Текст книги "In Close"

Автор книги: Brenda Novak

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 13 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 5 страниц]

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12

The call came in just after dark.

Jeremy stood at the bottom of the stairs, listening to his father talk. He eavesdropped a lot; sometimes it was his only way of knowing what was going to happen before it did.

He didn’t care much about this conversation, though. It was just about someone showing up unexpectedly, some private investigator. But no private investigator had shown up here, and that was what mattered.

Yawning, he nearly walked back into his room to listen to his music. When the iPod he’d saved up for was playing in his ears, his father ceased to exist. But before he could turn away, he heard anger in his father’s voice—and the name Les. Then he froze. He knew who Les was. His father had found Les through a cousin who lived in Wyoming. Cousin Blake got himself in trouble a lot. He’d even been in prison—twice. He’d said Les was a person who could “take care of anything.” Jeremy had heard his father use those exact words when he arranged for Les to “take care” of David. And then David died and everyone started calling it an accident. That was how good Les was. His father even said he was good, said it out loud as if he’d included Jeremy in his plans from the beginning. His father was like that sometimes.

Claire’s name came up next. He’d been right to be so worried these past few days. She was getting herself in trouble, just like he’d feared when he followed her to the cabin. If Les was coming back to Pineview, that was bad. His father had once said to Les, “How many people have you…helped the way you’re helping me?” And the answer must’ve been big because his father had whistled.

Jeremy wanted to warn her, but he couldn’t. She’d ask how he knew, and that was something he couldn’t ever reveal.

His father slammed down the phone. The floor creaked, keys jingled, the garage door opened and the Jeep engine roared to life.

Where was his father going? Not to hurt Claire…

Wringing his hands, Jeremy paced in the laundry area for several minutes while images—terrible images—crowded his head. His father wouldn’t act right away, would he? Someone might see or tell. He’d wait for Les, and Les lived someplace called Idaho that sounded far away.

Again, Jeremy wanted to go to Claire. Instead, he grabbed his flashlight and hurried to the crawl space under the stairs. He hadn’t been in there for years, not since he’d attached six padlocks to be sure nothing could get in or out. The dank smell and spiderwebs alone were enough to keep him from wanting to return. But maybe it was time to check on the situation under there. He’d known he would probably need to make changes at some point. That was what kept him up so often at night.

He never forgot a number, so he had no problem with the combinations for the locks. But the five-foot space was far too short for him, and it grew more cramped as he neared the outer edges. Where the dirt had been thrown up against the foundation, he had to crawl.

The scent of the moist earth filled his nostrils. He imagined another smell, one that made him gag, but he kept going and before long, he sat on his haunches, aiming his flashlight at the dusty suitcase he’d hidden there fifteen years earlier. It was worn on one side, completely scraped from when he’d had to drag it up the driveway. It’d been a cheap case to begin with, one without wheels, which had made his job harder. He could really have used some wheels…?.

His heart slammed against his rib cage—ba-bump…ba-bump—which happened whenever he thought of the crawl space because then he remembered the night it all happened. How weak he’d felt when he brought that suitcase here. How badly he’d been shaking and sweating. He’d vomited after he got to his room. The contents of the suitcase—he couldn’t bear to think of what was inside in any other way—had been so much heavier than he’d expected. Then there was the disgusting liquid that’d begun to leak out. He’d thought the trail it left behind would lead anyone who chose to look right to him.

But the storm had washed it away. Big fat raindrops had started to fall just when he was certain he’d be caught. The wind had even concealed his grunts and labored breathing. It was almost as if he’d been invisible—not that anyone would be able to overhear him, anyway. He and his father lived in the woods.

Absently, Jeremy rubbed his stomach, which was cramping as if this night was that night, and studied what was left of the case. If he had to move it, he supposed it wouldn’t be heavy anymore. Things changed with time. He’d seen proof on TV.

It’d been a decade and a half—he heard that often, whenever anyone spoke of Alana. What would he find if he unzipped the lid?

Don’t think about that! You’ll be sick again.

Maybe he should get a shovel. He hadn’t before because he’d wanted that suitcase to be easy to reach if he ever had to retrieve it. Besides, any sign of freshly disturbed dirt could give away its location if the police ever came to call. They looked for that type of thing. One program he’d watched showed them using a ground sensor to locate a dead body that’d been buried for several years.

The idea of the police coming into the crawl space, with or without such a device, made it difficult to breathe. He didn’t want to go to prison. His father had told him what would happen if he ended up there.

There are hundreds of men ready to rape you in the ass, little buddy. And that’s after they knock your stupid block off.

Jeremy covered his ears, but the words were still there, humming in his brain. He couldn’t avoid them. Probably because, with Claire causing trouble the way David had caused trouble, he had to do something. If the sheriff came to their door, he had to be ready…?.

The taste of blood made him realize he was biting his lip. Too hard. Ease up. He’d think of something. His father wouldn’t be happy to learn the suitcase was on the property. But Jeremy hadn’t been able to abandon it in the woods as he’d been told. A bear might get to it.

If he buried it, he’d bury it here, where no one would stumble on it. Then it would be safe but gone.

Unless the police brought in a ground sensor…

Jeremy began to rock back and forth. What to do? What to do? It was always so hard to decide…?.

Dropping his head, he rubbed his eyes. His cheeks were wet. When had he started crying? Grown men didn’t cry. Nothing made his father angrier.

What a pussy! What’d I ever do to deserve a son like you?

“Shut up, Dad!” His voice was vehement, but only because his father wasn’t around. He’d never dare say that to his face. The hitting would start if he did.

Maybe the suitcase should continue to wait right where it was. Knowing his father, there might soon be another thing to hide.

Jeremy grimaced. If only he could stop that…

But he couldn’t. Not unless he wanted those men in prison to knock his block off.

The phone rang and rang, but Claire wouldn’t answer. She couldn’t trust herself to speak to anybody tonight. There was no predicting what she might say. She’d already argued with her sister, her stepmother and her stepfather. She didn’t want to alienate anyone else.

But it wasn’t her family who kept calling. They were so angry she wasn’t convinced they’d ever bother with her again. It was Isaac. She could see his name lit up by caller ID, and couldn’t bring herself to answer. Why was she letting their paths cross again? He was the one she couldn’t trust, wasn’t he?

“Go away.” She threw her extra pillow at the phone, knocking it off the hook. She could hear him saying, “Claire? Claire, are you there?”

No, she wasn’t. Not completely. Or she wouldn’t be going around hurting everyone close to her.

Now you think I killed her? Do you trust anyone?

No, I don’t…

Those ungrateful words plagued her long after Isaac’s voice went silent. The beeping that started after he hung up finally ended, too. Then there was nothing except blessed silence…?.

The whine of a chain saw intruded, blasting her eardrums. Claire couldn’t hear her own voice above the noise, but that didn’t stop her from screaming as blood spurted onto her face, making it impossible to draw breath.

Her mother’s suitcase lay open on the ground nearby with a severed arm and a leg inside. As she watched, Alana’s head fell, creating a splash in the growing pool of blood as Claire fought with the person doing the cutting, whose identity switched among Leanne, who could miraculously walk, Roni and Tug.

“No! Stop pleeeeease!” she cried, but the words were drowned out by the rrrr…rrrrrrr…rr…rrrr.

Claire was trying to keep Leanne from turning the chain saw on her when a knock at the door startled her awake.

Drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, she lay staring at the ceiling until she realized she was safe in bed and had all her body parts. Based on the amount of time that had passed since she’d last looked, she hadn’t been sleeping long. The clock showed barely thirty minutes.

Still, she was glad to be disturbed, glad to be released from the clutches of that terrible nightmare. She’d been sobbing and thrashing about while struggling to stop the chain saw.

“Congratulations. You escaped,” she muttered. But her mother hadn’t. Alana was as gone as ever.

Wiping away the tears that’d rolled into her hair, Claire told herself to calm down. She’d had this dream before. It’d just never been as vivid. And she’d never been able to identify the person wielding the saw.

“Claire?”

Isaac called to her from the front stoop. But she didn’t want him to know she was so…down. That was part of the reason she hadn’t answered when he’d tried to call earlier. She needed to be strong when she dealt with him so she could maintain some emotional distance.

What now? It wasn’t as if he’d just walk away. What she’d done with the phone must have spooked him. She should’ve answered.

Determined to regain her composure, she got up, pulled on a pair of sweat bottoms and padded through the living room.

Answering the door in what she’d worn to bed—David’s T-shirt—she tried to forget that last night it’d been Isaac’s T-shirt. “It’s late,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

She hadn’t turned on the porch light. She hadn’t turned on any lights. Thanks to an almost full moon, however, it wasn’t difficult to see.

His gaze lowered to the O’Toole Insurance logo on her chest before sweeping over the rest of her. But he was frowning when he raised his eyes to her face. “You okay?”

The air smelled like rain, which made Claire wonder if they were in for a summer shower. “I’m fine.”

“Really? You look wiped.”

She was damp enough that what would otherwise be a mild night felt chilly. “I was…having a bad dream.” Another bad dream, only much worse.

“Is that why you didn’t pick up earlier? You were already asleep? You scared the shit out of me.”

She’d scared him in a manner of speaking. She needed to qualify what he said. That kind of statement didn’t mean he really cared, as it would with David. Isaac had said things like that when they were together before.

“I’m…sorry. I must’ve thought the phone was in my dream and knocked it off the hook.” It was still off the hook. She’d purposely left it that way. There wasn’t anyone she wanted to hear from. Except David, which was impossible. Or her mother, which was probably just as impossible.

A slight wind ruffled Isaac’s hair. Besides his amber-flecked eyes and artist’s mouth, his hair was one of his best features. He wore it on the long side but it had enough natural curl to give it body.

“We need to talk,” he said when she made no move to let him in.

The gravity in his voice caused her stomach muscles to tighten. “About…”

“Les Weaver.”

The man who’d shot David. She straightened. “You called him already?”

“I paid him a visit.”

“You drove all the way to Coeur D’Alene?”

“Got back an hour ago.”

“Why didn’t you call him?”

“I wanted to see his face and check out his situation.”

What did he find? She doubted he’d show up at her door wearing such a serious expression if he’d come to report that David had been killed accidentally, as everyone believed. “I’m not…doing so well right now,” she admitted. “Maybe I could get back to you in the morning after I’ve…I’ve had some sleep.” And a chance to prepare myself for what you might say…?. Somehow the idea had been less upsetting when it was all conjecture.

He wiped the sweat beading on her upper lip with his thumb. It was an intimate gesture; she would even call it tender, if she’d thought he meant it that way. “Because of the dream?”

“Because of…everything.”

“What have you eaten?”

The panic crushing her chest seemed to ease a little. “Why do you think food solves everything?”

“You can’t cope if you don’t take care of yourself. And you’re looking more fragile as the days go by.”

“I’m coping.” She lifted her hand to wave him off, but that only enabled him to push the door wide enough to squeeze past her. “Where are you going?”

She didn’t need an answer. She could see that he was heading straight to the kitchen.

“Get in here,” he said when she didn’t follow.

With a sigh, she went as far as the entrance. “What are you doing?”

Cupboards slammed as he rummaged through them. “Do you have any tea?”

“To the right of the sink. But…I hope it’s not for me. I don’t like tea.”

“Then why do you have it?”

“For Leanne.”

“Depending on what kind you’ve got, it might help you sleep.” He found the box she’d directed him to. “Chamomile,” he said, showing it to her. “This should do the trick.”

“Ugh!” She grimaced. “Right now, all I need is a sleeping pill.”

He filled a mug with water and put it in the microwave. “Sorry, you’re not getting started on pills.”

She blinked at his response. “You’re joking, right?”

“Not in the least. Maybe if you didn’t look so depressed I’d consider it, but—”

“You have no say in what I do!”

“You need to address the problem, not mask it,” he said.

She was sure he meant well, but his response irritated her. “And how am I supposed to address the fact that I have to watch someone cut my mother into pieces with a chain saw whenever I close my eyes?”

He hesitated. He must have heard the bite in her voice, but he didn’t react to it. She detected a hint of empathy in his face as he added the tea bag to the water and set it in front of her. “Let’s try this first.”

Convinced she wouldn’t get him out of her kitchen until she’d drunk the darn tea and listened to what he’d found, she sank into the closest chair. “Tell me.”

He didn’t ask her to clarify. He knew what she was talking about. “In the morning.”

“Now.”

“It’ll only upset you when I’m trying to help you relax.”

“The truth has to be better than what I’m imagining.”

“Not necessarily,” he said, but he must’ve understood that she needed to assert her will on something.

Taking the seat across from her, he spoke in a somber voice. “Les is an oily bastard. An attorney.”

Claire couldn’t remember Mr. Weaver ever telling her what he did for a living. But he’d handed over quite a chunk of money—five thousand dollars—so she assumed he wasn’t hard-pressed. “And that makes him untrustworthy from the get-go?” she said with a weak chuckle.

“It was more the look of him. He just…didn’t fit the stereotype.”

She grimaced at the taste of the tea, but he leaned forward and stirred in a spoonful of sugar. Then it wasn’t too bad. “Not every hunter does.”

“Exactly. So I ignored what my instincts were telling me and asked him a few questions.”

“Like…”

“Had he been in the area before? Did he still hunt? That sort of thing.”

The hot liquid soothed her despite the suspense. “And?”

“He didn’t talk like a hunter, either. I asked him about previous hunts, but he wouldn’t elaborate. Every hunter I’ve ever met can give you a list of where he’s been and what he’s bagged.”

“Maybe killing David soured him on the whole experience.”

“That’s what he wanted me to believe. He even told me that after David died he got rid of every gun he owned. Said he can’t bear to even look at a firearm.”

“I can understand why.”

“Me, too. Except…”

She shifted, trying to brace for what he had coming. “Except…”

“He’s still got a whole gun cabinet filled with them. That’s hardly getting rid of all his guns.”

Cradling the mug, Claire concentrated on the smooth ceramic and the way it transferred warmth to her cold hands. “How do you know he has that many if he told you—”

“I saw them through the back window. They were right there in the living room, next to the couch.”

“Shit… Why would Weaver lie?”

Isaac rubbed his chin as he answered. “He wasn’t expecting me to check.”

“But he volunteered that information, correct?”

“I believe he wants to appear more contrite than he feels—”

“Prick!”

“—so that no one looks any closer.”

She studied Isaac from beneath her lashes. “He killed David on purpose.”

“That’s my guess.”

“This changes everything.”

“It could.”

Or it could lead nowhere. She’d learned, long ago, not to get her hopes up. “We’d have to prove it, find someone in Pineview who has some connection to him. And that might be easier said than done.”

“Not if we get the sheriff involved again,” he said. “Someone needs to take a look at his phone records, and that requires a subpoena.”

“Do you think one lie over whether or not he still owns guns will be enough to get a judge to sign off? It’s such an invasion of privacy. He’s an attorney. That’ll make everyone cautious.”

“I’m going to do some more research first, see if I can come up with more on him.”

With a nod, she forced herself to finish her tea. But when she stood to carry her cup to the sink, he took it from her and rinsed it himself.

“Feeling better?”

“A little.” It was true. But she was pretty sure his presence and his support had more to do with it than anything else.

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14

Dust motes swirled in the late-afternoon sunlight pouring through the window. Claire watched them shimmy above the table as she sat in April’s kitchen, awaiting the glass of iced tea April had offered her. Far too warm, even in her skirt, sandals and lightweight top, she shifted uncomfortably. If April had air-conditioning, she wasn’t using it. She’d turned on a fan when they walked through the living room, but it wasn’t enough.

There were other signs of cost-cutting. Drab, well-worn furniture. Sheets in place of blinds. Tattered rugs covering the wooden floor. The house itself was so old it still had a cast-iron stove in the corner. But it was clean and well-maintained and smelled like fresh paint. And it was only a block off Main Street. Grandma Bigelow, who’d taught piano lessons most of her life, had owned it for sixty years before she passed away. Now April rented it from Roger Bigelow and his son Clyde, who also owned a big cattle ranch outside town.

“I can’t believe it’s taken you so long to come to me.”

It was April who’d broken the silence, but this wasn’t even close to what Claire had imagined she’d say. “Excuse me?”

Ice clinked against glass as April put her drink down. “After what I told the police years ago, I expected to hear from you sooner.”

Claire wasn’t sure how to respond to this. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing in the case files about you or anything you said.”

April’s expression bordered on belligerent. “My statement has to be there. I signed it and everything.”

“I’m telling you, there’s nothing from or about you.” At least not in the accordion file Claire had found at the studio. She’d read everything twice.

She blinked. “How do you know? The police might not be telling you everything.”

“I’ve seen the files.”

“All of them?”

“I think so. What I read seemed pretty exhaustive.” When she explained about what she’d discovered at her mother’s studio, disgust curled April’s lip.

“Why should I be surprised my statement went missing?” she said.

“What does that mean?” Claire asked.

“We live in a small town where everyone knows everyone else.”

“You’re saying you think someone deep-sixed it? On purpose?”

“As a favor to a friend, namely your father. He’s an important figure around here these days.”

Since the inheritance. He hadn’t been important before he became wealthy. He’d worked by the hour in a gun shop. But Claire didn’t like the tone of April’s voice; it made her defensive even though April was right—Tug had more power now than he’d ever possessed. “What did it say, your statement?”

She pursed her lips, studied Claire, then smiled. “You can’t guess?”

“That Roni was responsible for my mother’s disappearance?” Maybe the police hadn’t bothered to keep her statement since it was so obviously sour grapes.

She chuckled as she took the seat opposite Claire. “Bingo. But you’re wrong about everything else.”

“What do you mean?”

“You think I said it just because I hate her and would love to get her in trouble.”

Claire sipped her iced tea. “There’s never been any love lost between you.” Especially after April’s father hanged himself in Copper Grady’s old barn.

“No kidding. Don’t know how you’ve been able to stomach her.”

Roni had her moments, but she could be sweet and surprisingly generous, and she’d been consistently supportive. Even when she was difficult, Claire muddled through for the sake of keeping peace in the family. What good would it do to reject her stepmother? Did she want to end up like April? Bitter and lonely and estranged? “Leanne and I have both gotten along with her.”

She shrugged. “No accounting for taste, I suppose. Still, I expected you to have more sense than your silly sister seems to—”

Claire stood. “I didn’t come here so you could bash my sister.”

April’s palm smacked the table. “You didn’t come here for the truth, either. Your mind’s already made up, so why’d you want to talk to me?”

Because she was trying to expand her search in hopes of actually learning something that would make a difference.

Curling her fingers around the edge of the table, Claire took a deep breath. “Do you have any facts on which you’re basing such an accusation against Roni?”

“You mean other than believing she’s capable of it?”

Claire shoved a hand through her hair. “How can you say that?”

“I saw what she did to my father.”

“Your father had a hard life. I—I’m sorry about what happened. But depression did him in, not Roni.”

“Desperation did him in. The head games she played did him in. And that started when he met her.”

They could argue about this all day, but what was the point? Claire wasn’t close enough to that situation to know what was true and what wasn’t. “Tell me why you think she killed my mother.”

“She wanted her out of the way.”

Claire sank back into her seat. “Why?”

“Roni hated your mother. She was jealous of her years before she acted on that jealousy.”

Shoving the tea aside, Claire leaned forward. “Don’t state it as a known fact because—”

“I’ll state it any way I like,” she interrupted. “And if you really want to do right by your mom, you’ll listen.”

Claire almost stood again, but she figured she’d come this far, she might as well hear the rest. Then it would all be out, and there’d be one less rock to look under. Clenching her jaw, she said, “Tell me what you have to say.”

“They were having an affair. That wasn’t conjecture on my part. I heard all the shit she said.”

“But Tug and Roni weren’t even particularly good friends.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” April touched the condensation on her glass. “They worked at the gun shop together.”

This was it? What she was basing everything on? “Of course I know that, but—”

“They fell in love, Claire.”

“According to you. I’m not sure I believe it.”

“Trust me. Roni wanted him. But there was one problem. Tug already had a wife.”

“And Roni already had a husband.”

“She wasn’t worried about that. She’d toyed with his heart until she had him so beaten down he wasn’t the same man he’d been when I was young. Why he loved her so much, I can’t even guess, but part of his anguish came from knowing he had no chance of keeping her. My dad, God rest his soul, didn’t have the same…prospects as Tug.”

The fan in the other room stirred Claire’s hair as it moved from side to side but did little to cool the kitchen. “You’re talking about the money my parents had just inherited.”

“Yes.”

Claire had expected to hear something like this and yet it grated on her. “Do you have proof?”

“Once I began to suspect, I wanted to know for sure. So I hacked into her email account and read their messages. They were pretty hot.”

“But no one’s ever accused him of cheating.” Except her. Hadn’t she just asked him and Roni at the salon?

“They hid it well. It’s too bad your mother didn’t do the same.”

The burning in her throat threatened to choke Claire. “You’re saying you think my mom was having an affair, too.”

“Of course. Don’t you? Why would so many people point a finger at her if it wasn’t true?”

“Because they’re searching for answers they don’t have, so they come up with the only explanation they can.”

She drummed her fingers on the table. “If that’s what you want to believe.”

“Why shouldn’t I? You didn’t hack into her email account, did you?”

April didn’t respond immediately. When she did, her voice was softer. “No. That part is pure conjecture.”

Claire wished she’d never instigated this conversation. “So, according to you, Tug and Roni were having an affair and so was my mother. But if they’d both found happiness with someone else, why didn’t they simply divorce? How does that situation develop into murder?”

“Far too easily, I’m afraid. Roni was making Tug feel like a desirable man, the only man for her, and you and I both know how susceptible he is to that.”

Claire gave no indication whether she agreed with this or not. Being attractive to the opposite sex had always been important to him. The way he dressed, far younger than his age, said as much. But April didn’t know Tug, not really.

“As long as he could provide the lifestyle she craved—the lifestyle my father failed to provide—he’d be her heartthrob.”

Even though she wished she could prevent it, the mansion Roni lived in courtesy of her mother’s inheritance popped into Claire’s mind. She and Leanne had each received ninety thousand, which they’d spent on their houses and on school, but Tug had kept the bulk of Alana’s inheritance. “So you think it was all about money.”

“That, and he didn’t want to lose you and Leanne.”

Leanne’s words during their last argument came back to Claire. Her sister had stopped short of accusing Tug of murder, but she’d also said he wasn’t sad about losing Alana because it meant he wouldn’t have to worry about being separated from her children. Did a consensus make that true?

No. She was allowing this to go too far. April hated Roni and Tug. She had a vested interest in describing them in the worst possible light. And Claire was letting her. “You don’t know how he felt about us so don’t pretend you do—”

“You’re wrong there, too. He wrote what I just said in one of those emails.” April picked up her glass, stared at it in the light of the sun and took a swallow before setting it back down. “He really cares about you, if that makes you feel any better.”

It didn’t. Claire was sick inside. “Most stepparents don’t go to such lengths to keep their stepchildren.”

“But he wasn’t going to get any more. Roni had herself fixed when she married my father. He already had the four of us. She didn’t want a fifth mouth to feed. And Tug couldn’t have any of his own.”

Claire nearly dropped her glass. “What did you say?”

April watched her more closely. “You mean the part about Tug being infertile? You didn’t know?”

He wouldn’t admit it. She suspected the reason for that was his ego. He didn’t want to be perceived as damaged goods or less capable, less attactive to women. But she did know. That was the problem. She’d overheard her own mother say it, and that lent April’s whole terrible story more credibility than she wanted it to have. “Who told you?”

“It was in one of the emails. I’m guessing he sent it before she told him she couldn’t conceive, because he was trying to reassure her that she didn’t have to worry about getting pregnant.” She tore at some loose skin on her lips with her teeth, apparently struggling to recall the specifics. “If I remember right, he said something like, ‘All I ever dream about is making a baby with you. But even with Alana out of the way, you need to know it wouldn’t be possible.’ Then he went on to say that when his first wife couldn’t get pregnant, she dragged him to the doctor and they learned he had a low sperm count. He claimed that’s why she divorced him.”

When Claire merely stared, slack-jawed, April grimaced. “I really didn’t expect this to shock you quite so badly. You have to believe someone killed your mother. Who else could it be?”

Anyone. Joe. His brother. His wife. A…a stranger. A psychopath.

“Just be glad you weren’t the one to read those sickly sweet emails,” April told her. “I get a cavity just remembering them. But it was the sexual ones that really grossed me out.”

Claire lifted a hand to stop her. “Spare me the details, please.”

“No problem. I’ve already blocked them from memory.”

It seemed a bit convenient that she could remember so much about the other ones, especially after fifteen years. “Do you have copies of those emails?”

“No. I was afraid my father would see them, and—” her voice wavered “—I didn’t want him to be hurt.”

April had lost a parent, too. Claire sympathized. But that didn’t mean it was right for April to blame Roni. “So she never figured out that you knew?”

“She didn’t have to figure it out. Several months later, I accused her of it.”

Claire folded her arms. “If she’s so diabolical, weren’t you afraid of what she might do to shut you up?”

“She hadn’t killed anyone at that point. I knew she was a selfish bitch, but I never dreamed she’d go quite so far—until it happened. That convinced me pretty fast.” She pushed her lip to one side so she could reach a different spot with her teeth. “I’ll never forget where I was when I heard the news that your mother was missing. I was sitting in my father’s trailer, crying. He was drunk, passed out yet again, but the TV was blaring in the background, showing the police going in and out of your house.”

“You immediately knew Roni was responsible?”