“Well, that seems...” I think of all the murder shows I’ve watched in my life and come up with a reason to bring this up. “It seems so personal. If a stranger robbed her or something,I would think maybe she’d—I’m just saying, they’re sure she wasn’t shot? Maybe hit her head to cause those injuries?” He blinks at me, not comprehending why I’m asking this, because it probably is wildly inappropriate. But there is no way she didn’t die of a gunshot wound.
“I saw her. The whole back of her head was...” He stops. He can’t speak the words. “There was no gunshot, no sexual assault. She didn’t drown. That’s what I was told. I already went through all this with them. Why would someone do this? She wasn’t even robbed—wasn’t raped. So why? What would be a reason?”
“I don’t...” I stand with my mouth hanging open, unable to even complete my sentence. He moves to the door before he starts sobbing again. I can tell he’s trying very hard to hold it together.
“I have to go. I’m sorry. Don’t tell the kids yet—that’s all I really wanted to...” He swallows the last word and then he rushes out the door. I close it behind him and turn around, leaning my back against it, then slide to sit on the floor. I stare down the front hallway and my mind reels, trying to understand what the fuck is really happening here.
Is this a trap?is the first thing I think—do they know and I’m being set up or something? Tia was shot. I shot her. Oh, my God. What if it’s possible? What if someone killed her and left her on the edge of our property and I assumed... Oh, God. It was dark. I just saw blood on her face. I’d just shot a gun in her direction. There was no other scenario to consider in the moment. But now the reality of the situation is surfacing in my mind. I wrapped her up in the dark. I never saw the gunshot wound, but I never doubted for a second what must have happened.
I jump up with a racing heart. I need to get the facts firsthand. I need to talk to the detective and know for absolutely sure this is all true. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t my fault. I just can’t absorb this—it just can’t be possible. I grab my handbag and coat and go to look for my keys, but they’re not in their spot by the door. I check my pockets, purse, drawers, and then I remember Roxie took my car to get food last night and maybe left the keys with her stuff, so I take the stairs two at a time and go into her room, which I don’t often do, so it feels a bit like a violation of her privacy, but I need those keys.
I dig around in a couple of drawers and then see them on top of her writing desk. As I move to grab them, I see a paper sticking out the top of a school folder with Drew’s name on it. The words I see stop me in my tracks. In Roxie’s handwriting, the wordsWho killed Tia?are scrawled across the page. I didn’t think my hands could possibly shake any more than they already were, but then I shakily pick up the folder, sit in her desk chair and look inside.
There are pages and pages of handwritten notes and printed articles, and a photo of Regan’s dead husband. There are stories about Rafael “Raffy” Carro and a Mexican prison sentence. Who the hell is that? I look at his photo and then stuff it back inside with the papers. There is research on car bombs—and then I see something that makes my heart stop.
I call Roxie, but it goes to voice mail. Probably because she’s in class. So I call the school and they tell me she’s ill and was signed out. My heart starts to race. I text her to call me—that it’s urgent. Then I sit down at her desk and look at her computer. It only takes the touch of the space bar to wake up the sleeping screen, and she stays logged in to all her usual sites, so I see a tab for Facebook and look at her recent chats.Drew was the last person to send a message, early this morning.Meet me at my dad’s today.She responds,what time?and he says,by ten. She gives a thumbs-up. Who the fuck is Drew’s dad? I scroll up to see older messages, but it looks as though they purposefully don’t communicate over apps. It’s all mostly cryptic. A lot ofcall meinstead of conversations in writing. What the hell is she up to?
Drew’s dad. I think a minute. His last name is Carro. Sasha took Blanc when she got married, but I never once thought about who his dad was. I assumed he was dead. In fact, I think I asked once and that’s what Tom said, or maybe I’m making that up in my head and have no idea. Drew’s dad? Shit. Rafael “Raffy”Carro. I just read the name. Oh, my God.
I try Roxie again, nothing. I try Sasha. Will she tell me if her ex is this Raffy guy? Does she know what the kids are mixed up in? She doesn’t answer. Then I call Regan and fuck if she doesn’t answer, either. I text her the photo of Jack and tell her I need to talk to her. I send the other photos of a man, Dominic, whom Jack testified against. I need to get Regan’s attention so she calls me back. Where is everyone? I’m starting to panic. I need to ask her why my daughter would know anything about Jack and be researching his whereabouts. It’s like the rapture came and everyone has ascended or something.
Roxie and Drew are obviously in whatever this is together and that’s what they’ve been up to—all the whispering and hanging out at the BBQ place till all hours. Nobody is answering, so I grab my car keys, taking the whole folder with me and rushing to my car. I decide I’ll just drive to Sasha’s house because she’s usually home during the day, and I pray.
Adrenaline surges through me as I make the short drive toher house. There is evidence pointing to one person being responsible for both the car bomb and Tia’s murder. There is a long string of facts that all tie together somehow, but I can’t tell exactly what it means. But something is very, very wrong. Everything has turned upside down in minutes.
When I pull into Sasha’s drive, I don’t see her car. I peek into the garage, but it’s too dark inside to tell if she’s here. I knock on the door and wait. Nothing. Then I walk around to the side door of the garage and squint again to see if there’s a car inside. There could be, but I don’t know, so I holler anyway. She should be here this time of day. I know her normal schedule.
“Sasha! You gotta be home. I have to show you something. It’s important.”
Then the side door of the garage swings open, and I jump and hold my heart, startled. I drop the folder in my hand and the papers go all over the floor.
“Oh, sorry. I thought...” I stutter, taking a moment to put together who I’m looking at, because it’s not who I expected. And then I realize what’s happening; the man’s face looking back at me is one I recognize. I watch him glance down at the scattered papers and something like fear registers on his face.
“I was just looking for Sasha,” I say, taking a step back, not understanding for a moment or two that he has seen something that points the finger at him. He has put together that he is a suspect in these pages strewn across the concrete garage floor, and the only reason for him to react the way he does... is if he’s guilty.
I freeze, wondering if I should kneel down and collect them or back out the door, or say something. I’m suspended in terror when I see the flash in his eyes, but by then it’stoo late. He comes at me so fast, I don’t even have time to scream. Before I can even think about running, he has his hands around my neck. He shoves me back against the wall of the garage so hard a box of tools falls from a shelf and makes a shocking crash, and it all happens so fast. He’s pushing his thumbs into my trachea, and I can’t breathe. I can’t fight because I don’t have the oxygen to move. And in an instant, it’s all over and the world goes dark.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Regan
I drive almost a mile but it’s all a blur. Tears and rage... and fear fuel me to keep going, to just drive—it’s all I can do not to collapse in horror or beat him until my fists are bloody. I just numbly drive until I reach a place to pull off—a scenic lookout where there’s a stone bench that overlooks the river valley, a wooden railing along the edge. It’s off a two-lane, tree-lined road that doesn’t see much traffic, and the pull-off is partially covered by trees, so I take advantage of the privacy to stop and get out of the car, walking over to the railing and trying to catch my breath.
Jack follows. He gives me a moment and doesn’t try to touch me, probably in fear I might actually push him over the edge in a fit of fury. He stands next to me as we look over the treetops below. The conflicting emotions and confusionrushing through me are dizzying and I don’t know where to even start.
“I know you’re...” he starts, but I cut him off.
“Don’t say you know what I think or what I feel or what I’m going through.”
“Okay,” he says softly.
“What are we running from? What’s so dangerous? Who are you, even? Is your real name fucking Patrick Finch? You’re not Jack, you’re not dead. So... what? Where do I even begin to understand what’s happening?”
He comes closer and I push him back with both hands as hard as I can.
“Fuck you!” I scream. “Fuck you.”
“I deserve all of that. I know I do. Do you want me to explain? Please, Reg, I’m so sorry it all came to this, but...”
