“I’m sorry, Kenzie,” her mother said again, her speech slurring. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
Was her mother sorry that she hadn’t sent Kenzie money when she needed it—or she was sorry for Kenzie’s entire childhood, when Frances was more interested in things she could design in steel and glass than in something she had created from her own flesh and blood.
“Goodbye, Mom.” Kenzie leaned down and kissed her mother on the cheek.
Her mother moved her wheelchair, unblocking Kenzie’s access to her car. “I hope you find peace, Kenzie.”
Her eyes added, For the terrible crime you committed.
Judgment had been passed.
Kenzie’s heart thudded.
Was her mother making the ultimate sacrifice—or simply reinforcing, yet again, that she was morally superior to her daughter in every way?
Rock, paper, scissors.
It didn’t seem to matter which of the three she chose in her life’s match against her mother. Her mother always won.
Kenzie unlocked her car door, her fingers shaking. She reversed the car, careful to leave a wide radius from where her mother watched from the wheelchair.
The wheelchair had become a small black speck in Kenzie’s rearview mirror by the time she reached the road. Her mother, encased within its padded confines, was no longer distinguishable.
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the call screen. It was her brother.
God. She couldn’t face him right now.
But the phone kept buzzing.
He would give her no peace, she realized, until he vented his spleen.
“Yes?”
“It’s Cameron.”
“I know.”
“Do you know what Mom just did?”
Her jaw clenched. “I heard.”
“You heard? You heard?” She could imagine his face, apoplectic and red.
“She told me.”
“She’s protecting you.”
He must know that she would never admit to that.
“She confessed, Cameron.”
“Yeah. To your crime. You filthy murderer.”
“Don’t call me again.”
“She’s prolonging her suffering because of you—” he shouted.
She hung up on him.
But his final words rang in her ears.
She’s prolonging her suffering because of you.
45
“I’m home, Kate,” her client said.
Pain zigzagged in Kate’s temple at the sound of her client’s voice. She had been expecting this phone call. But it didn’t mean she was prepared for it. “Hello, Frances.”
“Why didn’t they arrest me?” Frances asked.
Kate pressed her index finger into her temple. Sometimes pressure helped the throbbing.
But, as she expected, one finger was not going to make a difference in this case. “I suspect you didn’t convince them of your guilt.”
Silence.
“But I am guilty.”
“Tell me again what the police asked you.”
Frances recounted the interview again.
Ethan’s questions had been little traps, designed to catch the unwary in their teeth. He had focused on several key elements: her client’s hair color, the costume worn by Heather Rigby, how many times Frances had shot her, and what Frances had done with the gun.
The hair was a dead end, Kate thought—managing the briefest of smiles at her unintentional pun—because Kenzie had inherited her mother’s hair color. Frances, when her hair was longer, favored wearing her mane of silver-streaked red in a chignon. If a red hair had been found, it would be difficult to prove its owner unless they had DNA.
Which seemed impossible in this case.
On the other hand, there appeared to be a surprising amount of forensic evidence from the pathology results. “How many bullets did you fire, Frances?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, her speech even slower than it had been a day ago. Was it fatigue? Or was she declining again? “One, maybe more. I panicked. I don’t remember.”
Nicely done, Frances. A perfectly plausible hedge.
“And where did you put the gun?”
“I told the police I threw it into the ocean.”
“And is that the truth?”
Calculation weighted the silence on the phone. Kate knew her client debated whether she should answer Kate honestly—or stick with her story.
Kate’s finger pressed harder into her throbbing temple. Too bad it’s not a gun, she thought, because she sensed things were about to get very complicated with Mrs. Sloane.
“If I could prove that I fired the gun,” Frances said after a long pause, “would the police believe me?”
How could they not?
“How could you prove that, Frances? You told the police that the gun is in the ocean.”
“Answer my question, please.”
“I don’t know what holdback evidence the police have. But if you produced the weapon that killed Heather, and it had fingerprints or blood spatter that matched Heather’s—and it could be proven that the bullet was fired from that gun—then I think the police would be hard pressed to discount that evidence.” She paused. Would Frances admit that she had the gun in her possession?
“Thank you, Kate,” Frances said.
And then she hung up.
Why? Why are you protecting her?
If she really killed this girl—and you must believe she did or you wouldn’t have confessed to this crime—she does not deserve to go unpunished.
Frances knew where the gun was—Kate was sure of it.
But the gun was a double-edged sword. If it was still in Frances’ possession, she would put her fingerprints on it—and convince the police that she had fired the gun.
But if Frances didn’t have it in her possession—and it wasn’t hidden somewhere—there could be forensic evidence that could connect someone else to the crime…
Someone like Kenzie.
46
“Nat, I’ve got a scoop for you,” Kate said. She stared out the window of Muriel’s kitchen, watching the elderly lady sprinkle fertilizer on her garden. Alaska and Charlie lay on the back porch.
“Does it have to do with the assisted suicide campaign?”
Kate exhaled. “Frances Sloane just confessed to the murder of Heather Rigby.”
Nat inhaled. “Are you kidding me?”
“No.”
“Can I use this?” The excitement had left Nat’s voice, and now she was every inch the professional.
“Yes. My client instructed me to issue a public statement as soon as her confession was given to the police.”
“So they have it?”
“Yes.”
“Give me all the details, Kate. When, how, what was the murder weapon—” Kate visualized her with a notepad, pen poised to capture all the damning elements.
“I’m sorry, Nat, I’m not permitted to disclose that. All I can say is that Frances Sloane has confessed to the killing of Heather Rigby. Got that?”
“Yes. Okay, I gotta run, Kate. I want this to make the six o’clock news!”
Nat hung up.
Kate closed her eyes.
Alaska whined at the door. She let in the dogs, and gave them each a treat before supper.
What the hell.
* * *
“McN—John. It’s Kenzie.”
She heard the quick intake of breath. She had never called him before. “Where are you?” he demanded.
“The police let me go.”
“I need to see you.” She could hear the need in his voice.
She shivered.
She was running on fumes right now.
She took a deep breath. Time to roll the dice. “I need to see you, too.” She let him absorb the implications of that. “Meet me at the tattoo studio in half an hour. I need to talk to you.” She forced her voice to sound seductive. “It’s about Kate Lange. You are going to like this, I promise.”
47
Kate’s phone rang just as she had begun tackling her billables at the Richardsons’ kitchen table. She had fallen woefully behind on office work. The minutia of this task was ordinarily something she loathed, but right now she welcomed it. “Kate Lange,” she answered, while jotting a note on a file.
“This is Cameron Sloane.”
She stuck the pencil behind her ear. “Yes?”
“My mother just passed away.”
No.
She hadn’t said goodbye.
Tears pricked her eyes.
“I’m sorry.” I’m sorry, Frances. I’m sorry that things ended this way.
“It was a blessing.”
She watched Muriel push a wheelbarrow across the backyard. Would they say that about her eventually? Not yet. I’m not ready for that yet. “Yes. It was.”
“Phyllis found her. She had gone to bed early—the stress of the day was too much for her. When Phyllis came to check on her, she was gone.”
“Thank you for letting me know.”
She hung up the phone and rested her head in her hands.
A complex, talented and haunted woman was dead.
Her suffering was now over.
The assisted suicide campaign had lost its most vocal champion.
And the police had just lost an integral person in the Heather Rigby case.
Kate picked up the phone and dialed a number that her fingers had never forgotten.
“Ethan, it’s Kate.”
“Hi.” At least he doesn’t sound like he’s angry about Frances’ confession. She couldn’t have coped with that.
“I’m calling as counsel. Frances Sloane died this evening.”
“Where? How?” He sounded exhausted.
“At home. In bed. Her caregiver found her.”
“She had excellent timing,” he said. “I’ll send the medical examiner over. Just in case.”
I know. I understand your frustration. “I just wanted to let you know, in case it affects your investigation at all.”
She couldn’t hint more broadly than that.
“Thanks, Kate. I mean that.” He assumed a more neutral tone. “We have just finished drafting a search warrant for her house.”
“I see.” Good. Ethan had seen through Frances’ confession. “I believe the executor of her will is her son, Cameron Sloane. He would be overseeing her real property.”
He paused. “Will I see you later?”
She hesitated. She thought of her conversation with Randall. She had hurt him, she knew that. And he had hurt her.
But she didn’t want to play that game.
She just wanted to live her life. No more waiting. No more regrets. “Call me.”
“As soon as I’m free.”
Kate rubbed her arms.
Frances was dead.
The police were going to search her house. Probably hoping to find the gun.
What a mess for her son to deal with.
She stared at the numbers she had jotted on her billables. Her life, in six-minute increments. Had they been well spent?
She put away her billables and went outside to help Muriel.
* * *
Fatigue crashed into Kenzie in waves. She had been running on adrenaline—and nothing else—for the past twenty-four hours, and she could barely think. She narrowed her eyes until all she could see was the asphalt winding in front of her. She clenched the steering wheel of her car.
You can’t stop yet, Kenzie.
Just a few more hours, and you’ll be home free.
Literally.
The fog had come in from the water. Mist shrouded the roads, the trees.
It reminded her of the night she’d escaped over the peat bogs.
She couldn’t wait to leave this place.
But first she needed to call Kate Lange and get the envelope that her mother had left for her.
Why had her mother put the gun in storage?
Was it another lesson about “consequences”? I protected you from the police, but you are going to have to do the dirty work and dispose of the murder weapon.
Well, she had certainly learned the lesson.
In spades.
And now she would have to use that lesson to ensure that her mother’s confession had not been wasted, and she could get back to Manhattan without being incriminated in murder.
She was so tired.
A sign for a coffee shop caught her eye. She pulled into the parking lot and hurried inside the store. She ordered an extra-large coffee and a Danish. Sugar and caffeine should get her through.
She returned to the car, sipping her coffee, savoring the strong brew on her tongue. It was so good.
She tore a piece of Danish and ate it, thinking of Foo, how his little pink tongue would peek out when she ate something. She desperately wanted to see him. But she needed to get this out of the way. Finn would take care of him.
She licked her fingers of the last bit of Danish and dialed Kate Lange’s number.
God, she hated her. She was so sanctimonious, so sure of herself. Out of all the lawyers in Halifax, why had her mother chosen Kate to represent her?
Hadn’t she realized how much Kate Lange hated her guts?
It was another message: Kate is worthy of my trust—and you aren’t.
Kate picked up the phone on the third ring.
“Is this Kate Lange?” Kenzie tried to infuse some warmth in her voice. “It’s Kenzie Sloane.”
“Yes.” Kate Lange cleared her throat. “I’m sorry about your mother.”
“She wanted to go.” Her voice was tight but she raised her coffee cup to her lips. It was empty.
“What can I do for you, Kenzie?” Kate’s tone was professional. Lawyer to family member. There was no hint that she had ever known her. No hint that she knew about her sister’s tattoo.
Tattooed Page 34
