by Dea Poirier
He moves out of the way, opening the door for me. As I walk inside, Aidan glances at me, the same cold, vacant look from our previous meeting hovering in his eyes. Tubes snake from his chest and arms toward poles on either side. His arms and legs are strapped to the bed. When I look at him, it’s not just him I see; it’s the ripples of what he’s done, the people he’s hurt, the lives he’s destroyed. I know well that grief is a weight that will hang on your shoulders for the rest of your life. How much has he doomed others to carry?
I take a seat in the stiff chair beside his bed, and Zane hovers near the door, his arms crossed over his broad chest.
“Could I have some water?” he asks, eyeing a cup of water sitting on a tray next to his bed. Because of his position and his arms being strapped down, he can’t reach it. I nudge the tray closer so he can sip from the straw.
“Just so you’re aware, everything you say here today is being recorded. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” I explain as I turn on the recording app on my phone.
“I can have a lawyer, yeah, yeah. I know the spiel,” he says, his voice so flippant I half expect him to roll his eyes.
“Are you asking for a lawyer?” I ask to verify. I don’t want him to be able to argue in court that he mentioned a lawyer.
He shakes his head. “No, not yet.”
I should breathe a sigh of relief, but I’m not wasting my time. “All right, Aidan, where were you the night of February twenty-first?”
“Where do you think I was?”
I’m not going to play these games with him. “Why don’t you tell me where you were, and we’ll see if it matches what I think.”
He shifts on the bed, trying to sit up further, but his restraints don’t allow for the movement. “And what if I told you I wasn’t at home and I was really at a motel?” His eyes flicker in a way that sets me on edge.
“Then we’d need to have a discussion about why you were there,” I say. Normally I’d just dive right in if a suspect said something like this to me. But I can tell by Aidan’s demeanor that he’s not going to give me the information I need—not yet.
He fidgets, staring at his lap. When he doesn’t say anything else, I ask, “Where were you, Aidan?”
For a few moments, he’s silent, so I press again. “Where were you the night of February twenty-fifth?”
Again, my question is met only with silence. I open the folder in front of me, glancing at the pictures on top.
“Aidan, have you ever been to Maryville, Tennessee?”
He finally looks back at me and raises an eyebrow. “I have,” he says after a long moment, a glimmer in his eye.
Zane glances at the folder, and I can tell that he’s got questions, but it’s not like he can ask them with Aidan sitting right here. I pull out several of the pictures from the folder and place them on the table facing Aidan, next to his cup.
“Have you seen any of these women before?” I ask, tapping them.
He holds his hands out as if asking for the pictures. I pass him the first, and he appraises it before licking his lips. But he says nothing. The corner of his mouth quirks up as he glances at the images, if only slightly.
“Aidan, if there’s anything to tell, now’s the time.”
He takes a long, slow sip of his water. “Did you know that my wife is cheating on me? That she got pregnant by another man?” Though he directs the question to me, it’s clear it’s not really a question. “It’s been going on for six months. It’s not the first time. She’s done it a few times before. Every time she swears it means nothing, that it’ll never happen again. But then there she goes . . . it doesn’t matter what I offer, what I do for her; she always strays.”
“And how did that make you feel?” I ask, and suddenly I’m reminded of the therapists I spoke to after Rachel died.
“Angry. Very angry,” he says, his fists clenching.
“Angry enough that you had to do something about it?”
His jaw tightens, the muscles on the sides flexing. “Yes,” he says so softly I almost miss it.
“How angry?” I ask.
“As angry as a man can get.” He glances at the pictures again. “And my wife in Tennessee did the same thing to me. The cheating bitches got what they deserved.”
Though I wait for him to continue, he falls silent. His eyes are far off, as if he’s lost in thought. Finally, I decide that I’ll need to say something to urge him on.
“Aidan, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what happened.”
“As if there’s anything you can do to help me now.” He lets out a low laugh that’s as cold as the frigid winds outside.
“There may not be anything I can do, personally. But if you tell me what happened and why, the DA might take that into consideration during your trial.” I don’t specify how he can be helped, because at the end of the day, none of that is up to me. And honestly, I don’t give a shit about helping him. I just want closure for the families he’s destroyed. I hope they lock him up and he never sees the light of day again.
“I killed them all. Is that what you want to hear?” He practically hisses the words. The edges of his lips quirk with amusement.
“If that’s what you did, then yes. I want to know who you killed and when.”
He sighs and twists his hand so that the tubes snaking from his arm bulge against the tape strapping them in place. “I took my first life in 1998. My wife pushed me to my breaking point when she started cheating on me. I decided I was going to pick up a woman and do exactly what my wife had done. This woman was so beautiful but so much like my wife. I fucked her in the back of my car in Sandy Springs Park. But as she threw her head back, I looked at her long, slender neck. I don’t remember how, but my fingers ended up around her throat. The next thing I knew, she was dead. I panicked—it wasn’t what I meant to do. It just . . .” He stares off toward the wall for a minute, a glazed look in his eyes. “It just happened. I didn’t know what to do, so I dumped her body in the woods. The way my heart raced as I drove away, I’ve never felt anything like that. That body, as far as I know, they never found her.”
“What was her name?” I ask.
“I didn’t ask her name. It didn’t matter what it was. In my mind, she was Elizabeth. They all were. All ten of them in Maryville, Tennessee.” The more he talks, the more his southern twang leaches into his words, as if he’s usually far more careful with his speech than he’s being right now.
“Did you know any of their names?”
He shakes his head. “No, their names didn’t matter. After Maryville, once Elizabeth was out of the picture, I moved to Daytona Beach,” he says, fiddling with the edge of his sheet.
“What year was that?” Zane asks.
McConnel looks at the ceiling, lost in thought. “2005, I think. The older you get, the more the years blur together.”
“And how many women did you kill there?” I ask, trying not to rush my words. My heart pounds as I wait for him to respond. Now that he’s opened up, I’m terrified that he’ll stop.
“Six.” A sly smile creeps across his lips, but his eyes remain distant. “But I think they only ever found five of them.”
“And why did you start killing women there?”
His smile widens, flashing his sharp, white teeth. “Because there’s no rush like it. At first, it was a way of punishing the women I was with. I deserved better than how they treated me. So they had to pay.”
“You made them pay by killing other women?” I ask, the words bringing a sickness to the pit of my stomach. Knowing that evil like this exists in the abstract is one thing, but sitting just a foot away from it is like staring down the devil.
“Yes. All women are the same. You all have a sickness, a need to cheat. You’re born whores, and you remain that way.” His gaze traces over me, as if he’s sizing me up.
“What year did you leave Florida?” I want to turn the questioning back to his crimes. He’s going down the wrong p
ath.
“In 2008 or 2009 I moved to Savannah. There I killed four women. After that, Atlanta, where I killed six more. And then, finally, here.” He raises his hand as if to motion around, but the restraint holds it back.
“Was it just the five victims here?” I ask, my throat becoming raw as I count them off in my mind. Melanie, Asha, Jessica, Austin, and Ian.
“Yes,” he says and then twists his hands in his restraints. His eyes lock on mine, and I realize that all the light has gone out of them. “I’m done talking,” he says.
I shove up from the chair and glance at Zane. I have the closure I needed. I wanted to know without a doubt that he was responsible for the deaths in Tennessee. And now I know the full extent of exactly what he did. After he gets out of the hospital, we can lock him up. This bastard will never hurt anyone else again.
CHAPTER 22
The next day, after working on my paperwork for the case, I leave the police station. It feels like I’ve been inside most of the day. In reality, it’s only been a few hours. My shoulder still throbs, like I suspect it will for a while. Though both Noah and Sergeant Pelletier think I need to be resting, I can’t even think about that until everything is wrapped up. But there are still a few things I have to do before this is all finished. As I walk out to the parking lot, the spare key in my pocket pokes me in the top of my thigh.
If you kept it, maybe there’s a reason.
I walk to the back of the parking lot and find my car. I slide in, the cold seats chilling my legs. As I slip my key into the ignition, I call Roxie.
“Hey, neighbor,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her words.
“Neighbor? You got the job?” My voice is louder than I mean for it to be. I rein it in. “I can’t believe you didn’t call me.”
She laughs. “You were a bit preoccupied.”
“You know I’ll always find time for you.” This job can make it so hard to find a balance. In the back of my mind, I’m worried how Noah will feel when I have to choose my job over him. Though my work is important to me, I know I have to draw a line somewhere. But can I?
“I know. You don’t have to do that. I know how it is. Don’t feel guilty about doing good,” she says as if reading my mind.
I turn down Route 1, pass a small downtown, and continue toward the hotel. The streets are lined with white wood-frame buildings, ornate churches that must be at least a hundred years old, and small, bustling shops.
“So tell me about the job.”
“You’re talking to the lead detective of the Bangor PD,” she says with a laugh.
“Well, look at you,” I say, the smile spreading so wide across my face that my cheeks ache. “Congratulations. You deserve it.”
“I just want to dig in already. There’s a stalking case with an author up here. I’m getting into it as soon as I get my stuff picked up.”
“Gonna protect Stephen King now?” I ask.
She laughs as I pass through the shadow of towering oak trees. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Get me an autograph?” I joke.
“I’ll see what I can do. How’s your case coming?”
“We got our guy,” I say. I wince as the sweat prickling on my shoulder seeps into my bullet wound, and I turn down the heat in my car. “Well, guys, actually. There ended up being two of them working together. I need to speak with Trent, our first suspect, so I can work out all the details for my report. But we’ve got them both in custody, so now it’s just filling in all the blanks for the trial.”
“Third time’s a charm?”
“It was this time. Number three confessed,” I explained.
“And what are you going to do now? You staying in that town? Moving somewhere more exciting?” she asks.
“I’m not sure yet. But I have decided to give Noah a key. I think you were right: I was looking for a reason to push him away. We’ve made our peace, though, and I’m hoping that he’ll be honest with me from now on.”
“Oh?” she asks, though she doesn’t sound at all surprised. “Your first time settling down with someone. Those are some big steps, Calderwood.”
“I’m actually going to give it to him when we get off the phone.”
“Well then, get on with it. Call me later,” she says.
“We better get dinner once you’re settled,” I say in an almost warning voice.
“Oh, we will. Don’t you worry.”
We finish up just as I turn into the hotel. The parking lot is just as empty as it was when we checked in, which isn’t all that surprising in the off-season. My phone buzzes as I stroll across the parking lot. I glance at it, expecting the call to be from Roxie having forgotten to tell me something else, but it’s Sergeant Pelletier.
“Sergeant,” I say as soon as the call connects.
“Claire,” he says, and his voice sounds off, like he was hoping he’d get my voice mail.
“Yes?” A bad feeling blooms inside me, and the back of my neck prickles.
“I just got a call from Vera. Unfortunately, Aidan—he killed himself.”
I swallow hard. “He killed himself?” The words rasp out of me. How can that even be possible? He was shackled.
“It seems he got free while his guard was in the bathroom, made it to the drug-storage closet, and killed himself. He injected a lethal dose of morphine.”
Rage builds inside me. I want to punch someone. My vision nearly goes red as I pace through the lobby toward the elevators.
“Claire, I’m sorry,” he says.
“Yeah, me too.” I end the call.
When I make it up to the hotel room, Noah is leaning back on the bed, his laptop on his lap. As the door snaps shut behind me, he looks over and grins. “How’d it go?” he asks.
“I was going to nail him to the fucking wall, but he killed himself. He took Austin, Tina, all those other women, and the prick killed himself so he wouldn’t suffer for any of it.” My words are sharp with anger, and I clench my fists against the rage building inside me. I should have killed him when I had the chance.
He pushes his laptop across the bed, crosses the room to me, and pulls me into a hug. His long dark hair tickles my cheek as he holds me. The stubble clinging to his chin brushes against my jaw.
“It’s okay. You still got him,” he says, stroking my hair. “Even if he doesn’t go to prison, he’s gone. He can’t do this again to anyone else.”
I know he’s right, but I feel robbed. I want him punished. To suffer. And he just got away with it. He lived his life and escaped when it suited him.
Noah gives me a soft kiss on my cheek, and his eyes level on me.
“Are you going to be okay?”
I nod. I will be, because I have to be.
CHAPTER 23
It’s taken me a few days to get approval from the DA and Sergeant Pelletier to question Trent. This is the last interview I need to do to finish out my case for Camden. The drive to Two Bridges Regional Jail takes about an hour. The whole way, as I carve through ribbons of road winding through evergreens and past pebbled beaches, I’m twitchy, uneasy. Questions I need to ask Trent pile up in my mind. I need to find out what his involvement was, what he knew, and when. I know it’s likely we’ll be charging him as an accessory, but I need to know just how deep this goes. With Aidan dead, we’ve got the media up our ass constantly about how no one has been charged for the murders.
I turn right down a stretch of road that curves behind trees so sharply it’s as if the pavement has been swallowed by the forest. My car slows as I follow the turns, and then the trees fall away, revealing a sprawling parking lot and barbed wire–topped fences beyond. Guard towers rise every hundred feet or so, and even though the sky is shrouded in clouds, the shadows of armed guards moving inside are obvious. Though I know it’s midafternoon, when the days are like this, it’s as if I’ve been plucked out of time.
The wind is cold, thrashing relentlessly as I walk through the parking lot with my shoulders hunched. I approach
the administrative building—meant for law enforcement and legal counsel—and flash my badge to the guard at the door. I know this all well enough that I left my service pistol back at the station, as it slows everything down.
“Afternoon, Detective,” the guard, a man likely in his early twenties, says as he reviews my badge.
“They’re expecting me,” I say. He’s writing my information on a clipboard.
“Head on in,” he says, handing my badge back.
I walk through several doors, showing my identification each time. Though I didn’t want a partner, admittedly now without Austin here, I feel a bit lost. A woman dressed in a brown uniform greets me and leads me down a hall to an interrogation room. We pass several other guards, dressed in identical uniforms to hers.
“We’ll be watching through the mirror,” the woman says. “If you need anything, just knock or signal for us. He’ll be shackled to the table. So he won’t pose a threat to you. You will be locked in, however, until you give us the signal that you’re ready to leave.”
“Thank you.”
“Just give us a few minutes to get him down here,” she says, opening the door for me.
I walk inside to find a room that’s painted a light gray. It’s barely a different shade than the concrete floors. In the middle of the room sits a long metal table with several different loops protruding from the top. Four chairs are situated around the table. At the back of the room, two small barred windows display the veiled sky outside. I glance over my right shoulder and find a one-way mirror that must be at least eight feet across.
I settle in one of the chairs at the table and fold my hands atop it as I wait. A few minutes later, the door slides open, and Trent is led in. His hands and feet are shackled, with a chain connecting them to another that circles his waist. Trent’s hair is shaggier than the last time I saw him, and the orange jumpsuit makes him look deathly pale. He’s got an angry-looking tattoo creeping up from the collar of his jumpsuit, but it’s too obscured for me to tell what it is.
The guard shoves Trent down into a chair across from me before securing his shackles to the table and the floor. He grins wickedly at the guard, purring, “You know I like it rough.”
