I let out an anxious breath, wishing I could table the whole thing, but I’m already in knee-deep.
“The local prosecutor we dealt with felt it was better not to rock the boat. It appeared Ruck tried to assault Mel sexually but wasn’t successful, so there was no DNA or, for that matter, any other forensic evidence linking him to the crime. The prosecutor was worried that with only circumstantial evidence, she wouldn’t get a conviction, and that might muddy things.”
“But the police were positive he’d done it?”
“Completely. Ruck’s cell phone proved he was in the area when Mel died, though he’d been smart enough to leave it at his sister’s house that night.”
I take a few seconds to steel myself.
“Plus,” I add, “the MO was the same. Mel was first struck in the head with a heavy object, the same way the other girls were. And the pattern marks on her neck indicated that she’d been repeatedly strangled with the same type of ligature used on the others. A dog leash.”
Bas winces. “God, Bree, I’m so sorry. But it sounds like there’s little room for doubt that Ruck was the guy.”
“Exactly, and yet the New York State Police are looking at the files again, and who knows what will happen from there.”
He scoots closer and wraps an arm around me. “Please, how can I help?”
“You already have, just by listening,” I say.
He looks off, clearly thinking, and then returns his gaze to me.
“But you’re still worried, I can tell. You think that the cops will decide Ruck didn’t do it.”
With that simple statement of his, something lets go in me. That’s exactly what’s worrying me, and whatever dread I’ve felt since Logan’s visit isn’t going to dissipate simply because he’s ridden off in his rental car.
“Yes. And even though I know Ruck did it, if the cops start having doubts about their original theory, those seeds of doubt will soon end up with me. The little bit of closure I’ve had will be eaten alive. And I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering, never knowing for sure.”
Sebastian nods and takes a few seconds before speaking again.
“You know what I think, though? I think that the seeds of doubt are already with you.”
He’s right.
“I can’t let them take hold in me, Bas,” I say. “I can’t.”
“What if you call the lawyer yourself?” he asks. “Maybe he has some information that he didn’t put in the letter. It could help clarify things, even bring you peace of mind.”
The idea of hearing Schmidt’s voice again nauseates me, but Bas is right. I need to do it.
And I need to do it now.
Chapter 5
“Thank you,” I say, and give his hand a squeeze. “I want to hear more about your dad and your staff meeting, but let me try to reach this lawyer first.”
As we rise from the couch, I remind Bas that there’s lunch for him in the fridge, but he says he first wants to check something with Jorge. He seems slightly distracted, and I’m left wondering if it’s because of the grisly details I shared or the fact that I’ve kept so much to myself all this time. Or both.
I make my way to my office, a lovely space at the back of the house originally designed as an extra guest bedroom. The two windows look out onto the back of the property, and from here I can see Maitena and Jorge’s half dozen cows grazing on the grass.
I grab my phone, tug Schmidt’s letter from under the pile of books where I left it, and settle into the old leather armchair. After taking a deep breath, I call the cell number listed on the letter. The call goes straight to voicemail, so I leave a message, asking him to call as soon as possible today.
My gaze drifts to the small bookcase next to the desk and the two framed photographs of Melanie perched on top of it.
One is from the last year of her life, when she was home briefly during the summer, a picture taken clandestinely by me while she was reading in an armchair, her long brunette hair piled on her head in a messy topknot. Though most people who saw her would have peggedher as the “creative” type, she was also strikingly pretty, which in high school had probably kept her from being marginalized.
The other photograph is of Mel at ten. She beams at the camera, holding up a copy ofA Wrinkle in Time, which we’d just finished reading together.
“Mom, I want to beMeg,” she’d exclaimed. “More than anything.”
