I smile as sweetly as I can. “Police detective, remember?” I shrug as if it’s a game and not a young girls rape and suicide we’re discussing. “So, no records are really closed to me. You see, I went digging into your past Mr. Clarke, and I found that you and your friends have a history of complaints against you—”
“Unfounded complaints!” he seethes with spit flying from his mouth.
“True,” I concede. “Most are labeled as unfounded. But, you see, this one stood out to me. Sophia Patterson, age thirteen. The report filed over a decade ago is sparse but it does say that you and a group of friends were accused of getting her drunk and assaulting her at a party. There was video of the assault; of course, there’s no copy stored in evidence. No charges were filed, ever. A few months after the initial report, she committed suicide.” I look down at the report as if I’m reading it, but I know it all by heart. “But you don’t remember any of that?”
Brody Clarke’s eyes narrow as he assesses me. It’s clear he’s gotten away with a lot of heinous shit. Maybe it’s time the Devil pays for his sins.
“Where are you going with this, Detective?”
I slide a second picture across the table at him. This one is not from the police file. The hair, the eyes, and the toothy smile are all the same as Sophia’s. If it weren’t for the age gap, Sophia and her brother could be twins.
“Her brother found her body, you know?” I don’t wait for a reply. “They’d had a rough go, in and out of foster homes until their mom got sober and got custody back. Things were starting to look up for their family. They were living in a small house, their mom had a job, they were a family again. That is, until you came along, Mr. Clarke.”
We sit in heavy silence for a moment, the air thick and hot. I don’t dare move a muscle as I wait for his response.
“I think I’m done talking, Detective,” he finally sneers with a cold glare in my direction.
Nice fucking try.
“Well, Mr. Clarke, I’m not done.” I bring my elbows up onto the table, leaning in and leveling him with a cold stare. “You and your friends raped that girl, and when she took her life because of that, her family tried to file charges, but your family’s wealth and status made those accusations go away.” My tone is laced with cold venom, and while I know I should stay impartial, in this case, I can’t. “Did you know that you went to high school with her brother? That he was in your class?”
He doesn’t answer me. It’s clear he’s trying to process everything I’m throwing at him. But I don’t give the slimeball a chance to slither his way out of my accusations with carefully crafted lies.
“Yes, her brother Garett went to school with you.” My voice is raised now and Brody tries to interrupt but I don’t let him. “The same high school that your now dead wife also went to. You see, Mr. Clarke, your mom brought me a copy of your high school yearbook to show me what an upstanding young man you were. I just saw a pretentious jock, frankly, but what I began to notice was that in a lot of the pictures there was a young man lurking in the background.” I tap the photo sitting on the table between us. “That young man—Garett Patterson.”
Something flits across Brody Clarke’s face—fear, realization, worry. I can’t tell exactly what he’s feeling, but as I lay all the pieces out for him one by one, he starts to put it together. But I’m still not done yet.
“One of the foster homes Garett Patterson was in when he was younger, back before he was reunited with his mom, was a few hours away. It was a home for troubled kids. He was there with a few others at the time. It took a lot of digging, Mr. Clarke, but I was able to find those records. And imagine my surprisewhen one of the names caught my eye.”
He looks truly confused now.
“There’s a record of an Allison Martin having lived in the same home during that time period.” Brody Clarke’s face pales as he listens to me. “That’s your wife’s maiden name, isn’t it?”
“So, wait—” he stutters and stammers, trying desperately to piece it all together. I can see his mind reeling with this new information I just dropped in his lap. “My wife? She…wait, what?”
“Garett Patterson seems to look very similar to a recent coworker of your wife’s, Mr. Clarke.” I slide a second picture across the table, a staff photo of a man named Gabriel Parsons, a man who didn’t exist, according to all government records I can find, until a few years ago. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
I watch as Brody Clarke studies the two pictures—one of Garett Patterson and the other of Gabriel Parsons. Two separate men, at least on paper. I watch as his eyes dart back and forth, widening with realization.
“What are you saying, Detective?” he finally asks me.
“Gabriel Parsons has stopped showing up to his job at the high school. He seems to have disappeared, Mr. Clarke, right around the same time your wife’s body wound up dumped along the side of the road.” I leave the crumbs out for him, waiting to see if he’ll take the bait.
Will this fish bite?
He thinks for a long second, weighing his options. While Brody Clarke might be many things, he is not a stupid man.
“Again, Detective, what exactly are you saying?”
I lean in across the table, studying him closely as I ask, “How well did you know your wife, Mr. Clarke?”
TWENTY-FOUR
Garett
Before
I’ve never been this nervous before. I’ve killed, kidnapped, maimed, and mutilated; and yet, this tiny creature’s appraisal is making me sweat like nothing ever has before. The hold she has on my heart is unmatched. There never has been, and never will be, anyone, anything, that matters more to me than Allison Clarke.
