Текст книги "Ascension Day"

Автор книги: John Matthews

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 38 страниц)

‘She get a good look at him?’ Coyne asked.

‘Not sure, sir. We thought it best to leave her for you to question.’

Coyne had interviewed the eye-witness, but her description was far from conclusive: African-American, stocky build, six foot to six-two, maybe more, thirty-plus, maybe forty, wearing a dark-blue or black jacket, maybe dark-grey or brown.

‘The ‘maybes’ had concerned Coyne: her core description was vague enough, could fit ten per cent of African-American adult males, without stretching the boundaries further. And with sixty per cent of New Orleans African-American, they were a million miles from a ‘workable suspect list’, as 6 ^thDistrict chief, Captain Vincent Campanelli, had demanded on day one of the investigation.

Pat Coyne looked thoughtfully towards his neatly-tended garden beyond the small back verandah, as if it might give him clearer focus on the events of twelve years ago. Strange, he thought: often he could recall the events of that time clearer than things that had happened only months ago.

‘Would she recognize him again, I asked… not sure, she said. I took that as a “No”, but thought: if we narrowed down the list of possible suspects and got a few faces in front of her – we just might get lucky. So we started working things from the other end – putting together a list of house burglars with that MO.’

‘Was Larry Durrant one of those on that list?’

‘No. No, he wasn’t. Mainly because his past MO hadn’t been violent. We were looking at a particularly brutal killing “in the course of” here. Somebody who could kill without raising much sweat. We had half-a-dozen suspects who’d shot and wounded or beaten their targets half to death in past robberies, two that we suspected of killing but had never managed to nail – and two more who’d tied up and tortured their robbery victims. We were spoilt for choice without looking at the likes of Larry Durrant.’

‘So were you surprised when his confession came in?’

‘Purely on a MO level, yeah.’ Coyne shrugged. ‘But then everything else tied in: not only the jacket with the DNA match, but his descriptions of the murder itself. Things that only the killer could possibly have known – particularly the head shot.’

‘Why was that?’

Coyne shrugged with a palm out. ‘Okay, first off it was the one thing that might not fit in with a robbery-gone-wrong theory, more hit-man territory. But that’s also why we held it back from any official releases, press or otherwise – so that we could filter out any false confessions. All we released was that Jessica Roche had been shot twice, apparently while disturbing an intruder. Most people would assume: sudden surprise, blam-blam from five paces, and out. And that’s pretty much what came in.’ Coyne smiled ingenuously. ‘Celebrity murder like that, we actually expected more – but there were six confessions in all. Three were white, one was way off the mark of the eye-witness description, and of course the other two we grilled like all hell. They got all manner of things wrong with internal descriptions of the house, but most tellingly neither of them mentioned the close-up head shot. The only one to describe that was Larry Durrant.’

Coyne was silent for a second, the only sound from a couple of bees hovering by a nearby azalea bush. The muted sounds of the city beyond like a more distant swarm.

‘But we’re getting a touch ahead of ourselves here,’ he continued. ‘Hand in hand with us narrowing down the general suspect list, we also took a closer look at Adelay Roche. My superior, Captain Campanelli, wasn’t at all comfortable with that – felt we’d get all kinds of back-lash from Roche. Word had it that he was pretty buddy-buddy with the Assistant Commissioner at the time. But it’s standard procedure, you know, looking close to home. And Roche wasn’t giving us any grief at that stage – which also struck me as somewhat strange, not running completely true to form.’

Coyne took a fresh breath. ‘But after months of digging into Adelay Roche’s background, we found nothing. No possible link to him killing his own wife, and, most importantly, no motive: no other woman, no arguments, no pressures or problems that anyone was aware of, and no big insurance policy on her – not that he’d need the cash. In fact everyone we spoke to said they seemed very much in love. And to cap it all, they were hopeful of soon having their first child. Mrs Roche was undergoing fertility treatment, with high chances of success, according to her doctor. Perhaps if her doctor had said that the fertility treatment hadn’t gone well and there was no possible hope of future children… then we might have had the seed of something. Or lack of seed, in this case. The Henry the Eighth motive, I think it’s known as.’

Coyne smiled dryly, but noticed that his visitor mirrored it only half-heartedly, as if the subject was too weighty for humour. Or perhaps because of what he’d mentioned when they first sat down.

‘But even if I had gone to Campanelli with that, he’d no doubt have told me that I was being too much of a cynical prick – as often was his wont to do – and I was stretching things too far. Then just as the dust was settling on the Adelay Roche front, he did run more true to form and start screaming why weren’t we making more progress in finding his wife’s killer. Maybe it took him a while to get over the initial shock and become obnoxious again, who knows? Then just two weeks later, Durrant’s confession landed in our laps.’

‘And did you feel comfortable with it, you know – given your concerns about Durrant’s MO?’

Coyne held out one palm. ‘I had somereservations. But listening to Durrant’s voice on tape, there was only one possible conclusion: he hadto have been there. So either he was the killer, or a fly on the wall at the time. And when the DNA evidence came in, that sealed it.’

Coyne’s visitor looked faintly crestfallen at that moment, perturbed. It took him a second to decide where to head next.

‘And the eye-witness?’

‘Incidental by that stage. All she was able to do was provide a general fit for Durrant’s appearance, not an exact ID. Early on, we’d narrowed down our list of hard-hitting robbers to three possibles and put them in a line-up with five others, including two police officers. She was split between three of them – two suspects and a police officer. Which I suppose from a hundred yards away at night, is understandable. So we didn’t want to push our luck with Durrant, otherwise the defence could have had a field day. But, by then, we didn’t need to.’

His visitor glanced absently towards the garden for a second before bringing his attention back. ‘And were there any other witnesses or others on the scene at the time that weren’t mentioned in the police report? Perhaps, say, because they didn’t come forward?’

‘No, the lady with the dog was the only one. Or, at least, if anyone else was there, they weren’t seen by her or any of the Roche’s neighbours we questioned.’ Coyne raised an eyebrow, was about to ask why, when his visitor leant forward and passed across three photos.

‘This is someone in touch recently by e-mail, claiming that he was thereat the time and so knows Durrant’s innocent. Probably a hoaxer, or maybe even a friend of Durrant’s – but you never know. Strike any chords?’

Coyne studied them, grimacing tightly after a moment. ‘Can’t say that they do – even if there was more to pull a match from here.’ Coyne shrugged as he handed the photos back. ‘But, like I say, doesn’t become a factor here: nothing to match to. No other sightings. If there had been, they’d have been in the report.’

His visitor nodded, his gaze towards the garden this time seeming to stop in mid-space – as if something was hanging there he couldn’t quite bring into focus – before he looked back at Coyne.

‘Thanks for that, Mr Coyne. You’ve been most helpful.’ He switched off the tape recorder and put the photos back in his briefcase.

‘Perhaps my assistant, Dave Friele, will remember more,’ Coyne said. ‘He’s still with the department, though now he’s moved to Central – Eighth Division. But that’s about all of importance I can think of now, what with the passage of the years… Mr… Mr Langford.’

‘Langfranc,’ his visitor corrected. ‘John Langfranc. It was meant to be my colleague, Jac McElroy, making this call today. But, as I say… with his accident… I… I’ve had to take things over from him.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry to hear about that, Mr Langfranc.’ Coyne grimaced tightly as he stood to show Langfranc out. ‘But feel free to call me if there’s anything else you need clarification on.’

20

‘ …Shall I tell you about my life… they say I’m a man of the world… I’ve flown across every time… I’ve seen lots of pretty girls…’

Rodriguez had phoned Jac’s office and been put through to John Langfranc. ‘We wanted to play somethin’ for him here on the prison radio. Felt, yer know… that’s the least we could do. Do you happen to know his favourite tune?’

Langfranc didn’t, but he had a number for Jac’s mother and sister. He’d phone them and ask, and phone Rodriguez straight back. Langfranc hadn’t wanted to give their number to an inmate or get them involved in whatever prison relationships Jac might have forged.

Langfranc phoned back minutes later, having just spoken with Jean-Marie. There were four choices: Sting’s ‘Roxanne’, Simply Red’s ‘Holding Back the Years’, Oasis’s ‘Wonderwall’ or Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Man of the World’

‘The last apparently because it was also his father’s favourite song.’

Rodriguez could only find ‘Roxanne’ and ‘Man of the World’ in the prison record collection, and given his own rap-sheet history and Haveling’s likely reaction to him playing a song about a hooker, there was only one choice left.

‘… Played today for Jac McElroy… one of those who took the time and trouble to care – because, God knows there’s few enough o’ them left these days – and paid the price for it…’

More maudlin a song than Rodriguez would have liked, maybe more ‘tired-drone’ territory, but the words weren’t too bad a fit, perhaps even would have described part of his own life… and he loved that guitar work, reminded him of his main man Carlos S.

With everything that had happened with Jac McElroy, Larry’s emotions were already raw and close to the surface. He lay with his back flat on his bed listening to the song as it played, staring up at the grey ceiling. It had in fact been his suggestion to Rodriguez that they play something for McElroy.

He’d already prayed for him, even though he no longer had an altar: just a four by three foot upright board where his altar used to be, covering the fresh cement laid behind. But he’d used the board to pin-up the photos from his altar that meant something to him. Only five of the religious photos sent by Peretti’s aunt from Perugia Cathedral, though, made the transfer, the majority were of Larry’s family: his mother, father, Franny, Joshua. Most of all, Joshua.

Joshua a year ago, the most recent photo, standing with his mother at the side of a brown Buick, probably Frank’s; Joshua blowing out the candles at his eighth birthday party; Joshua at five or six in front of Orlando’s SeaWorld, again with his mom – Larry aware that often the person who’d snapped the photos had taken his place in their lives; Joshua at three years old, looking up from playing on the floor with some toys.

But the only photos to have any life and movement in them were the two taken shortly after Joshua’s birth: one a week after Francine had come out of hospital, lovingly cradling Joshua in her arms; the other with himself holding Joshua aloft towards the camera, beaming proudly: ‘Look, unbelievable, isn’t it: he’s mine, all mine.’

From just those two photos, Larry was able to roll out in his mind everything else that had happened around that time: when the birth was announced in the hospital, his mother bought a cigar and a small bottle of champagne from a nearby liquor store, a ‘Benjamin’ – she didn’t want to encourage him to drink too much, she’d defended when he’d remarked about its size – barely gave them half a glass each to toast with. Rocking Joshua in his arms at every opportunity he got, staring down at his cradle at night in wonderment sometimes for as much as an hour, feeling Josh’s tiny fingers and the gentle fall of his breath against the back of one hand; staying awake sometimes for hours and checking regularly, fearful as he listened out that that gentle breathing might have suddenly stopped; and when Joshua did wake up in the middle of the night, crying, Larry swaying him softly in his arms and humming a Viennese waltz to get him back to sleep – Francine laughing as on one occasion she found him slumped in a chair asleep with Joshua still in his arms, the humming having lulled both of them to sleep…

The images playing clearly on his cell’s grey ceiling, where he’d played most of them through the years.

And then nothing. Nothing but static, frozen pictures. His whole life with Joshua condensed into just a few months, then nothing after that. Larry tried as best he could to shift those other images, give them some movement in his imagination – but he’d never managed to bring any life to them as they scrolled across the grey ceiling.

Only in his dreams sometimes could he imagine talking or playing ball or mock-sparring with Joshua as he was in those photos when he was older, hugging him now and then – and then he’d awake to the cold reality of his cell, a slow tear already at the corner of one eye, even before he faced again the cold, static photos and the tears began to flow more freely. All those lost years. Gone. Gone forever.

He’d stare at the photos wide-eyed, as if trying to immerse himself in their world, his body not moving, only his breath slowly rising and falling as the tears streamed down his face. Immobile, static. Frozen. As if somehow if they were both in the same pose, frozen, he would feel closer to Joshua in that moment.

Static. And that’s probably just how he in turn had seemed through the years to young Joshua. The Stone Mountain. A pitiful grey figure frozen inside his prison cell, with little colour or movement or life that Joshua could attach to it.

In all the years, he’d never told Joshua how much he loved him, Francine neither. Oh sure, he’d told his precious God how much he loved them, many a time… but in all their visits or his letters or e-mails with Joshua, he’d never said it directly. Just talked about day-to-day stuff, How are you? How are things at school? Basket-ball team, huh… New computer, that’s nice… What are you reading these days?… Given a few tips where he could.

Arm’s length. Holding at bay his deeper feelings. As if afraid that if he opened up, the dam would burst on the tidal wave of emotions he’d bottled up through the long years. Hold it back… hold back. Be strong… be strong.

And he’d been the same when Jac McElroy had visited: played his cards close to his chest, kept everything tight inside, guarded, given McElroy a hard time. Sure, McElroy had mainly just been doing his job, but as Roddy had said, he was one of the few that had actually taken the trouble to care, had stuck his neck out and gone that extra mile for him. And now…. and now…

The tears welled heavily in Larry’s eyes. Roddy hadn’t told him which song he’d be playing, but as he heard the softly lamenting guitar riff and opening words, he found the tears impossible to bite back any longer. Was that how it would forever be set in stone for his – probably short – time on this earth? His epitaph? Never able to tell people how he truly felt… only his God. Holding back… holding…

And as Peter Green’s soulful cry – ‘ I just wish I had never been born’ – cut through the cold concrete caverns of Libreville prison, finally the dam did burst: he cried for the lost years, cried for all the things that now he might not get the chance to say, cried for having let Franny and Josh down – deserting them just when they needed him most – cried for breaking his mother’s heart, cried for Jessica Roche’s long-gone soul… and now for Jac McElroy too. How many more? Maybe best that he was going soon… He cried and cried until it became a pitiful sobbing that racked his entire body.

Sudden rapping on the side wall, three sharp knocks, startling him.

‘You okay in there, Larry?’ Theo Mellor’s voice from the next cell. ‘You okay, man?’

‘Yeah. Yeah.’ He clawed back some composure, wiped some of the tears away with the back of one hand. ‘Bad song choice, that’s all. Real bad song choice.’

21

Grey. Everything grey.

Clogging his nose, his mouth, trickling down and burning his lungs.

At most, twenty-five seconds before he finally wrenched his leg free, but it felt like a lifetime, sapping him of strength and vital time to get to the top to burst free for air.

Then he was rising up, up… his lungs searing and aching with the pressure and about to explode. Faint, distant light now touching the grey… how much further? Twenty feet, thirty?

His lungs finally gave just over halfway up, the water bursting down his gullet – and as the sunlight hitting the lake surface cut through last of the grey, making him squint, his consciousness in turn started to dim, dragging him back into grey again. Then finally black.

He recalled briefly some voices, though had no idea how long after.

‘I thought I saw him move a little.’

‘Nah… he’s not moving. He’s dead.’

And he thought: I’m not dead. I can hear you. And he could also feel a soft breeze from the lake hitting one cheek just before hands started pressing hard at his stomach, pumping.

But the second voice was right, he realized, must have seen that he was a hopeless case, because once again the grey started dragging him back down, back towards the black.

There was a strange dream at some stage later; a dream that tried to fool him that maybe he’d made it and was still alive. His last subconscious bid not to accept that he’d actually died.

He was lying in a bed – whether at home or a hospital, he couldn’t tell, because everything was whited out and indistinct. And Alaysha was leaning over and hugging and kissing him.

‘Oh, Jac… Jac. You had us all so worried.’

The softness and warmth and perfume of her felt so good it made him ache and want to cry. And his mother and Jean-Marie were also there – got to meet and talk to Alaysha for the first time. John Langfranc, too, and even his occasional squash partner, Jeff Coombs… all of them smiling, nodding, talking… telling him how good it was to see him.

It was like that closing scene in A Wonderful Life, where half the town turn out to greet Jimmy Stewart and tell him how good it is to see him alive. Except that in this case, Jac knew that he was dead, because he could see his father hanging in the shadows at the back of the room; and then the grey was there again, dragging him back down…

Clogging his nose, his mouth… deeper into the blackness… away from the light at the top of the lake.

‘Jac… Jac!’

Alaysha kissing him again, but this time he pushed her away…no… no! I’ve already had that dream. Don’t tease me like this!

‘Jac… Jac. Wake up… wake up!’

Struggling against her as she shook him harder – but unable to resist the blackness this time, feeling himself dragged deeper and deeper into it… the water again rushing into his mouth, black and thick with mud… filling his gullet, his lungs, stifling, suffocating.

‘No… no…. no!’

His scream was still reverberating in the room as he sat up, his body soaked with sweat. He was trembling violently and felt suddenly cold.

Eyes blinking, adjusting, looking around to get his bearings. Salmon pink and beige. Alaysha’s bedroom.

She leant over and kissed him once more, one hand lingering on his shoulder as she pulled back, eyeing him concernedly.

‘Bad dream again?’

‘Yes… yes.’ He eased a tired sigh and smiled crookedly. ‘Unless I’m dead and this is the dream.’

Then, as he shook the last of the nightmare away, everything that had happened in the ten days he’d been away from the world flooded back in.

He was seen surfacing from the lake by the occupants of two cars passing on the Causeway, and was pulled from the water within minutes by one of them brave enough to take the plunge.

Four more cars stopped as the drama unfolded, and thankfully one of their drivers had basic First Aid experience – going through the resuscitation process for the first time with a real-life case.

A lot of water was coughed up, apparently, shallow breathing resumed and a weak pulse finally felt, but Jac was still unconscious, and remained so – despite medics giving him oxygen and a shot of adrenalin in his drip feed on the way to the hospital – for the next nine hours.

There was some residual water on his lungs, which was duly drained, one badly bruised and cut leg was stitched and strapped and a scan of his brain carried out – no signs of problems there – and when Jac finally awoke, he felt as right as rain and was in good spirits, as if nothing had happened, and his visitors, who’d so far been kept at bay waiting anxiously between the coffee room and corridor outside were finally allowed in to see him.

His mum, Jean-Marie, Alaysha, John Langfranc, Jeff Coombs – just as in the dream, except for his father, and not all at the same time.

His assigned consultant talked about releasing him in only a couple of days. ‘Just need to run a few more tests, some fresh strapping on that leg and let you rest a bit more – then you should be fine to go home.’

But the night before he was due to leave hospital, his temperature rocketed to 102F. Further tests ensued, this time considerably more frantic.

A lung infection was discovered, presumably from the lake water, but it had already entered his bloodstream. Septicaemia had set in.

The greyness was again dragging Jac back towards the black void, as for the next four days Jac hovered close to death.

Alaysha stayed with Jac’s mother and Jean-Marie in the corridor outside his room for most of that time, didn’t go to work and had her mom take care of Molly. Jac’s mother found a church two blocks away where she lit a candle for him and prayed. There were prayers too from Larry Durrant inside Libreville, and Rodriguez had even played a song for him over the prison radio.

All of which Jac was brought up to date on when he finally emerged from the grey abyss, bringing a wry – albeit weak – smile to his face.

Four more days for more tests and for him to regain his strength, he was told.

But the first thing Jac thought about then was Durrant: six days already lost, now another four on top! Twenty-one days left till Durrant’s execution.

John Langfranc had already reassured him about the clemency petition.

‘Don’t worry. I got everything necessary off your computer, put all the file attachments with it, and went out to Libreville and got Durrant to sign it. It’s gone off already – copies to both Candaret and the Board of Pardons.’

When Jac voiced his concern about the extra four day wait, Langfranc again offered to help.

‘I can interview Coyne or Friele and put it on tape for you – at least get somethingrolling on that front. Hopefully you’ll be able to pick up the ball from there.’

Jac had played the tape countless times during his last days in the hospital, as well as gone through again his earlier notes and the original trial and appeal files. So, that head shot and Durrant’s past MO had initially struck Coyne as out of place.

But everything else from Coyne – the eye-witness, Durrant’s descriptions of the house and the murder further bolstered by that final head shot being held back from all press releases, the blood spots on his jacket matched to Jessica Roche’s DNA – piled everything irrevocably against Durrant.

Jac felt weak, his strength sapped. Not just from the accident and his illness, but with what he now faced with Durrant. He’d just fought his way out of one grey abyss, yet just how he was going to fight his way through this daunting ocean of proof against Durrant, he didn’t know.

‘I know this isn’t the best time to bring this up,’ Alaysha said. ‘But you know that warning letter we talked about having sent to Gerry?’ She sighed and rested her hands in her lap. ‘I think it would be a good idea to now send it.’

When Alaysha had first mentioned likely problems with her ex, Jac had suggested sending an initial warning letter on the firm’s letter-heading; then, if that didn’t work, they’d go the whole hog and get a restraining order.

‘I know you said he’d been phoning you.’ Jac arched an eyebrow. ‘But has he been round here at your door, too?’

Alaysha closed her eyes for a second and eased out a sigh of submission. ‘Yes. Yes… he has. I didn’t want to say anything before while you were ill.’

Jac nodded pensively. ‘Was it bad?’

‘No, I…I…’ Alaysha’s eyes flickered briefly shut again. ‘ Yes, it was. He came round a couple of days before you came out of hospital, banging and shouting, and I told him to stop: Molly was home and he was frightening her. He kept shouting a while more, then finally calmed, saying he had a jacket of mine I’d left at his place a few weeks back. He’d come to give it back. I checked through the spy-hole, and, sure enough, I could see it in his hand – so I said, okay, but I was leaving the door on the chain. He wasn’t coming in. He seemed fine with that, just nodded numbly, as if all the fight had gone out of him. “Okay, babe, okay… I understand,” he says.’ Alaysha shook her head, her eyes shutting heavier this time as the memory of what happened played against the back of her eyelids. She bit at her bottom lip as she opened her eyes again, as if still fearful of what they might see. ‘Then as soon… as soon…’

Jac reached out and gently touched her arm, consoling. ‘That’s okay… don’t worry. I’ll… I’ll get the letter sent off as soon as I get to the office.’

‘Thanks, Jac. I appreciate it.’ She swallowed hard, shaking off the last of the images. ‘You know, I thought he was going to rip the chain right off the door. I… I don’t know how I managed to shut it again.’ She glanced back briefly towards the door again, as if it still might suddenly burst open. Then she looked down uncertainly; something was still troubling her.

‘What is it?’ Jac asked.

‘Unfortunately it… it didn’t end there.’

Jac’s concern gripped like a stomach cramp. His hand, laid lightly on her arm, pressed gently. ‘What happened, Alaysha… what happened?’

‘He came by the club the night after, making a scene.’ The shadows in her eyes shifted hesitantly as she forced a tight smile. ‘But, thankfully, the security at the club’s good. They made quick work of getting rid of him.’

‘Thankfully.’ Jac felt his jaw tighten. But what was going to happen when next time he tried and there was no security or a chained door between them? ‘I suppose if all else fails, there’s always one way of handling Gerry.’ Jac held a fist up.

‘Oh?’ Alaysha eyed him curiously.

‘Young kid doesn’t last long on the streets of Glasgow without learning to use these. And my father always kept a boxing bag at our Rochefort farmhouse – said that it was one of the best ways to keep fit.’

Alaysha gave another quick, tight smile, unsure whether Jac was serious or if it was just bravado to make her feel more secure.

Jac wasn’t sure either. He’d spent the first night out of the hospital at her place, for various reasons: he had no fresh food at his place, he was still weak, and Alaysha commented with a sly smile that she wanted to ‘nurse him a bit.’

Their relationship had changed markedly while he’d been in the hospital, without much actually happening between them. Not only because he’d seen how much she seemed to care about him, belying the short time they’d been involved – but so had his mother and Jean-Marie, from witnessing Alaysha’s vigil at the hospital and talking with her there. He’d begged both of them not to say anything about Alaysha to Aunt Camille. ‘She probably thinks I’m still going out with Jennifer Bromwell, courtesy of Jennifer’s parents. It’s a long story – I’ll tell you later.’ But he decided to wait a while before telling them that Alaysha lap-danced. From what she’d told them, they appeared to think she did interior decorating and ‘some modelling’.

He’d also finally met Molly. Almost as if Alaysha kept Molly away at her mom’s while any new boyfriends visited, until they’d passed the initial acid test. Alaysha had brought Molly with her on her last visit to the hospital and introduced them, and Molly was there at Alaysha’s when Jac first came out: ‘Are you okay now?’ she enquired. He couldn’t help smiling, her soft, high tone attempting to be adult and grave. ‘Yes, fine… fine.’ He put one hand lightly on Molly’s shoulder as he knelt down to her height. ‘And you?’ Fine too, she said; then he spent the next half hour on his knees as she led him through the fantasy world of her dolls and informed him who hadn’t been fine recently amongst them.

Alaysha touched his cheek with the back of one hand. ‘It’s so good to have you back, Jac… so good.’

‘For me too.’ He closed his eyes at her touch. He could feel them getting closer, and wanted so much for it to work. But he’d seen those shadows in her eyes when she’d described Gerry trying to break her door down and visiting the club. Just what baptism of fire might their relationship have to endure to finally be rid of him?

Alaysha stroked her fingers gently across Jac’s cheek and back through his hair before taking her hand away. There was something else Gerry had said while at her door that had sent a chill through her, but that was the last thing she’d want to tell Jac about. After all, that was the whole point of this lawyer’s letter now: hopefully finally closing the book on her past life with Gerry and what she’d done with him.

She swallowed, took a fresh breath. ‘When are you supposed to be hearing from the police?’

‘Tomorrow or the latest the day after, they said.’ Shadows in hiseyes: knowing finally if his car, dragged up from Lake Pontchartrain, had been tampered with. He put one arm around Alaysha and gave her a reassuring hug. ‘And when Gerry gets this letter – let’s just hope he gets the message and leaves you be.’