There’s an awkward pause. Greene says nothing, like she’s intuitively known all along I carry these ugly things.
“What do you think?” I break the silence. “Is it a copycat situation or not?”
“We can’t say for sure, but I personally don’t think it is. I don’t think they could pull off the internet piece of this puzzle.”
I take that in. My plan to confess a day late stands. I tell her that I’m using Jeremy. She doesn’t object. No arguments. Just says, “If that’s what you want, Alderson and I will be right over.” I’m guessing they want to draw out and nail this killer as much as I do.
I slide to a stop and roll down my window to talk to my new watchman. He’s been using a discarded bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken to gather trash off the side of my drive. “Damn reporters,” he says. “Who’d just dump your wrappers and crap and drive off? And they call themselves the watchdogs of democracy.”
I park and step out, grab a few crushed soda containers. “Where are they all? Did theyallgo to my office?”
“The smart ones. Since you haven’t been here much, some got bored and left. I take it you had a crowd at your office?”
I don’t want conversation. If it were Zane, I’d fill him in on Lasserio. I think of Zane wounded, struggling to do something as basic as pulling in a breath. And behind that, I have a flash of Jess, her anger burning through the phone. And then another question: Have I been seeing herthrough a distorted lens all this time? Assuming I need to protect her because I didn’t protect Sophie?
I thank the new guy for all the tedious time he’s spent keeping guard and tell him that the agents and more deputies are on their way and that I might have a visitor soon who will need to be searched. I give him Jeremy’s full name, go home, and call him. He’ll be delighted to hear I want to use him after all.
Chapter 50
There are too many things biting at me. Montana has fifty species of mosquitoes, and it feels like I know them all. There are too many things left undone, especially the Montana connection with the sister of the boy who was coached by Randal Askens. The girl who contacted Jess.
Vivian.
I hop back online and search Vivian and Ryan’s mom and dad, Rick and Cindy Petronis. His dad doesn’t use social media, but his mom is active. I scroll through her posts: shares of humorous cartoons, charity events in her community, book club reads. There’s nothing unusual. Her page gets stale after her son’s passing, which doesn’t surprise me.
I’m about to click off when an old post stops me. It’s from several months after Ryan died. It’s a picture of a carbon-colored suitcase, packed and standing upright, and text below that reads:
Packed and ready to head to northwest Montana. Pray for me that this will be a good thing.
I suspect she’s referring to visiting Vivian in the valley since she goes to FVCC, but something about the heaviness of the comment makes me pause. I read all the comments from her friends below.
Good luck.
Praying for you.
Hope you find peace and healing.
The comments are out of whack for someone visiting their daughter. I wonder if she was coming this way to vacation alone after visiting Vivian, to perhaps deal with her grief. I’m about to dig deeper, to check for extended family in Montana, when Jeremy arrives.
I’ve already dug out my Kevlar from the garage and have put it on under my sweater. It’s uncomfortable, but in a weird way, it feels good to be held in tight, as if it will keep me from dissolving into an amorphous pile of mush while I pour out all my secrets. That it will somehow keep me whole and upright.
Alderson and Greene have met Jeremy at the entrance to my drive for a thorough search of him and his car. When they’re confident he’s not hiding anything, they escort him to me, but I’m nervous enough to insist on doing my own.
“Not so fast,” I say.
He stops and squints at me. “Huh? They already searched me.”
“Then another won’t hurt. I need to be sure, myself, or I won’t feel comfortable enough to confess.”
He looks at Alderson.
“I’d do what the lady asks,” Alderson says.
“Fair enough.” Jeremy shrugs.
“Slowly, and I mean slowly, put the backpack down, take off your jacket, and throw both at my feet.”
“I’d rather not toss this.” He holds up his pack. “With my laptop in it.”
