The Row(56)

Clearing my throat, I try to jump right back in, too. “Right, Hillary, okay. So we’ll take turns. You ask me questions about my case. I’ll ask you about yours. We’ll compare notes and see what similarities and differences we’ve found.” I shuffle my notes into some semblance of order.

“First question, where was Valynne’s body found?” Jordan asks.

That isn’t one of the details I have to look up. I was there. “East End, by the corner of Barlow and Prairie, in an alley behind a pharmacy.”

“Who found her? What time of day was she found?” He leans back in his chair and rubs the knuckles of his right hand under his chin. I’m struck by how much he looks like Chief Vega in that moment. Instead of making me want to hit him or run away, like I expect, the thought brings unexpected warmth to my chest. It surprises me so much I completely forget what he asked.

“Um, ask me again?” I say finally, after pretending to look for the information to hide my embarrassment.

Jordan gives me a confused half smile, but then repeats himself without an interrogation, and I’m grateful. “Who found her and at what time? And what time do they think she died?”

“A delivery guy found her just after seven a.m. And the answer to your other question hasn’t been released.” I sigh and put my notes down. Maybe this is pointless. It’s so hard to figure out what I think about everything with so little information. I look over at Jordan. “Same questions about your case.”

“Okay, Hillary was the last of the three East End Murders from before your father went to prison. She was found in Mason Park by a jogger at six in the morning.” He flips through his notes as he speaks, and I lean forward. Closing my eyes, I press my forehead into my palms and try to compare the details to my case.

“Why a park?” I muse quietly, massaging my temples gently with my fingertips.

“What?”

I sit up and frown at him, thinking out loud. “Well, why a park? An alley like where Valynne was found is more hidden. It’s a place where they might not be found for a while. Was she under a bush or somewhere out of the way in the park?”

He examines one of his papers before answering. “No. It says she was actually just a few feet from a popular jogging path.”

“So, why a park, then?”

Before I say another word, Jordan is flipping through to other pages in his notes. He finds what he’s searching for quickly, flips to a different page, and starts scanning through it.

“What are you—?”

“Give me a sec, I’m checking something.” He finds two more papers, then finally looks up at me and says, “Not why a park, why an alley?”

“What?” I go quickly through our conversation in my head and still don’t understand what he’s saying.

“All three earlier murders before Valynne are in more public places: the park, a neighborhood path, and a busy skateboarding park near an outdoor mall. The park isn’t the one that stands out, the alley from the most recent murder is.” He watches me for my reaction. This is an indicator of a copycat and I need to recognize it as such. He’s waiting for me to go all in on this method of thinking, and that will mean trusting him to fight for my father.

I can try to do that verbally at least.

“That could indicate a difference in preference for the killer.” The words taste bitter with a tang of betrayal in my mouth. I want to take them back, but I bite my tongue and force myself to wait.

“It could be. Or it could be that being dormant for so long has made him grow timid. After all, watching your father be punished would make most people more cautious about being caught,” Jordan says.

The bitterness disappears, and all at once my shoulders and chest feel lighter than they have in a very long time. Not only is Jordan keeping his promise and arguing for Daddy’s innocence, but he’s good at it. His argument is very reasonable, one I might not have considered myself.

Keeping my eyes down on the files so he won’t see the intense relief in my face, I say, “Good point.”

“Riley…” Jordan looks like he can’t decide whether to continue on with his thought or not.

“Go ahead,” I say, bracing myself for whatever he doesn’t want to say.

“Did you have any suspicion at all that your dad cheated on your mom?” He winces as he says the word cheated, and so do I.

“I believed their lie.” I feel deflated just saying it.

“What about what Mr. Masters said? Do you think your mom might actually believe the lie, too?” His voice is low now, like even the walls might hear us.

“I’ve been wondering that same thing.” I fold my arms on the table, lay my head on them, and sigh. Memories of Mama’s voice ring in my head from the far distant past. Words like, “They’re lying about him, sweet pea,” and “Your daddy wouldn’t even cheat at chess, let alone anything else.”

Of course, at six years old, I hadn’t even understood what this kind of cheating meant. I hadn’t even thought it was an important thing at the time. But Mama had to know about the evidence. And if they had presented the firm proof that I’d seen in the file, was she lying to me all along about what he’d done? Or was my mother really that na?ve?

The more I think about it, the more I think there’s only one real answer. She isn’t, she wasn’t, she never could be.