by Kelty Kells
Still, I can’t help feeling like something’s off between us—and that it’s not the result of me poking around various ongoing investigations. There’s something else bothering him. I can sense it, just like I could back when we split.
I want to ask, but now’s just not the time. Maybe someday I’ll figure it out. Probably not, but maybe.
While Cole keeps Paul occupied, I pick at the finger of my right glove until a tiny hole pops in the blue nitrile. It’s not much, but I should be able to get some sort of reading from the shirt through it. Maybe it won’t be as accurate or detailed as if I had the whole glove off, but it’ll have to do.
I press my fingertip against the soft fabric, doing my best to avoid the brown dried blood spatter. I doubt I’ll be able to get much of anything from that, anyway. Since I can’t read animals or people, blood doesn’t seem a likely source for memory imprints—at least not to my knowledge.
My eyelids flutter closed, and I concentrate on the fabric beneath my fingertip.
It’s soft. Unreasonably so, considering where it’s been stored for the last forty years. Luckily, thanks to how well it was packaged, it doesn’t seem like any insects—specifically moths—have damaged it. That’s a bonus.
The first memory to come back to me is, unsurprisingly, the gunshots.
Three right in a row: BAM! BAM! BAM!
No arguing, no shouting . . . nothing. None of the wind-up to the murder is present in the shirt’s memories. I try to ignore the panicked itch rising in the back of my mind. Without context, I have no idea if Edmund really shot Leon or if Angus was involved.
I press harder, digging deeper and trying to will more memories to flow from the aged fabric.
Heels clacking against a floor. My heart jerks into my throat. The same ones I heard before! I never did make it to Target, but I’d bet my right arm that the heels I’m hearing in the shirt’s memories are the exact same ones the enamel cuffs gave me.
Leon was with whoever wore those cufflinks. Even after all this time, I still don’t know who had them. Edmund wore the gold ones with the diamonds—but does that mean that Leon had the enamel ones? I want to ask Cole, but that question will have to wait for now.
Time seems to expand, then contract as the memory plays out. The clacking shoes fade. Four chimes on a clock. The gunfire echoes again, farther away than it had when I’d picked up the first cufflink.
But, there, at the tail end of the gunfire, I catch something new, something useful.
A voice.
A female voice. Just like the thin, almost inaudible snippet I’d heard before. This time, though, I recognize the voice.
“You shouldn’t have tried to find him.”
My heart skips into my throat, and I yank my hand away, eyes wide and chest heaving.
Paul scowls across the table at me, and Cole leans forward.
“Karen? Are you okay?”
I meet his eyes. “I know who did it. I know who killed Leon.”
Chapter 16
Paul scowls. “What do you mean you know who killed Leon? That case was closed decades ago. We weren’t even born yet.”
I ignore him, standing. “We have to go talk to Millie.”
Cole’s lips pinch into a concerned and confused frown. “Millie?”
“She was there that night.”
“How? Angus would have said something.”
“Not if he didn’t see her,” I reply, shoving the shirt back into the evidence bag. Finally, I round on Paul. “Thank you so, so much for this, Paul. You have no idea how much this helps.”
“Now wait just a darn minute, you can’t just—hey!”
I’m already headed toward the door, my bag over my shoulder, keys to my truck in hand. Millie Fraude knows what happened that night because she was there. She was there, and she was the one who shot both my great grandfather and Cole’s granddad.
It’s time to get the real scoop of what happened that night. No one can give a better explanation than the killer herself.
Before I can even touch the door handle, though, Paul blocks my exit.
“Hey!”
“Hey nothing. You’re going to sit down in that chair and tell me exactly what’s going on.” He glances between the two of us. “Both of you. Explain yourselves. Now.”
I huff, crossing my arms over my stomach. “We don’t have time for this!”
“The case has been closed for forty years!” he barks back, hands curling into fists. Slowly, as if he realizes how loud and aggressive he’s being, he relaxes and backs down. He closes his eyes, exhaling a long breath. Slowly, he raises his hands. “Karen.”
A lump rises in my chest.
Paul almost never calls me by my first name. Ever. He hasn’t since I returned to Mooring Cove two years ago.
I hate that he chooses to do so now.
“I need to know what this is all about. Why did you need to see the evidence from such an old case?”
To his credit, Paul’s trying to keep his voice even and calm. That counts for something, at least.
“I . . .” How do I explain this? The cufflinks I gave you are evidence for this murder, and I needed to prove that my uncle and my grandfather are both innocent? That Millie knows what happened? That she was there that night and shot Leon and Edmund? How is he going to believe any of that?
The simple truth is that he won’t.
And me telling him about my powers . . . me revealing that they’re real?
That can’t happen.
My shoulders sag. “Can’t you just trust me? Please?”
“No. That’s not gonna work this time.” He rests his hands on his hips. “Tell me what’s going on. Both of you. Until you do, you’re not going anywhere.”
Cole sighs and leans back in his chair. “You don’t have any grounds to hold us, you know. We can leave if we want to, legally speaking.”
Whatever kindness Paul must have felt toward Cole snaps away in that instant. His voice is like ice when he speaks. “Maybe I don’t have grounds legally, but trust me, I can get ’em. Now sit down and start explaining.”
I glance over my shoulder at Cole. He’s still in his chair.
“Your call, Karen.”
“Great. Thanks.” Just put this all on me, why don’t you? With a sigh, I shuffle over and set my bag on the table. “Are we being recorded?”
“Yup. Protocol whenever someone wants to look through old evidence.”
“Can you cut the feed?”
Paul shakes his head. “No can do.”
I want to tear my hair out. Really, all I want is to get Millie in here and ask what happened that night. Why did she kill Leon? Was she trying to kill Edmund and she just failed, or did she have another reason for leaving him alive?
To get answers to those questions, though, I’ve got to get Paul off my back.
I open my mouth, close it, frown, and then finally mutter, “Get Millie Fraude down here, and we’ll talk.”
“What’s she have to do with this?” he presses, taking his seat across the table from us.
Cole leans forward, likely just as eager as Paul for whatever explanation I have to offer. After all, I’m the only one who heard her say anything. I’m literally the only strand tying her to that murder.
Suddenly, her tailing me around town feels a lot more sinister.
“Back in the seventies, Leon Vankroft was shot and killed. We can all agree on this,” I say, motioning to the sparse evidence in front of us. The file is just the indicator, the only remaining paper trail of the actual events of that night. “My great grandfather, Edmund, was shot, too, and Angus is supposedly the only one who witnessed it. Right?”
Paul shrugs, frowning as he drags the file over to skim the statement inside. “I’m not exactly familiar with this case, but sure. Let’s say that’s what happened.”
“Well, that’s what everyone thinks happened,” I reply firmly. “Everyone assumed that Edmund shot Leon and then shot himself in a suicide attempt.�
� For now, I leave out the bit about Angus being a suspect. The last thing I want to do is point Paul in his direction. “But! The gun was never recovered.”
“So? We have a witness statement. That was plenty to convict back in the day.”
“Well, not exactly,” Cole replies. “Edmund was never actually convicted, since he was considered unfit for trial.”
I nod. “And the whole thing happened at night, out off the side of the road on the pass. My uncle told us that he was in the car the whole time and didn’t actually see what happened.”
“Says right here he heard the two of them fighting,” Paul replies, poking the statement with his finger. “You saying he lied?”
“No. I’m saying it was too dark to see anything clearly and that he was too far away to hear anything but the gunshots, maybe some shouting, if he was lucky. If I remember right, he says the shots were really fast and consecutive.”
Paul skims the statement again and nods. “Yeah, that’s what he said.”
“But if the gunshots were so quick, how could Edmund have changed the angle to himself so fast? Even if you’re gonna commit suicide, there’s gotta be some hesitation, right? Besides, the coroner’s report says that Leon was only shot twice.” I weed through the few other papers to pull out the ancient report and push it over to Paul. “See? Two shots, right in the chest. And the coroner doesn’t say anything about the angle of the shot that struck Grandpa Edmund.”
“So you think a third party was there? Other than Angus?” Paul’s eyes narrow at the coroner’s report. “And you think it was, what, Millie?”
“I do.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense for Angus to have shot them? He already admitted to being there.”
Oh, heck no. No way am I letting the cops look at Angus for this again. “Not if he was in the car and couldn’t actually see where they were,” I reply quickly.
“Sure, he says he was in the car,” Paul replies. “But—”
“But nothing,” I snap, smacking my palms against the tabletop. “He didn’t do it.”
Cole chews his lower lip. It’s obvious he believes me, but he seems reluctant to speak up. Neither of us want our powers exposed; I get that, and I’m treading on very thin ice by explaining what I have so far, but I refuse to let Angus get pinned for this. Sure, the physical evidence—even his statement—make it sound like he’s the one who pulled the trigger, but I know that’s not what happened.
The problem now is proving it.
“So what makes you think Millie was there, too?”
I rap my knuckles on the tabletop, frustrated. See, that’s why I didn’t want to talk this out. Saying, Oh, it’s just a hunch, isn’t going to win me any gold stars in Paul’s eyes. If anything, that’ll just make Angus look more guilty.
Suddenly, I turn to Cole. “The cufflinks.”
He blinks slowly. “Huh?”
“The cufflinks!” I jump from the table, snapping my fingers. Maybe I sound more than a little crazy, but that’s the only thing that makes any sense. I haven’t been able to figure out who the enamel set belongs to—and it’s because they’re Millie’s. The shots fired next to them were far, far louder than any of the other evidence I’ve read. “Millie must have owned a set!”
“Eh?” Paul’s upper lip twists into a questioning sneer. “What do cufflinks have to do with any of this?”
“Those cufflinks were given to me to help correct this case and put the real murderer behind bars! My great grandfather died with everyone in town convinced that he murdered Leon, but that’s not what happened! He couldn’t say anything because of the brain damage he suffered after being shot! But the cufflinks prove she was there that night!”
“Great. Just a few major problems with that. For one, we have no proof they even belong to her,” Paul quips back, slamming the paper in hand down on the tabletop. “Two, we don’t even know for sure they were at the crime scene. Some rando just gave them to you. You can’t even prove they’re part of this case!”
Cole rubs his hands over his face.
Oh, no.
Suddenly, I realize I’ve cornered him.
To get the cufflinks to me, he had to know where they were in the first place.
And if he says anything, if he admits to finding them and knowing they were at the crime scene, he’s admitting that he’s been spiking my drinks this whole time.
Before he can incriminate himself, I speak up. “Ask Millie to come down here.” I plop back onto my chair and lean forward, desperate to get Paul on my side. “Show her the green and gold cufflinks. Those were hers. They had to have been. Please, Paul. Just do this for me. Please. I haven’t been wrong yet, and I know for a fact I’m not wrong now.”
With a heavy sigh, Paul shakes his head and stands. He points at me. “Wait here.”
“Yeah, absolutely.”
“And you. You stay here, too.” He glares at Cole.
“Sure.” He holds his hands up in surrender.
With that, Paul leaves the room, snapping the door shut tightly behind him.
I all but collapse backward, exhaling a heavy breath. Wow. I have no idea how I managed to get us through that without revealing our powers, but I did it.
I can’t help grinning at that.
Cole shakes his head. “You sure it was her?”
“Yup. I’d recognize her voice literally anywhere.”
“How did the cufflinks come off, then? How’d they wind up left behind?”
I shrug. “A scuffle? That might be some of the noise I heard.” It’s hard to say for sure without actually being there to witness what happened.
The point is, though, I know deep down that Millie L. Fraude is responsible for Leon’s murder and for what happened to my great grandfather.
Now we just need her to admit it.
Chapter 17
About ten minutes later, Paul returns to the room. He doesn’t look happy, and Sheriff Addams is right behind him. If Paul’s annoyed, she’s furious.
“So,” she says, “I hear that you think Ms. Fraude is behind the nineteen seventy-eight Vankroft murder.”
Cole sits upright and nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Those cufflinks I turned over to Paul earlier this week? They came from the crime scene, and one of the sets belongs to her.”
“That’s what Deputy Richards said.” She pulls the chair out across from us and sits down. “Now, I want you to run through all of this one more time for me.”
I bite back an exasperated sigh. I just want Millie down here to tell her side of events—and for me and Cole to watch her so we can see what, if any, link she has to the secret society our families used to be part of. For all we know, she could be like us—and like Shannon. She might have psychic powers.
If she does, we need to know about them. Mostly we need to be able to keep tabs on her and make sure she’s not going to hurt anyone else.
Cole shakes his head. “You need to bring Ms. Fraude in, Sheriff. She’s dangerous.”
Sheriff Addams’s eyes dart to him before settling back on me. “Ms. Fraude isn’t a flight risk. She’s lived in Mooring Cove her entire life, and she has no reason to leave now.”
“Unless she gets wind that we found out what happened that night,” I reply. “Please, just send someone over to keep an eye on her house, at the very least.” My gut twists at the realization that she may have already been tipped off. That woman seems to know things she shouldn’t possibly have any idea about. Worse yet, with her following me around, I’m anxious that she might have figured out why Cole and I are both at the station tonight.
“First, tell me what you know. Then, and only then, will I decide if your information is credible enough for us to bother Ms. Fraude.”
I blow out a frustrated breath and throw my hands in the air. “Fine. Let’s run through this yet again, shall we?”
Sheriff Addams leans forward. “Ms. Peters,” she drawls, “I don’t know if you realize how bad thi
s looks for you. Once again, you’ve gotten involved where you shouldn’t have. I can’t keep ignoring the fact that you not only get your hands on evidence but you keep butting in on cases that don’t have anything to do with you.”
“This time it does, actually,” Cole replies, cutting in before I can speak.
I shoot him a frown. I don’t need him to stick up for me. I’m perfectly capable of defending myself. Well, mostly.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re right. Sheriff, this murder has marred my family’s history for four decades. My great uncle is still traumatized by it.” I’m not lying, either. If anything, this whole ordeal has shown me just how sensitive my uncle is about this whole thing. And why wouldn’t he be? His father was shot, his friend murdered. It’s a lot to take on. “He still carries the burden of what happened that night. I think, on some level, he might blame himself.” I shake my head, trying to clear away the depressing thoughts that drift to the surface. “Leon was murdered that night, and Edmund was injured so severely that he was considered unfit for trial. He died with the entire town convinced that he did such a horrendous thing to someone he thought of as a friend.”
“All the evidence points to his guilt,” she replies softly.
“Only the evidence we see,” I argue. “Millie was there that night. The cufflinks I was given prove that.”
“Do you have any proof at all that the cufflinks belong to her?”
“No, but—but they do.” I’m so frustrated I could scream. How do I prove ownership? She can easily deny having ever seen them before, and we’d be right back at square one. “My . . . my uncle has a bunch of photos from around that time. He might have one of her wearing them.” It’s literally all I can think of, my Hail Mary.
She rubs a hand over her face. “This case was solved forty years ago. A pair of cufflinks—which, by the way, we have no proof of belonging to Ms. Fraude or being at the crime scene—isn’t going to be enough to overturn the existing verdict.”
“No one was actually charged with the murder,” I reply firmly.
Well, not technically, anyway. If I could just find a connection, then this would all be wrapped up in a pretty bow.
