A Stranger on the Beach(72)

“What did I do?” he said aloud.

Mike released the pressure on Aidan’s back. He felt stupidly grateful for the sensation of air in his lungs, like he loved Mike for not torturing him anymore. Mike knelt down beside him and spoke into Aidan’s ear in a calm, reasonable voice.

“You want to tell me, kid? Confession is good for the soul. What did you do? Did you shoot someone? Kill somebody? You can tell me.”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure,” Aidan said, and then he squeezed his eyes shut. He was trying to see what happened after he went outside. But all he saw was the rain.

“Think about it. Tell me what you remember.”

“Can I talk to my brother?”

“Talk to me, Aidan. We go back. I’ve known you since you were a kid.”

This was a trick. Mike Castro was not his friend. Mike lived down the street from the Bosticks. The Bosticks blamed Aidan for Matthew’s death. Mike thought Tommy rigged the case, making it so Aidan barely did any time. But that wasn’t true. Aidan was blameless. He didn’t sleep with Matthew’s girlfriend. He didn’t pick a fight to impress Samantha. He didn’t throw the first punch. Matthew did that. Yet Aidan’s life got ruined. He got punished worse than he deserved. He went to jail. He missed out on going to college. He couldn’t get a decent job. All that suffering, and Mike still couldn’t forgive him. Mike resented Tommy, too, and coveted his job. He’d love to see Tommy fired and Aidan locked up for good, whether he deserved it or not. Maybe this was some kind of frame-up job. Then again, there was the real possibility that Aidan had murdered Jason Stark in cold blood and didn’t remember. Aidan was covered in blood. So much blood that someone must have died. If this was a frame job based on Mike Castro’s grudge against him, Mike would have actually had to kill somebody to make it look right. That made no sense. Aidan knew Mike, and he knew himself. Mike was a straight arrow, a rule-follower. If Aidan had to put money on one of them being a killer, he’d definitely pick himself.

If he killed Jason Stark, he was in deep shit.

“I need to talk to Tommy,” Aidan said.

“He’s not here.”

“Then I want a lawyer,” Aidan said.

“If that’s how you’re gonna play it, shithead,” Mike said, and put his knee on Aidan’s back again.

A pair of boots marched over to them.

“The inside of the truck is covered in blood,” Wayne said. “Like, drenched. I don’t see a weapon from a visual inspection. You want me to start ripping the truck apart?”

The wind was picking up, and the rain coming down harder. Aidan shivered on the wet ground.

“No. Secure the vehicle and get it towed right away. We don’t want to risk losing evidence to the elements out here. The forensics team can finish the search.”

“What do we do with Junior?”

“We bring him in.”

“On what charge?”

“Murder. What do you think?” Mike said, and then he hauled Aidan to his feet. “You have the right to remain silent.…”





46


Aidan shivered in the holding cell. They’d brought him in and fingerprinted him and made him recite his information. Name, address, date of birth, et cetera, even though every person in that station knew him for years. None of them would meet his eyes. They took his mug shot and photographed every square inch of him, so they’d have proof that he was drenched in blood when he was found. His hands, his face, his clothes, even his boots were full of it, and the stench was in his nostrils. They took samples of his own blood, swabbed DNA from his cheek, scraped under his fingernails. Everything was carefully sealed and catalogued. They took his clothes for evidence, folding them away in brown paper bags because that preserved the bodily fluids best. An officer he poured drinks for on Friday nights took him in a back room and made him squat for a body cavity search, then handed him a set of thin, scratchy prison blues that did nothing to keep out the cold.

And now he was alone in this cell, drained and shaky and confused about his own guilt. He’d washed up at a sink after the processing, but the smell of the blood was still on him. Jason Stark’s blood? He honestly didn’t remember shooting Caroline’s husband. But he remembered wanting to kill him. And he remembered waking up covered in blood. You do the math. If he wasn’t a killer, where did all the blood come from?

This was as bad as anything that had ever happened to him, and a lot of bad things had happened in his life. But Tommy had never abandoned him before, no matter how much trouble he’d been in. Ever since their father died, Tommy was there, the one constant in Aidan’s life, the guiding light. But not now. Aidan had been at his brother’s station house for hours, repeatedly asked to see him, and Tommy had not appeared. Aidan couldn’t blame him. He deserved to be abandoned. He hadn’t appreciated his brother’s support when he had it. Whining, complaining, rejecting help, resisting advice. Well, now he’d gotten his wish. Tommy was off his back. And he’d never felt so alone. He reached up to touch the St. Christopher medal his brother had given him, but it was gone—confiscated, sealed in a plastic bag, to be returned when he got out. If he got out.

He wondered where Caroline was right now. She must know what happened last night. She was there. That much he remembered. Their beautiful dance, he’d never forget. How much had she seen, and how did she feel about him now—after that? Whatever he’d done was done out of love for her. But she wouldn’t understand. She’d be too horrified. The crime must have been brutal to spill so much blood. Mike Castro thought so. Tommy probably did, too, or else he’d be here now. Caroline would curse his name. She’d asked him to kill her husband. He’d been shocked. He’d refused. But after all that, had he done it anyway? And if he had, would she hate him, rather than thanking him? Would she tell? Turn state’s evidence against him? He wouldn’t blame her if she did.