Kinsley nodded, imagining the dynamics between the siblings. Either Iris viewed Joey as a minor player not worth the effort of a real shakedown, or she’d drawn a line between her family and her targets that she wasn’t willing to cross.
Before Kinsley could pose a follow-up question, Joey held up a hand.
“You need to know that Iris wasn’t a monster.” His defense of his sister seemed genuine. “She was seventeen, restless, and trapped in a town she thought was too small for her ambitions. She wanted adventure, something bigger than Fallbrook, and when life didn’t hand it to her, she created her own.”
“By secretly recording people and using those recordings as leverage?”
“That’s the thing. She didn’t see it that way.” Joey’s gaze drifted to the display window, where raindrops continued to trace crooked paths down the glass. “Iris thought she was being clever, getting a taste of what real investigative journalism might feel like. I think she viewed it as consequences for their actions rather than blackmail. In her mind, she wasn’t the villain. She was the one holding people accountable for the things they did when they thought nobody was watching.”
“Or maybe she understood exactly what she was doing and simply didn’t care,” Kinsley offered, presenting the other side of his sister that he didn’t seem willing to accept.
“Does it matter?” Joey asked, and his voice had dropped to a register that was quieter. “Either way, Iris was my sister. We fought. We drove each other insane. But that didn’t mean I wanted her gone. Not for a single second.”
“Going back to that night, do you recall seeing anyone who didn’t belong?” Kinsley mentally traced the route that Joey and his friend would have taken, cutting through yards between the high school stadium and the neighborhood. “Anyone who stood out?”
“Mrs. Sadler was walking down the sidewalk. We ducked behind some bushes so she wouldn’t spot us.” Joey tapped his cup against the table. “Remember, we were carrying bottles of alcohol. Two sixteen-year-olds don’t exactly want to run into the neighborhood grandmother.”
“Anyone else?”
“Todd Kusman,” Joey said after a moment’s hesitation. “Well, his vehicle. He was pulling into his garage when we cut across the street.”
Kinsley measured the information against the timeline she’d been constructing all week. Todd arriving home, Mrs. Sadler on the sidewalk, Darlene walking from the Wilsons’ toward her house, Shannon parked near the block party. Joey’s account was consistent with every other witness statement she’d collected. All the pieces were landing in the same window of time. And somewhere inside the Bell mansion, Iris had been alone with whoever killed her.
“Was Amelia Keery at the bonfire that night?” Kinsley asked, broadening the canvas. “I spoke with her recently, and she didn’t mention seeing you there.”
“I spotted her, but Amelia wasn’t much of a drinker back then.” Joey paused to pull his phone from a side pocket of his cargo pants. He glanced at the screen, pressed the side button to darken the display, and set it on the table. “We got surroundedpretty quickly by the kids who were, though. I’m not sure if she saw us or not.”
The café had grown quieter as the lunch hour approached. Most of the downtown crowd ate at the diner or even The Bucket. Carol’s was better known for its beverages and pastries, a place for a quick stop on the way somewhere else rather than a destination for a full meal.
“Can you think of anything else that might help the investigation?” Kinsley asked, leaning forward slightly and placing her forearms on the table. She lowered her voice so her words wouldn’t carry beyond the two of them. “I have officers transcribing those tapes discovered at the high school, as well as the ones from the house.”
Joey leaned back, putting distance between them, and she couldn’t blame him. She was scratching the scabs off wounds that had taken three decades to form scar tissue, and by casting doubt on Grant Tatlock’s guilt, she might have opened new ones that hadn’t existed before today.
“I’ve told you what I know, Detective Aspen.” Joey used the toes of his work boots to push his chair back from the table. “If you find evidence that someone other than Tatlock killed my sister, I hope you’ll pursue it wherever it leads.”
He grabbed his phone and coffee cup and stood. He muttered something about her having a nice day, and Kinsley hadn’t even had a chance to lean back in her seat when he stopped and turned around. He smacked his lips together and glanced out the window at the rain, as though trying to talk himself out of something.
“When my parents downsized a few years ago, they found a few of those mini-recorders tucked into vases, bowls, bookcases, behind picture frames. Anywhere Iris could hide them.” Joey slipped his phone into a pocket of his cargo pants and reached back to turn his cap so the bill faced forward. “I don’t know whatmy mother did with those tapes, because at the time I honestly didn’t care. But if you truly believe someone other than Grant Tatlock killed my sister, you might want to ask Mom if she still has them.”
He gave her a nod that was more farewell than courtesy and walked out of Carol’s Café into the rain without looking back.
Kinsley sat motionless for a long moment after the door closed behind him. More tapes, but what had Eden done with them? Had she listened to them? Destroyed them? Hidden them somewhere of her own? And if she’d listened to them, what had she heard on those recordings that she’d been keeping to herself for years?
23
Kinsley Aspen
July
Friday, 10:04 pm
The kernels had stopped popping two minutes ago, but Kinsley still stood at the counter with the open bag tilted over a ceramic bowl, lost in her thoughts about the case. The steam rising from the bag had gone from billowing to a thin wisp, and the kitchen smelled of butter and salt. From the living room, she could hear Lydia scrolling through streaming options, the soft chime of each title selection carrying across the open layout. If Lydia had noticed how long it was taking to shake out the last stubborn stragglers, she was kind enough not to mention it.
“I know it’s after ten, and I agreed to eight o’clock,” Kinsley called out toward the living room. “I’m sorry about that. That’s unforgivable, even by my standards.”
“You said seven-thirty, actually,” Lydia corrected from the couch, her voice carrying the patience she reserved exclusivelyfor Kinsley and her third-grade students. “It’s no big deal. I went ahead and ate dinner.”
Kinsley grabbed a bottle of white wine from the small rack near the refrigerator and pulled two glasses from the cabinet above. She’d gotten back to the station around noon after her sit-down with Joey Bell. The hours between then and now had blurred into an endless loop of transcripts, whiteboards, and cold coffee. Toby had gone across the street to the diner around one to grab them sandwiches, and then again around six for a second run when they realized neither of them had eaten since.
