The Evil That Was Done (Secrets of Redemption Book 3)

by Michele PW (Pariza Wacek)

  “So. What do I do now?” I asked.

  Daniel shrugged. “Nothing. At the moment. The locks are changed, the alarm system should be installed within a few days, and the technicians are looking at your computer as we speak. We should know more shortly.”

  Great. The waiting game. I was never very good at that.

  But after a good night’s sleep and watching the sun light up the sky, I realized I was feeling a lot better about the situation. With any luck, the technicians would be able to track down whoever was emailing me, which would both exonerate me and put Ellen’s killer behind bars. A win-win. And, with better security, hopefully all of us could sleep better.

  Oscar hopped off the bed and meowed at me. Breakfast time. And coffee. I pulled on a pair of yoga pants and headed out of the room.

  After feeding Oscar and pouring myself a cup of coffee, I pulled my phone out and every one of my good feelings leeched out of me. My mother had left me another text. I had better call her back. It was an hour later in New York. Plus, she had always been an early riser, so she would be up.

  But ... where to go? I didn’t want to call from the kitchen. Mia and Chrissy could come down any minute, and I still hadn’t even told them about my mother’s ultimatum. With everything else going on, the last thing I wanted was for them to overhear my mother say something.

  So the kitchen was out. The backyard? I peered out the window. The only things I could make out in my garden were a couple of rabbits munching on my flowers. Maybe that would work. I could pretend I was looking around the property.

  I slipped on a pair of flip flops and headed out the back door, locking the door behind me. I didn’t want to take any chances.

  “Rebecca, finally.” My mother sounded relieved. “When can we expect you?”

  “Well, that’s what I’m calling about,” I said. “You see, I’m in a bit of a pickle, and I sort of can’t leave.”

  “Oh Rebecca.” My mother’s voice fell. I could hear the disappointment practically drip from her words. “No more games. This is it.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” I said. “There’s a woman here, her name is Ellen, and she went missing about a week ago ...”

  “None of that has any bearing on you,” my mother interrupted, her voice firm. “Either you’re back home by Sunday, or you’re no longer welcome.”

  “But she was found murdered ...”

  “Murdered? Heavens! What sort of town are you living in? You should leave this afternoon!”

  Never mind how many murders there are in New York, I thought, but didn’t voice. It wouldn’t have mattered. “I can’t leave though, because I was the one who found the body.”

  “You what?”

  “I found the body,” I said. “The cops have already told me I can’t leave. Not yet.”

  “How ...? What ...? Where ...?” my mother’s voice sputtered. “I don’t understand. How did this happen?”

  “I ...” This was the part I hadn’t figured out yet. There was no way I was going to explain the full story to her, but how much should I tell? “I thought I was meeting someone, but as it turned out, I was set up. And instead, I ended up finding Ellen’s body.”

  “Who would tell you to meet you where there was a dead body?”

  “Well, that’s what the police are investigating.”

  “But why, Rebecca? Why would you agree to meet someone who could do such a thing? You could have been killed.”

  I closed my eyes. “I was tricked.”

  “You were tricked?”

  “It’s a long story. I really don’t want to get into it on the phone,” I said.

  My mother was silent. “Oh Rebecca,” she sighed. “You’ve never had any sense. Even when you were a child, you were always too trusting. Too easily fooled. I never should have let you spend time with my sister. She took advantage of you.”

  Just like that, I was ten again, and my mother was reprimanding me about my choice of friends, my choice of hobbies. She never approved of anything I wanted to do, from painting to spending time in Redemption. For years, I had tried so hard to win her approval—to have her be proud of me.

  “Do you see now why you can’t stay in Redemption?” she continued. “Because you make poor choices. Clearly, you can’t be trusted. This is why you need to move back here, as soon as possible, so your father and I can help you. This is why I’ve insisted on you coming home. Look what happens when your father and I aren’t there to guide you.”

  I wanted to protest. I could feel the words rising in the back of my throat, hot and bitter. This wasn’t my fault. I was trying to do the right thing, to clear my name. It’s not my fault that someone is stalking me and deliberately setting me up.

  But even as I thought it, I knew I couldn’t say it. She would twist my words so that they proved her point—that I wasn’t competent enough to live my life on my terms.

  The worse part? I was starting to suspect she was right.

  “The cops have told me I can’t leave right now,” I said, changing the subject. “At least not until they finish the investigation.”

  “How long is that supposed to take?”

  “I don’t know. They didn’t say.”

  My mother let out a huge, disapproving sigh. “I guess all we can do is wait then. You promise me you’ll let me know the moment they’ve cleared you and you can leave. I expect you to book the first flight you can out of there the moment this nightmare is concluded.”

  “I’ll let you know,” I said. “I have to go. I’ll keep you posted.”

  I hung up quickly, not wanting to let my mother have the last word. I didn’t want to end up in a position where she forced me to make a promise I wasn’t prepared to keep.

  Admittedly, though, my leaving appeared to be the best option. I mean, even if I were completely exonerated, how could I stay here? Louise obviously wanted me gone, and there was certain to be others who would feel the same way.

  I was facing an uphill battle, trying to carve out a home and business and life in Redemption. Did I really want to do that to myself?

  Still, every time I thought about leaving, I felt a tight, hard lump in my chest. Could I really leave Mia and Daphne? Not to mention Daniel.

  Especially Daniel.

  Well, I didn’t need to make any decisions right that moment. I needed to focus on getting my name cleared and finding out who was behind everything going on.

  I headed back into the house. Once I got some more coffee and breakfast into me, I could maybe start making a few phone calls.

  As quietly as I could, I unlocked the back door and made my way into the kitchen, only to be greeted by Mia, eyes wild, hair a tangled mess, brandishing a knife.

  “What the ... crap ...” Startled, I spilled coffee over myself. “Mia, you scared me. What are you doing with a knife?”

  Mia dropped the knife, put her hand on her chest. “Becca, you scared me! What were you doing outside? I thought you were still asleep.”

  I shook my head and went to the sink to mop off my shirt. “I called my mom. Figured I would do it outside and not bother anyone.”

  “You told your mom what was going on?” She knew my relationship with my mother was strained, but I hadn’t gone into all the details.

  “She’s been texting, so I felt like I had to tell her something. I didn’t say much.” I focused on refilling my coffee as I found I couldn’t look at Mia while sharing that white lie. Well, it wasn’t really a lie, I reasoned. More of an incomplete truth. But, regardless, I still felt slightly sick speaking it. I knew I should tell her I was contemplating moving back to New York, but on the other hand, did I really want to add to the uncertainly and chaos of the moment? There was already a big unknown with the police investigation. Should I really worry her further?

  Somehow, my justifications didn’t make me feel any less si
ck to my stomach.

  “That must have been a tough conversation,” Mia said sympathetically.

  “It was.”

  I finished pouring my coffee and turned to her, trying to hide my shock at her appearance. She looked dreadful. The circles under her eyes were even darker than normal.

  “So, what do you have you planned for today?”

  She groaned, rubbing her eyes. “Work. Of course. But, starting next week, I’ve got more time off. I decided to take your advice and get some rest before the school year started.”

  “Good plan,” I said, sipping my coffee and wondering if I should broach the subject of her appearance. “Did you sleep better last night knowing the locks were changed?”

  “Yes,” she said, but she didn’t meet my eyes, and I got the feeling she was telling her own incomplete truths. “Talking to Daniel helped, too. I’m pretty sure all I’ve been hearing is just normal creaks and groans of the house. No actual footsteps or whispers.”

  Whispers? A line from Mad Martha’s journal popped into my head. The house is whispering to me again. My arm froze midair, coffee halfway to my mouth. “What did you say?” I asked, my throat suddenly dry.

  “That you’re right. I was just hearing normal creaks and groans.”

  “No, I thought you said something about whispers.”

  Mia laughed self-consciously. “Oh, right. Yeah that must have been a dream. The house whispering to me.”

  Slowly, carefully, I lowered my arm and put my coffee on the counter. I didn’t trust myself not to spill it. “What was the house whispering about?” I asked, trying to make a joke about it.

  “Oh, who knows? I don’t really remember,” Mia said, glancing at her phone. “Oh, look at the time. I better go get ready.” She took another swallow of coffee, topped it off, and quickly left the kitchen, careful not to look at me.

  Did I tell her about Mad Martha’s diary? I didn’t think I had, but I couldn’t be sure. I knew I told Daphne about it. Did we ever talk about it in front of Mia? Had Daphne told Mia?

  Someone must have told her, right? She must have heard that line before today.

  Because the alternative was too horrifying.

  Hearing footsteps. Unable to sleep.

  The house is whispering to me again.

  Suddenly, I couldn’t stand it. I needed to find that diary.

  I quickly refilled my coffee and headed up to The Studio. Once I found it, then maybe I could show Mia, and we could have a laugh about it. See, look? Remember this? That’s where those words came from.

  Nothing more sinister than that.

  As I walked up the stairs, I tried to remember the last time I had seen Mad Martha’s diary. I thought I had put it away with Aunt Charlie’s other files, so it should be in the wooden filing cabinet.

  I started there, but a quick search revealed nothing. Next, I went through my painting supplies, but no luck. Had I tucked it away in my desk? I supposed it was possible.

  I got on my hands and knees and started rifling through the drawers. One of the drawers was jammed, and I felt around to determine what was keeping it stuck. Was the diary blocking it somehow? My hand found something small and hard wrenched in there.

  What the heck was that? Carefully, I worked it free, trying not to damage anything in the process.

  Finally, it came out. I turned it over in my hand, trying to make sense of what I was holding.

  It was a cell phone.

  Chapter 18

  I turned the phone over and over in my hands, trying to figure out what it might mean. A growing sense of dread was slowly seeping into the pit of my stomach.

  Why was an old-fashioned flip phone in my desk?

  Whose was it?

  I flipped it open. The call history consisted of only three outgoing calls.

  All to the same number.

  And all in the past few days.

  What was going on?

  With shaky fingers, I reached for my own phone. I needed help.

  I dialed Daniel’s number, silently chanting, “Please pick up, please pick up,” over and over. Luckily, he did.

  “Becca, are you okay?”

  “I found a cell phone,” I said, my lips numb.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A cell phone. I found a cell phone in my desk.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know.” My voice was rising, and I forced myself to take a ragged breath.

  “Could it be Mia’s or Chrissy’s?”

  “I doubt it. It’s a flip phone.”

  “A flip phone,” Daniel mused, half under his breath. “Where did you find it?”

  “In my desk. Wedged way back in one of the drawers.”

  “Could it be Charlie’s?”

  “Doubt it.” I gave a short bark of laugher. “Unless Aunt Charlie is making calls from beyond the grave.” Even funnier was that I could almost picture her, in the kitchen, a cup of tea in one hand and the phone in the other, dialing away. I had to clamp my teeth down to keep myself from bursting into hysterical laughter.

  “Calls?”

  “Yeah, there are three calls made since Saturday,” I said.

  “Can you see the number?” His voice had taken on a suspicious tone.

  “Yes, it’s one number.”

  “Read it, please.”

  I rattled off the digits. There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

  “Becca, you need to call Detective Timmons right now,” he said. “You need to tell him about this.”

  “What? Why? What’s going on? Whose number is it?” I was starting to sound hysterical again, and I fought to get myself under control.

  He paused. “It’s Gwyn’s.”

  “What?”

  “I thought ... Becca, this is really bad.”

  “What am I going to do?”

  “You have to call Detective Timmons. Now. And you probably ought to call a lawyer, as well, if you haven’t already. And think about moving into a hotel temporarily.”

  I closed my eyes, pain stabbing at my temples. Oh no. Not a migraine. Not now. “I am being set up, aren’t I?” I whispered.

  “Becca, I thought ... I thought you were calling because you heard from Detective Timmons. They analyzed the paper those anonymous notes were on that were delivered to Gwyn. The ones that looked like ransom notes.”

  “Yes,” I said, wondering how any of this could possibly get any worse than it already was.

  “It was drawing paper. Like from a sketch pad.”

  Oh God. In my mind, I could see the scrap of torn paper from the sketch pad I had just bought. “So not only am I definitely being set up, but he was in my house.”

  “That’s why you should move to a hotel. Or somewhere else. Just temporarily.”

  He really was in my house. I wanted to scream. This was actual, tangible proof. It couldn’t be explained away like the clicking on a virus theory, or accidentally deleting an email. I was holding actual, physical evidence in my hand that my home—and my privacy—had been violated.

  Suddenly, everything felt filthy and disgusting. What had he touched? What else had he done in my house? All I wanted to do was get a bucket of boiling hot water with soap and bleach and scrub and scrub and scrub. Even then, would I ever feel comfortable again?

  “Becca? Are you listening to me?”

  I opened my eyes, slowly straightening my shoulders. This guy was not going to win. He was not going to chase me out of my own home.

  “I’ll call Detective Timmons,” I said, my voice cool and calm. Maybe eerily so. “I’ll start calling lawyers, too. But I’m not leaving.”

  “Becca! You have to ...”

  “The locks are changed,” I cut in. “The alarm system is coming. He’s not ch
asing me out.”

  “I should stay ...”

  “No,” I said firmly. “I’ve gotten you more involved than I should have already. I’ll be fine.”

  “What about Mia and Chrissy?”

  I stared out the window. A hawk lazily circled the sky. “They can decide for themselves if they want to stay or go,” I said.

  Daniel was silent. “Keep me posted,” he said.

  “I will.”

  “Becca,” he said, as I was about to hang up. “The offer still stands. You call me whenever. If there’s anything that doesn’t feel right, call me and I’ll come. I don’t care what time it is.”

  Tears welled up inside me. I took a deep, unsteady breath, feeling more touched than I could put into words. “Thanks Daniel,” I said softly. “ I appreciate it.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know.”

  I hung up, staring at the flip phone. As much as my fingers itched to start cleaning, it made more sense to call Detective Timmons first. The sooner I called him, the better, right? I would look less guilty than I would if I waited at all.

  I suspected I was fooling myself.

  I had left his card in the kitchen. I picked up both phones and headed down the stairs.

  The ransom notes kept niggling at me. Whoever wrote them had taken the paper from the sketch book I had bought, but where did the magazines come from? I didn’t have any. Maybe he thought the cops would assume I threw them away?

  Somehow, that didn’t feel right. It was too ... sloppy.

  After all, this was a man who had clearly (and painstakingly) thought of every detail, right down to tying the paper directly to me.

  Would he really leave the magazines up to chance?

  Or would he connect those to me, too … maybe by planting them somewhere in my house?

  Unless ...

  Aunt Charlie.

  I had almost forgotten. Along with all the other bags of useless crap my Aunt Charlie had hoarded (and I had thrown out), were old magazines.

  The details started coming back to me—I hadn’t been able to get rid of all of them. There were just too many. So I simply stashed a bunch in the garage, waiting until the next trash day to toss them in.