“You mentioned something being brought to your attention,” Richard said, prodding the conversation forward as he gestured toward one of the sleek barstools positioned at the island. “Please, sit. I’m sure we can clear up whatever questions you might have quickly.”
Kinsley opted to take the seat, hoping her decision to accept the invitation would ease the mounting tension. She noted how Richard positioned himself behind the barstool oppositehers. Rather than sitting down and joining her at eye level, he remained standing, his hands resting on the back of the stool.
“I understand this must be unexpected?—”
“It’s been over thirty years, Detective,” Richard said, cutting her off with a directness that wasn’t quite rude but came close. “We’ve made our peace as best we can. Our Iris is gone, and the man responsible is dead. What could possibly warrant revisiting any of this now?”
“That’s actually why I’m here,” Kinsley replied, keeping her voice measured and free of accusation. “Some new evidence has come to light that I’d like to discuss with you both.”
Eden’s fingers stilled on the towel, while Richard’s jawline appeared to harden until it matched the marble countertops. The triangle of tension between the three of them tightened, and Kinsley didn’t see any benefit in prolonging the buildup.
“A foreclosure crew discovered a tape recorder and several cassette tapes hidden in the attic of your former residence. Twenty-seven tapes, to be exact. Some labeled by date, others by location or name. All recordings made by Iris in the months leading up to her death.”
She paused to let the information land, observing both of them carefully. Richard and Eden exchanged a long glance that spoke volumes, the kind of wordless communication that develops between two people who have spent decades managing the same set of secrets. He cleared his throat, tapped the back of the stool with his fingers, and then dropped his arms to his sides.
“Iris was always recording things,” Richard said, meeting Kinsley’s gaze with an expression that landed somewhere closer to rehearsed. “It was no secret. One of her tapes was what helped secure Tatlock’s conviction.”
“One tape. Not multiples. And I’m aware of the evidence presented at trial?—”
“Iris had some foolish notion of wanting to be an investigative journalist. A passing desire that teenagers get before reality sets in.” Richard waved his hand in a dismissive gesture that struck Kinsley as reflexive, as though he’d been minimizing his daughter’s ambitions for so long that it had become a default response. “It was nothing more than a phase, and one that didn’t matter.”
Eden remained silent, her gaze fixed on her husband with an intensity that Kinsley found difficult to interpret. The blender sat forgotten on the counter.
“I assume those tapes and the recorder are technically our property.” Richard hadn’t phrased it as a question. It was a statement by a man who expected compliance because compliance was what he’d always received. “Personal effects from our former home that should have been returned to us. I’d like to request they be given back to our family where they belong.”
Kinsley studied him for a moment, letting the request sit in the air between them. The ask itself wasn’t unreasonable on its face, but the speed with which he’d pivoted from “it was just a phase” to “give them back” was telling. A man who genuinely believed the tapes were harmless recordings from a teenage hobby wouldn’t have the urgency to reclaim them.
Kinsley also found herself wondering about Eden, who had remained conspicuously quiet through the entire exchange. Was she always this passive in conversations involving her daughter, deferring to Richard’s authority the way she apparently deferred in everything else? Or was her silence specifically reserved for discussions about Iris’s death, a kind of practiced withdrawal that kept her safely behind whatever wall she’d built in the thirty years since she’d lost her child?
“I understand your position, Mr. Bell,” Kinsley responded, keeping her tone professional but firm. “However, since Iris’sdeath was ruled a homicide, anything belonging to her at the time of her death is considered evidence in that case. The recordings fall under that category, especially given their content.”
The temperature in the kitchen seemed to drop several degrees. Richard’s practiced composure wavered for just a moment. He exchanged another glance with Eden, quicker this time, more urgent.
“My daughter’s case was closed three decades ago, Detective,” Richard said, and there was an edge in his voice now that hadn’t been present before. It wasn’t anger, not exactly. “A jury found Grant Tatlock guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. He died in prison, serving time for what he did to our daughter. What possible purpose could keeping those tapes serve?”
“Because I’ve had the opportunity to listen to several of them,” Kinsley revealed, maintaining eye contact. “And based on what I’ve heard so far, I believe further investigation into the circumstances surrounding Iris’s death is warranted.”
The silence that followed was heavy enough to have a physical presence. Richard didn’t move. Eden didn’t blink. The refrigerator hummed in the background, and somewhere outside, a bird sang with cheerful indifference to the tension inside the kitchen.
“Are you saying that Grant didn’t kill our daughter?”
Eden had finally broken her silence, and her voice was thin but clear in the charged atmosphere. Kinsley noted her use of Tatlock’s first name. Not “Tatlock.” Not “that man” or “the boyfriend”.
Grant.
It was familiar, almost intimate, and it struck Kinsley as a peculiar choice for a woman discussing the person convicted of murdering her child. Most parents in that situation usedlanguage that created as much distance as possible between their family and the killer. Eden had done the opposite.
“Is that what you’re suggesting, Detective?” Eden continued, and the question carried a complex mixture of emotions that Kinsley couldn’t fully decipher. Fear was there, certainly. Skepticism, too. But underneath both of those was something else, something that might have been relief or might have been dread, the two feelings so closely intertwined that separating them was impossible.
Kinsley considered her response carefully. The direction of her investigation could pivot on what she said next, and more importantly, on how the Bells reacted to it. Answering directly would give them information they could use to prepare, to coordinate, to call their attorney and close ranks. Instead, she chose to shift the dynamic with a question of her own, one she’d been holding in reserve since she’d sat down at the island.
“Were the two of you aware that Iris was using the taped conversations as blackmail?”
11
Kinsley Aspen
July
