They lived in San Jose. Evan ran a bar called Harley's. He always smelled like beer. I didn't talk to him much."

  "What about Mrs. Faulkner's sister?" Detective Randall asked. "We've heard she also spent time at the house."

  "Monica would bring her twin girls, Dee and Halsey, over. They were about ten, I think. Monica was friendly enough. She lived in Sacramento, so I only saw her once or twice while I was living there."

  "What about the neighbors?"

  "The Faulkners would sometimes have drinks or a meal with the Graysons, who lived next door, but they always went over there. They never entertained at our house."

  "All right. Tell us more about this Molly," Detective Randall said.

  "She came in early April, and she was gone by the end of the month. She had black hair and dark eyes; she was part Native American. She didn’t know who her dad was. She said her mother was an addict, and every time she went into rehab, Molly would stay with her grandmother, but her grandma had gotten sick, so she was with us. She was two years younger than me. She was very sweet."

  "And you don't believe she ran away?" Max asked.

  "No, I think the Faulkners did something to her." She paused. "Hunter told me you didn't find any other bodies."

  "No, we didn't."

  "But that doesn't mean they didn't hurt her. Why cover up her very existence for a runaway or a kid who was transferred to another home? It never made sense to me," she said.

  "We need to look into that," Max said.

  "Why didn't the other kids back up your story?" Detective Randall asked.

  "That's another mystery to me. I can only assume that they were threatened by the Faulkners, and that's why they kept silent."

  "That includes your friend, Tommy?" Max asked.

  "He told the Faulkners that he'd seen Molly with his own eyes, but they just laughed at him. He wanted to talk to the social worker, but we were afraid they would split us up if we continued to make trouble. Tommy had been a foster kid his whole life. He knew the drill—even better than I did." She took a breath. "I have to believe that Tommy must have found out something about Molly or threatened the Faulkners in some way."

  "What happened the day you left?" Max asked.

  "I left the house around ten in the morning. Tommy wasn't there. He'd gone to play basketball with some kids at the park, like he did every Saturday, so it wouldn't look like we were leaving together. Our plan was to meet up at noon. I told Mrs. Faulkner a friend was going to do my hair for the prom, and I'd be back in time to go to lunch with Mr. Faulkner at one."

  "Lunch?" Max interrupted. "You were going to lunch with Mr. Faulkner?"

  She nodded. "Yes. It was that very odd invitation that made me realize I had to leave. The Faulkners were angry with me for stirring up questions about Molly
and suddenly Mr. Faulkner wanted to take me out of the house alone. That had never happened before. I was terrified. Anyway, I went to Golden Gate Park until it was time to meet Tommy. I was at the bus station when I got a text from Tommy that he wasn't coming, that it would be better for us to leave separately, that we wouldn't be as easy to track down. When the bus came, I got on it alone, and that's it. That's all I know. Can we stop now?" She was feeling sick to her stomach, just thinking about what had happened to Tommy after he'd sent her that text.

  Max and the detective exchanged another look and then Max said, "That should be enough for now, but we might have more questions as we move forward."

  "I'm happy to tell you what I know; I just don't know much. Geralyn is probably the one who has all the answers, but I don't think she'll tell you the truth. She'll lie or plead ignorance or try to blame it on someone else. But she has to know. The body was found in her house. How could she not know?"

  "We will talk to Mrs. Faulkner," Max promised. "We'll also talk to the other kids, the relatives and the neighbors."

  "I want justice for Tommy."

  "So do we. I'll walk you out."

  Max escorted them through the lobby, pausing by the front door. "Thanks for coming in."

  "I hope I helped," she said.

  "What about the fire?" Hunter asked. "I talked to Emma. She said it was arson."

  "Emma is working the arson; I'm working the homicide. We have one current case and one very cold case."

  "Do you think the two are connected?" she asked.

  "It seems likely, but I don't know yet."

  As they stepped outside, she shivered, realizing the clouds had gotten darker, and the wind had picked up. The storm was getting closer. She glanced at Hunter as they walked toward the parking garage. He'd been silent during the interview, and while she'd appreciated not having to deal with his anger in front of the detectives, she was curious about what he was thinking.