by Shari Lapena
More consternation in the courtroom. Stephanie tries to read the mood of the jurors, but she can’t tell what they’re thinking as they hang on Erica’s every word, every gesture. She doesn’t know if they believe Erica’s story or not. It sounds so over the top.
“And what happened to that child?”
“I gave him up for adoption at birth. I don’t know where he is.”
“One last question. Did anyone else know about your affair? Can anyone confirm what you’ve told us?”
She shakes her head. “We didn’t tell anyone. I’ve come forward now because I can’t live with this anymore. I owe it to Lindsey to tell the truth. And I want the world to know what he did because I’m afraid for his current wife. I’m afraid he might do it again.”
There is an audible gasp in the courtroom. Of horror? Or of disbelief?
“Thank you, Ms. Voss.”
Stephanie watches anxiously as Lange stands up to cross-examine. He walks slowly toward the witness stand. “Ms. Voss. You say that you and Patrick Kilgour were ‘in love.’ Do you have any proof of that?”
“Well, no. We didn’t tell anyone, and no one saw us, because we had to keep it secret.”
“Right. So we only have your word for it. Do you have any proof of the number of times that the two of you slept together?”
“I had his baby,” she says, a little defiantly.
“You had a baby. We haven’t determined that it was Mr. Kilgour’s, have we?” He waits.
Finally she says, “No. But I know it was his.”
“In any event, a single act of intercourse can result in pregnancy. Do you have any actual proof that the two of you slept together more than once or twice?”
“No.”
“One more thing. Isn’t it true that last August you approached Patrick Kilgour in Aylesford and attempted to blackmail him? Did you not threaten that if he didn’t pay you money, you would tell his wife that you’d had an extramarital affair with him and that he’d deliberately killed his first wife—and when that didn’t work, did you not threaten that you would try to have the investigation into Lindsey Kilgour’s death reopened?”
Stephanie holds her breath.
Erica looks back at the attorney, perfectly calm. “Not at all. Is that what he told you? In fact, I approached him, in Aylesford, to tell him I was going to the authorities in Colorado with the truth. When I told him that, he tried to give me money. Cash. I refused to accept it and told him I couldn’t be bought off.”
Stephanie feels like she’s had the breath sucked out of her. She wants to leap up and yell, “She’s lying!” But she’s paralyzed. She looks at the attorney’s face—he hadn’t anticipated this, clearly, and is doing his best to recover. He’d expected a flat denial. Patrick has gone white.
36
Unable to shake Erica’s story, Lange says he has no further questions. The judge calls a short lunch break, and when they reconvene, it’s Patrick’s turn to take the stand. Counsel to the coroner says, “I call Patrick Kilgour.”
Stephanie can see that he’s nervous. She squeezes his hand encouragingly as he rises, but he doesn’t even look at her. He walks up and takes his place in the witness box as if he’s going to his doom. At least, that’s the way it looks to Stephanie.
Stephanie feels dizzy. She barely slept last night, plagued by insomnia, unaccustomed to being apart from the twins, worried about what would happen today. And she hadn’t been able to get much food down at breakfast. Now she’s feeling light-headed. Erica just perjured herself. Stephanie tries to focus on what’s happening in front of her—it’s so important, but her head is swimming, and the tightness in her chest is becoming unbearable.
Once Patrick is sworn in, Ms. Spellman says to him, “Tell us about the morning of January 10, 2009.”
He has considerable poise, and Stephanie is relieved to see it. “We were going to Grand Junction to visit Lindsey’s mother and sister. Lindsey was eager to go. It had been snowing heavily, so I didn’t want to go, but she insisted. We did have a mild argument about that the night before, but I could see how important it was to her. It had been snowing since Thursday night, and I’d worked from home on Friday for that reason. By Saturday morning, the car was almost buried in snow. I went out to shovel out the car, turned it on to warm it up. She came out and got in the car to wait. I’d told her to wait in the house, but she was so eager to get going.”
“Did you notice that the exhaust pipe was plugged with snow?”
“No. It didn’t even occur to me to look. I didn’t know that it could cause carbon monoxide to build up in the car. I blame myself for that every day.”
Spellman asks, “Did you have an affair with Erica Voss before the death of your wife?”
Patrick takes a breath and says, “I did not have an affair with her. I slept with her exactly twice. Once at her apartment after we’d been drinking—that was the first time. And another time when she asked me to come over to her apartment on my lunch hour to fix something. We wound up in bed together. I ended it after that.”
“So you dispute what Erica Voss has said.”
“I dispute it wholeheartedly. We had casual sex. Twice. That’s it. We were not in love. She never indicated that she had any feelings for me. I loved my wife. I felt that Erica had deliberately seduced me both times. I was twenty-three years old. I’m not proud of cheating on my wife. I put an end to it. Quickly. I didn’t want to jeopardize what I had with Lindsey.”
“So your marriage was a good one?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“You didn’t argue?”
“No. Certainly not much, anyway. We got along well.”
“Did you try to talk to Erica after the death of your wife?”
“No. I’d been avoiding her since the second time in her apartment. I did approach her at the funeral—I tried to speak to everyone, to thank them for coming—but she turned her back on me. I was relieved, frankly. I didn’t want anything to do with her.”
“Did Erica Voss ever threaten you and demand money from you in return for her silence?”
“Yes, on several occasions, in August of this year.”
“Did you ever pay her any money?”
“No.”
“Did you ever offer her any money?”
“No.”
“Thank you.”
Patrick’s own attorney stands and says, “No questions, your honor.”
Stephanie watches her husband leave the witness box. He had conducted himself well. He’d been believable, perhaps even slightly more believable than Erica. But she doesn’t know what the jurors are thinking. He sits down beside her and she clutches his hand and squeezes it fiercely. He squeezes her hand in return.
“Your honor, I call Dr. Karen Soley.”
A heavy woman makes her way to the witness stand and is sworn in.
“State your name, please, and your credentials,” Spellman says.
“My name is Karen Soley. I’m a forensic pathologist with Grant County.”
“And did you perform the autopsy on Lindsey Kilgour?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What were your findings?”
“I found that Lindsey had died of acute carbon monoxide poisoning. The baby had died in utero.”
“Was there anything else of interest in the autopsy?”
“No, not at all.”
Next, Ms. Spellman says, “I’d like to call Dr. Joseph Chang.”
Stephanie feels Patrick start beside her. She glances at him, but he is facing forward. She wonders who this other doctor is. She doesn’t have to wait long to find out.
“Can you state your qualifications?”
“I am an emergency doctor at Saint Brigid Hospital in Denver. “I’ve been there over twelve years now.”
“And in the course of your work, d
id you ever have occasion to see Lindsey Kilgour in the emergency room at Saint Brigid Hospital?”
“Yes. I saw her late on the night”—he consults his notes—“of November 24, 2008. She had fallen down a flight of stairs and wanted the baby checked. She was about six and a half months pregnant at the time.”
“She’d fallen down the stairs?”
“That’s what she said.”
A murmur runs through the audience.
“And did you examine her?”
“Yes. We performed an ultrasound and found that the baby was unharmed. But she—Lindsey—had fresh, extensive bruising along her back, as well as bruising and a contusion on the back of her head, under her hair—injuries consistent with a fall down a flight of stairs.”
“And did you have any suspicions about this fall?”
“She insisted it was an accident. There was no reason—at that time—not to believe her.”
37
Stephanie sinks back into her seat. She tries to breathe through the intensifying pain of a panic attack. She doesn’t want anyone to see that she is in distress. Patrick is staring stoically straight ahead, but she can detect the tension in his clenched jaw. He looks stunned. She knows she shouldn’t, but she dares to turn around and look at Erica. Erica’s face shows shock. She didn’t know about this, Stephanie realizes with a sickening feeling.
What’s going to happen now?
As if in answer to her question, the judge bangs his gavel and says, “I’m calling a short recess. We’ll resume in twenty minutes.”
Stephanie and Patrick hurriedly retreat to a private room, ushered away by Lange, who closes the door behind them. His face is flushed. Stephanie is trying to make sense of what this might mean.
“Sit down,” he directs them.
They both promptly sit. He remains standing, looking down at Patrick, his expression severe. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”
“I don’t like your tone,” Patrick says, looking like he’s spoiling for a fight.
“You have a lot more to worry about right now than my tone,” the attorney replies sharply.
Stephanie watches her husband swallow; her chest is so tight it’s almost unbearable. But they don’t notice the distress she’s in; she’s become so good at hiding it.
“It slipped my mind,” Patrick says sullenly.
“You expect me to believe that?” the attorney says angrily.
Patrick remains stonily silent, refusing to look at his attorney.
“Tell us what happened.”
“She fell down the flight of stairs from the kitchen to the back door. She was tired and missed the top step when she was taking out the garbage.”
Stephanie puts a hand to her mouth, feels the bile rising in her throat. He’s never told any of them about this before. Why was Lindsey taking out the garbage? Why didn’t he take the garbage out for her? She was six and a half months pregnant. Patrick always takes the garbage out for her. Did he simply forget that she had fallen down the stairs and been to the hospital a few weeks before she died? Did he not see how damning that might look? She wonders if he’s lying.
“Where were you?”
“I was in the kitchen.”
“Were you arguing?” Lange asks.
Patrick looks up at his lawyer coldly. “No. I wasn’t anywhere near her. She fell on her own.”
Stephanie looks at Patrick’s attorney. He looks grim, and her heart sinks further. She knows, now, that they’re in trouble. She feels as if she’s floating up, out of her body. She knows tiredness can wreak havoc with her perceptions, and it’s almost a relief, to feel as if she’s floating away, away from what’s going on here in this claustrophobic room in the courthouse. She wonders in a strange, detached way if they argued, if they fought, despite her husband’s denials, and whether he pushed his wife down the stairs. She knows his lawyer is wondering the same thing. Patrick has never been violent with her. Was he violent with his first wife? Is it possible? The moment of silence seems to go on forever, as if they are all poised on the brink of disaster, and no one wants to move forward.
But finally the attorney glances at his watch and says, “You’re going to have to explain.”
Patrick nods.
“And you’re going to have to be convincing.”
* * *
• • •
WHEN PATRICK IS RECALLED to the stand, he rises and walks the short distance across the courtroom floor. He feels as if all his senses are heightened. He reminds himself not to look angry. He must not show how angry he is to be here, defending himself against these accusations, no matter how justified that anger is. It should never have come to this. It’s all because of Erica. How dare she lie about the blackmail? But he must not think about Erica, because she makes him angriest of all. He won’t look at her when he reaches the stand, turns around, and sits facing the people in the crowded courtroom. He will look only at counsel asking him questions. He will keep his voice mild and even, and explain what happened. They will believe him. They must. They believed him before—he could feel it. He could sense in the courtroom, just a short while ago, that the jury was on his side, not Erica’s. But this bit about the bruises has pushed them away from him, he knows it. He knows how it looks. His lawyer is worried, and his wife—he can sense that she has begun to doubt him, and it has unmoored him. This has upset her. He no longer knows what she believes.
He remembers that night. He’d seen Lindsey fall down the stairs, saw the whole thing happen as if in slow motion. He’d been afraid that someone might dig up that hospital visit and try to make something out of it. But he didn’t think they would.
The counsel for the coroner asks, her voice solemn, “Can you explain how your wife got these bruises?”
* * *
• • •
CHERYL TURNS ON the evening news in the kitchen while she’s preparing supper. She hears a reporter start talking about the inquest today in Creemore and turns to look at the television screen. She watches footage of a dark-haired, harassed-looking couple hurrying into the courthouse, and then of a blond woman following in after them. Cheryl’s entire body tenses when she recognizes Erica Voss. What the hell has she got to do with this?
Cheryl turns up the volume and listens to the reporter give the highlights from the inquest. She hears it all. Erica Voss claims that she was having an affair with Patrick Kilgour, whose wife died in that car. She says Kilgour deliberately murdered his wife. She had his child. Cheryl works it out. That child is Devin. And his father is, quite possibly, a murderer.
* * *
• • •
THE EXCRUCIATING INQUEST is over. They have retreated to a nearby Italian restaurant for dinner. They’ve chosen a table at the back, which affords them more privacy.
Patrick had explained the fall down the stairs that night in a calm, convincing way. Lange seemed pleased with how he had handled himself, even patting him briefly on the shoulder when it was all over.
Stephanie orders a glass of white wine and tips almost half of it down her dry throat once it arrives. They now have to wait for the verdict. They’re all nervous. Stephanie is so wrung out that she’s simply glad the ordeal of the inquest is over. She can’t think about what happens next. Lange wants to discuss where things might go from here. She wants to scream.
They order food, but she can hardly eat. Her mind drifts to Jackie and Emmie. She longs to hold them close to her, to smell them, to feel their skin against her face. She wants to be home. They’re flying back first thing tomorrow morning, whether the jury has come to a decision or not, and regardless of the outcome.
She knows what the possibilities are. The jury might find that Lindsey’s death was an accident. This is what they all clearly hope for. But she now thinks it’s about as likely as winning the lottery. Erica was convincing, and there was that worrying fall.
If they don’t return a verdict of accidental death, the current sheriff would likely undertake his own investigation. He might even arrest Patrick immediately. She realizes, lifting her now empty wineglass, that she might be going home alone tomorrow. Would that be such a bad thing?
She feels a sudden lurch in her chest. She can’t believe she’s even thinking that. But that fall down the stairs—and the fact that Patrick had hidden it from them—has changed things for her. She puts the wineglass down. She wants another, but she will resist. She feels like she’s secretly just crossed some kind of line, and she’s horrified at herself.
Of course he didn’t do it.
She loves Patrick, she tells herself. He’s the father of her girls. It’s just hard to feel it in the same way as before, given all the strain they’ve been under. She doesn’t believe for a second that he’s a murderer. That’s impossible. Too bizarre to seriously consider. He’s never shown any tendency toward violence to her at all. Lindsey must have fallen, the way Patrick said. He didn’t push her during an argument. He doesn’t lose his temper easily—she’s never seen it. He’s not greedy, or selfish. He’s not impulsive. He’s kind and patient and generous. All this is Erica’s fault. Erica is a vindictive liar, driven by her own selfish, twisted motives. She’s got no conscience at all. She doesn’t care who she hurts.
It’s quite possible the jury will return a finding of “undetermined.” That the jury will be unable to decide, on the basis of what they’ve heard, whether the death was accidental or intentionally caused. The jury can’t assign blame. It would be up to the sheriff then. He might investigate, he might not. He probably would. Stephanie doesn’t think she can live with this much uncertainty any longer without losing her mind. She needs to be a good mother to her children. She needs this to stop.
