He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t have to.
If Mike had been caught with Zoe’s blood on his hands, patterns would have been re-examined. Old ground reopened. Buried truths unearthed.
Shame floods his face, unguarded.
“Why run, Justin?” I ask quietly. “Why buy a ticket to Mexico?”
He can’t meet my eyes. “I planned to send my kids to Disney. Make it look like a family trip. Then disappear.”
“And?”
“I got to the airport,” he swallows thickly. “And I realized if I ran, I’d never see my kids again.”
His features are tight with remorse.
“If I stayed…maybe fifteen, twenty years. Maybe parole. They’d be adults. But I could still be their father. I could still see them build lives. Maybe even meet my grandkids.”
He didn’t turn himself in out of courage.
He turned himself in out of love.
The room is heavy with consequence.
I glance over at Callum. I’m exhausted, so I stand and grab my bag from the floor. “We’ve got what we need,” I say.
There’s work to do to confirm this statement, but it’s enough to begin.
Callum pushes off the wall, heading toward Ingram, and just as I’m about to walk through the threshold, I turn.
I look back at Ingram. “One more thing.” There’s one last thing that doesn’t fit the narrative. “Why do you think your brother tipped off Anton Easton about the quarry today?”
Ingram gazes at me with purpose. “He didn’t.”
“Then who did?”
His mouth tightens. “I got a call when we were on our way to the airport. Unknown number. I almost ignored it.” He exhales slowly. “It was Mike.”
The silence stretches.
“He didn’t say much,” Justin continues. “But he told me not to worry. Said he was taking care of it. That everything would be buried for good.”
He gazes at me with a sincerity that makes me realize how complicated people are.
“You’re a good cop, Officer Johnson,” he says. “And you’re going to be a good mother, too.”
I study his face; something like respect flickers there.
“I’m the one who made that call.”
40
Freya got home at four-thirty,ate, and passed out. I was almost worried by how deep her sleep was, which is why I stepped out to occupy myself with something other than watching her breathe.
The saw finishes its cut with a clean hiss, and I kill the power. The blade spins down, and the workshop settles into that familiar quiet with sawdust in the air, tools lined up the way I like, the heater humming because the bite of the winter morning is more than even I like.
I run my thumb along the shape of the crib’s edge. It’s smooth and solid. This piece will hold. Ineed something grounding today because the chaos of yesterday unhinged even me.
I set the cutout along the back wall and brace both hands on the workbench, breathing deep, shoulders tight with everything I didn’t let myself feel last night. No matter how much concentration my craft takes, it’s not enough to distract me from yesterday.
