by N L Hinkens
After locking the safe back up, Bridget returned to the kitchen. “There’s nothing missing, to the best of my knowledge. His passport’s still there. But I’m not surprised he didn’t pack a bag. He knew he didn’t have much time before I got back.”
“What about your bank accounts?” Detective Wright asked. “Have you checked to see if any money has been withdrawn?”
Bridget's eyes widened. Another possibility that hadn’t occurred to her. “I’ll look right now.” She retrieved her laptop from the counter and fired it up. After waiting for the bank’s website to load, she tapped in her login information. “Looks like there haven't been any cash withdrawals today,” she said as she scanned through her account. “The only transaction is an automatic payment for our electricity.”
“Is it possible your husband had an account you don't know about?” Detective Wright suggested.
“I … suppose it’s possible,” Bridget conceded, her mind flitting back to the articles she’d read about cheating spouses. “After all, I didn't know he was having an affair.”
Detective Wright snapped his notebook shut. “All right, I’ll update the station with this information and ask Tech to follow up on tracking down any possible accounts at other local banks.”
“He's in serious trouble now, isn't he?” Bridget said. “For skipping bail, I mean. Will they … will they shoot him if he refuses to turn himself in?”
Detective Wright put his fist to his mouth and coughed discreetly. “Let's not speculate on the worst-case scenario. It's not like the movies. We don’t even know yet if he’s gone on the run. I’d like you to try calling him again and leaving him a message asking him to contact me. Give him my direct number and tell him I’ll make sure he has every opportunity to turn himself in safely if he has in fact crossed a state line and violated his conditions of bail.”
Bridget swallowed back the lump in her throat as she fished her phone out of her back pocket and hit the speed dial for Steve's number. ”It's me again. I'm here at the house with Detective Wright. I showed him your note. He wants to help you, we both do. I'm going to give you his direct number. It’s (608) 239-1174. Please promise me you'll call him as soon as you get this. I’m so scared for the kids. I don’t want this to end badly. Please, Steve, do the right thing and come home.”
Detective Wright gave an approving nod when she hung up. “Have you talked to any of your neighbors yet? Maybe one of them saw him leave.”
Bridget let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to get them involved, if at all possible. The rumors are already flying. Even the kids at school are talking about it.”
“All right, I’ll handle it. Officer Lopez will be here soon with the forensic technician. I'll send him to knock on a few doors.”
“It’s all so surreal,” Bridget said wistfully. “I just keep turning over the why of it in my head. Why did Jen Carson have to die? Why did Steve get involved with her in the first place? Why did Henry do what he did?”
“We’re working on getting the answers to all those questions,” Detective Wright said. “But for now, we need to focus on the most pressing issue at hand, and that’s locating your husband. It appears he either walked out of here, or someone picked him up.”
Bridget frowned. “Who would have picked him up? I texted his friends. No one's heard from him.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of an Uber ride or something of that nature. I'll have one of my guys look into it—see if anyone ordered an Uber or a taxi to this address.” Detective Wright pulled out his phone and barked out a few instructions to one of the desk clerks back at the station.
The doorbell rang and Bridget flinched.
“That’s probably forensics,” Detective Wright said, ending his call.
Reluctantly, she got to her feet and opened the front door. Officer Lopez greeted her with an irritating ear-to-ear smile. “Forensics is here to take a few fiber samples.”
Bridget looked past him to the van parked at the curb. A woman dressed in a disposable white jumpsuit climbed out and made her way up the driveway carrying her supplies in a tub.
Bridget ushered them both inside.
“Okay, we’re going to need carpet samples from every room in the house,” Detective Wright ordered. “Also, any walk-in closets or other small carpeted areas. Rugs too. Are you good with that?”
The forensic technician nodded and shot a quick glance into the family room. “I’ll begin in here.”
Detective Wright turned to Officer Lopez. “I’d like you to interview the neighbors. Ask if anyone saw Steve leaving the house this morning, either on foot or getting into a vehicle.”
Officer Lopez nodded and disappeared out the front door.
Bridget watched as the forensic technician retrieved her first sample from the family room carpet. Did the police really think Jen Carson had been strangled here in her home, where she was raising her children? It was madness. There would have been signs of a struggle. And how would Steve have pulled that off with her and the kids around? If he’d killed Jen Carson, it hadn’t been at this location. That much she was certain of.
Once the technician had finished collecting her samples from each room, she thanked Bridget for her cooperation before turning to address Detective Wright. “I’m on my way to the next location and then I’ll take everything to the lab. I’ll be in touch as soon as we have the results.” She retreated out the front door and pulled it shut behind her.
“Is she going to Steve’s office?” Bridget asked curiously.
“No, we've already collected samples from Bartlett and Hartman,” Detective Wright explained. “She's heading to Keith Carson’s house next.”
Bridget rumpled her brow. “So, he’s still a suspect?”
“He had motive. He also had a motive to set your husband up. What better way to take the spotlight off himself than to make sure his wife’s body turns up in her lover’s car?”
Bridget ran a fingertip over her cracked lips. There was nothing she’d like to believe more than that Steve had been set up. But, if he was innocent, why had he run? More importantly, why had he written her a note saying he was sorry?
23
Bridget went through the weekend in limbo, with not a whisper on Steve’s whereabouts, and no more surprise visits from law enforcement.
The following Monday, she had just returned to the house after dropping the kids off at school when her phone rang. She swallowed the dread rising up from her gut as she slid her finger across the screen and took Detective Wright’s call.
“Have you seen the news this morning?” he asked.
Bridget reached for the back of a chair, feeling as though her legs were about to buckle beneath her. “No, what now?”
“They broke the story that Steve's a fugitive on the run—wanted for Jen Carson’s murder.”
Bridget clapped a hand over her mouth, her stomach dangerously close to rejecting the poached egg she’d forced down earlier. “What … what are they saying?”
“The usual. They've pegged him as guilty. It's a lot more interesting to speculate that the killer’s on the run than that the police are following multiple leads.”
“Will this put Steve in any danger?”
“Possibly,” Detective Wright conceded. “There are always the vigilantes out there who want to take matters into their own hands. It’s dangerous for the public too—it’s easy to mistake someone for a face on the news.”
“I noticed a strange car parked opposite my house when I got back from the school run,” Bridget said. “I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it wouldn't surprise me if it's a reporter angling for a story.”
“Get ready for the onslaught. It's only just begun,” Detective Wright said grimly. “I want you to try Steve's number again. It's imperative that he reaches out to me as soon as possible, for his own safety as well as for the public’s. Would you consider making an appeal to him on TV?”
Bridget sucked in an icy breath. “I’m not sure I
could do that. It would be awfully hard on the kids.”
“Have you given any thought to pulling them out of school for the time being?” Detective Wright asked. “Things are going to get ugly before they get better. Technically, Steve hasn't skipped bail, yet, as he hasn't missed a court appearance. But naturally the media is intent on painting the worst possible scenario.”
“Steve did this to himself,” Bridget said with a trace of bitterness in her voice. “It didn't have to be this way. He should have stayed here and faced the charges.”
“We’re in agreement there. If you want my advice, go pick up your kids from school now before the other students get wise to the story. With their smart phones, it won't be long before it’s all over campus.”
Bridget grimaced. “Did you get the results of the carpet fiber tests from forensics?”
“Not yet. I’ll get back with you as soon as I hear anything,” he said, before ending the call.
Bridget moaned softly as she climbed into her car and reversed out of the driveway. She wasn't equipped for this, but neither were her kids, and she wasn’t about to leave them as chum for a feeding frenzy at school. She could only imagine the condemnatory look on the school receptionist’s face when she told her she was picking her kids up. The staff had probably caught wind of the story by now. And Henry was tangled up in it. She should have asked Detective Wright if the media had mentioned his involvement. Surely the news channels couldn’t release a minor child’s name. Regardless, the word was out, and it wouldn’t take long for the backlash to begin.
As she drove, she went over in her mind what to tell her kids. Henry could handle the truth, but could she burden Harper with something this heavy?
Steeling herself for the painful task ahead, Bridget pulled into the school parking lot and locked her car. She marched into the administration office, located between the elementary and middle school buildings, with a calculated air of confidence that didn’t reflect the knot in her stomach.
“Hi, Mrs. Hartman,” Debra, the receptionist, simpered. “Don't tell me Harper forgot her lunch again.” She cocked her head to one side and waited, the curious gleam in her eyes telling Bridget that Steve’s notorious flight from the law was already on her radar.
“I need to pick my kids up. Family emergency.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry. Is your mother doing okay?”
“Fine, thank you,” Bridget replied through gritted teeth. “I’ll just wait over here.” She turned and walked over to the visitors’ seating area before Debra had a chance to grill her any further. Out of the corner of her eye, Bridget watched her pick up a phone and call through to an extension. When she was done, she scooted across the floor on her wheeled office chair and stuck her head around the edge of a cubicle. Bridget couldn’t make out the running commentary that ensued. No doubt Debra was gossiping with another staff member about the situation. Bridget was beyond caring. The important thing was to get her kids out of here before the general population was turned loose on the playground.
Five minutes later, Henry and Harper came walking down the corridor toward the reception foyer. Harper broke into a run when she saw Bridget and flung her arms around her. “Mommy!”
Bridget met Henry's questioning gaze and gave a subtle shake of her head, warning him not to ask any questions within earshot of the staff, or Harper for that matter.
She escorted her kids out to the car, feeling Debra’s eyes burning into her back with every step, and bundled them in before peeling out of the parking lot. As she drove, she couldn’t help wondering when they would return, if ever.
“Why are we getting out of school early?” Harper asked, in a tone of barely repressed excitement.
“I thought it would be best,” Bridget responded. “Some of the kids haven't been very nice to you lately. Maybe you can take a few days off. You can spend a little more time with Grandma while she recovers.”
Bridget glanced in the rearview mirror to see Harper staring out of the window, poker-faced. “Is Daddy home?”
“Not yet.”
“Is he ever coming home again?”
Bridget’s breath caught in her throat. “Of course he is, why would you ask such a thing?”
Harper began to swing her legs and kick the back of the seat. “Samantha said he's never coming home. She said he's a bad guy and he’s gonna get locked up and the policeman’s gonna throw away the key.”
“Honey, don’t listen to her,” Bridget soothed. “There will always be kids who say mean things, but it doesn't mean they’re true.”
“But he is a bad guy if he killed Quinn’s mommy.”
Bridget willed herself to remain calm even as her blood boiled in her veins. What kid had told her daughter that? They must have heard it from a parent. What was wrong with people discussing such a macabre crime within earshot of young children? “Sweetheart, we don't know what happened to Quinn’s mommy. Nobody should be saying such nasty things to you. The police are still trying to figure everything out.”
“I don't want Daddy to kill you,” Harper whimpered.
Henry let out an audible gasp. “Harps! That's a dumb thing to say! Dad would never kill Mom.”
Suppressing a weary sigh, Bridget turned down their street and then quickly slammed on the brakes, staring in horror at the sight in front of her. The news crews had arrived in full force and taken over the neighborhood. Three vans with mounted cameras aimed at her house were parked along the curb, in addition to a dozen or so other miscellaneous vehicles. A reporter stood at the bottom of Bridget’s driveway talking into a mic. Several of her neighbors were leaning in their doorways, gawping at the spectacle. Some looking as if they were eagerly anticipating being invited into the fray, others wary and keeping their distance.
“What are we going to do, Mom?” Henry said in a subdued tone, sounding younger than his fourteen years.
“We can’t go home. We’ll have to go to Grandma’s and Grandpa's for a bit.” Bridget made a quick U-turn and exited the street before anyone could intercept her. She hit the speaker on her phone and dialed Detective Wright’s number, relieved when he picked up on the first ring. “It's a zoo at my house,” she blurted out. ”I don't know what to do. I can’t get near the place. Are they allowed to surround my house like that?”
“I’ll send a squad car over to check things out,” Detective Wright responded. “So long as they're on public sidewalks and streets, they're not doing anything illegal, but I’ll see if I can’t disperse them. Hold on a minute, Lopez is signaling to me.”
The line went quiet for a moment and then Detective Wright came back on. “That was forensics. The fibers from your house weren’t a match.”
“Well, that's one piece of good news, I suppose,” Bridget said.
“Yes and no,” Detective Wright said. “The fibers didn't match any of the carpets in the Carsons’ house either. It doesn’t rule Keith or your husband out as suspects. It only confirms that Jen Carson wasn’t strangled in either home. Whoever killed her could have done it in a hotel room, for all we know. Where are you at the moment?”
“I’m on my way to my parents’ house. I can’t stay here. Half my neighbors are out on their lawns ogling the news crews.” Bridget hesitated. “Did Officer Lopez find out anything useful from any of the neighbors?”
“No one saw Steve leave. Most of them were at work at that time of day. We followed up with Uber, and the cab companies too, and no one ordered a ride to pick up from your address. But we’ll keep digging. I'll let you know if we get a hit on anything.”
When he ended the call, Bridget released a frazzled sigh.
“What did the policeman say, Mommy?” Harper pried.
“They’re still looking for Daddy,” Bridget replied, keeping her tone upbeat. “How about we pick up some pizza for lunch and bring it over to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s? What flavor would you like?”
“Hawaiian, please!” Harper squealed.
“Pepperoni,” Henry added.
“All right,” Bridget said. “Quiet down while I call Grandpa and let him know we’re on our way.”
Forty-five minutes later, they pulled up at her parents’ house with two large pizzas in hand. Bridget mustered her resolve as she rang the doorbell. She would have to find a way to tell her parents what she and Henry had done—or not done, in her case. Now that all the news channels were covering the story, it was going to come out, sooner or later. She would have to give it some thought as to how best to break it to her parents gently. What Henry, in particular, had done would devastate them.
“Oh my, that’s a lot of pizza,” Elise said, when they descended on her in the family room.
“It's probably overkill,” Bridget agreed.
“Nuh-uh! I can eat a whole one myself,” Henry protested.
Elise chuckled. “I’m sure you can!”
“Thanks for letting us stay here tonight,” Bridget said.
“You know you're always welcome,” her dad chimed in, his brow trenched with concern. “I’m worried about your safety.”
“We shouldn’t discuss that right now.” Bridget gave a meaningful tilt of her chin in Harper’s direction.
“Please, can we eat our pizza?” Harper pleaded.
Bridget smiled. “It's kind of early for lunch, but, sure, if you’re hungry. What about you, Henry?”
“I’ll wait and eat with you guys later,” he said, sinking down in an armchair facing the television.”
Bridget accompanied Harper into the kitchen and set her up at the table with two slices of pizza and then put the rest in the refrigerator. She walked back into the family room and sat down next to her mom. “I feel like I've been neglecting you these past couple of days.”
