Everything We Didn't Say(92)

Everett laughed. “Everyone accused your brother. He was found standing over Calvin Murphy’s body, quite literally holding the smoking gun.”

“No gunshot residue. No motive. He called 911. What killer would do that?” Juniper asked, borrowing from India’s playbook.

Everett seemed to consider her words for a moment. Then he leaned forward, bringing himself close enough to touch. She leaned back. “He did it,” Everett said slowly. “I know that he did. And I’m going to prove it.”

For just a heartbeat Juniper flashed to that night, to the rough-hewn boards biting into the skin of her bare shoulders and the shadow of a man beside her. She felt the blood drain from her face. “You’re wrong,” she forced herself to say.

“We’ll see.” Everett grabbed his beer off the coffee table and took a swig. “I find his behavior highly suspicious. He’ll trip up.”

“He’s awake,” Juniper said, and tried to hide her surprise when that tidbit of information made Everett’s eyes cloud over. The news hadn’t reached him yet.

“Good,” he said, too late.

But Juniper wasn’t sure what to do with his insincerity, so she asked, “Why aren’t you looking into the Tates? Franklin? Sterling?”

“Sullivan.”

“Him too.”

“You’re his alibi,” Everett reminded her. “And Jonathan’s, too. Is there something you’d like to tell me about that night?”

None of them had been where they were supposed to be. It was such an impossible situation. Suddenly Juniper had a splitting headache and she could feel tears forming behind her eyes. Wasn’t this where she always got caught up? She couldn’t believe that either Sullivan or Jonathan was capable of killing the Murphys in cold blood. And yet, had she felt a sense of familiarity in the barn that night? Please, God. No. Don’t let it be someone I love.

“Pinning this on my brother won’t fix anything,” she whispered. “It can’t rewrite the past or undo what happened with Carver.”

“What do you know about Carver?” Everett said icily.

“Nothing, really.”

“Exactly. Nothing. He was a good person, Juniper. Pure and kind, completely innocent. He couldn’t hurt a flea, much less murder someone. He didn’t know what he was saying, but it ruined everything.”

“That’s heartbreaking, Everett, truly, it is, but Carver’s innocence doesn’t prove my brother’s guilt.”

“He died in a group home. Did you know that? Just a couple of years after it happened. A winter flu turned into pneumonia, and before we even knew what was happening, he was gone.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Roxy was never the same.”

And you never went back to the only true home you’d ever known, Juniper thought, but she held her tongue and watched as Everett took a long pull of his beer. He never broke eye contact with her.

“You’re right, figuring out who killed the Murphys won’t rewrite history, but I believe in justice,” he said, his voice stiff with emotion. “I believe that when someone has hurt another person, they should be held accountable.”

All at once, Juniper knew. “It’s you,” she whispered. That bastard Jonathan Baker, and his office with all the suspects on the wall like a murder book come to life. The hatred that rolled off him in waves. Everett was behind the podcast. He was digging into the past with the singular ambition of destroying her brother.

“What?” He studied her with narrowed eyes.

Juniper’s tongue felt thick in her mouth. “You want to know the truth about that night,” she improvised. She didn’t feel safe in his home anymore and regretted the fact that she had come at all. What would he do if he suspected that she knew the truth about what he was doing?

But Everett didn’t seem to notice just how anxious she had become. “So do you. Answer my questions. Help me.”

What did he need her for? Everett had already admitted that he had the evidence boxes, access to all the transcripts and case notes, probably even a direct line to the detective who worked the case all those years ago. He held all the cards. Almost.

“You need to talk to Jonathan,” Juniper said, stalling. “When he’s well enough.”

“There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” Everett scoffed. “He won’t talk to me.”

“I think you’re wrong.” Juniper leaned over to put her glass on the coffee table, perching on the edge of the couch. Something had changed in the air, and everything inside her told her to run. But Everett was only a few feet away. One lunge and he could stop her in her tracks. Do God knows what. Cora didn’t know where she was. Neither did India. She hadn’t told anyone she was going to Everett’s house. And who would suspect a cop? Juniper cursed herself for leaving her phone in the pocket of her coat. It was now crumpled on the floor beside the door.

“I tried,” Everett said, and there was a ferocity in his voice that hadn’t been there before. He lifted himself up a bit, tilting toward Juniper like he was sure he could convince her if only he said the right words vehemently enough. “He laughed at me.”

It struck her all at once that he was painfully lonely. The ripple effect of that night had forever changed his life, too, and she felt a wave of sympathy for the boy who had been so unceremoniously ripped from a home that was safe—maybe even loving—and thrust into a dangerous and scary situation. Juniper’s life hadn’t been perfect, but she also hadn’t been bounced around from foster home to foster home because her stepdad beat her. It had fractured something in him; she could see that clearly now. It broke her heart, but it scared her, too.