Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(43)

I followed her lead that afternoon. It wasn’t hard. A terrible tragedy had occurred. In my own mind, it was easy enough to substitute myself with the shotgun, maybe even easier than contemplating my beloved father positioning the gun beneath his ribs. Standing grimly in front of the refrigerator, which offered the safest backdrop for gunfire (when cleaning the shotgun, he’d instructed, always aim it at the stainless steel appliance). Then, upon hearing the crunch of my mother’s car tires in the driveway, pulling the trigger.

No, it was so much easier to lie than to picture any of that.

For all my father’s brilliance, I’d seen the dark shadows that lurked in his eyes. The way he sometimes smiled but still appeared sad. The times he squared his shoulders before walking into his office, appearing less like a gifted mathematician off in search of answers, and more like a soldier burdened by a never-ending war.

The truth is, genius and depression have always gone hand in hand. Which was why I spent so many afternoons, sitting at the piano, playing and playing, because my father said my music soothed his spirit and allowed him to rest in a way a truly great mind could never completely ease. I did my best to music the sadness out of him.

And that day, walking into the kitchen, my father’s hot blood dripping down into my hair, I felt the weight of my failure. That I had loved this man so much, and tried so hard, and it still wasn’t enough.

Just like Conrad.

I hope my baby isn’t a boy, I think now. Because I just couldn’t take another such loss.

—

I SHOULD MARSHAL my resources, I decide. Money. I’m going to need some. Which is the first time I realize how lost I truly am. My wallet, cell phone, car keys, had all been in the house—which, according to the detectives, is now nothing more than a pile of charred ruins. I have a moment of growing hysteria: Next time you’re arrested for the murder of your husband, grab your purse!

But of course, I hadn’t, and the police certainly hadn’t offered to fetch anything. Meaning I have … nothing.

Not completely true. I have a head for figures. Including bank accounts. Just because I don’t possess a checkbook or debit card, let alone an unmelted driver’s license, doesn’t mean I don’t know my accounts and their exact balances. The savings account has some money. Not a lot, as neither Conrad nor I had high-paying jobs and it seemed like most of our checks were spent on home renovations.

Then again …

My head starts spinning. Suddenly, I’m thinking about a lot of things. Including scraps of documents in a printer/scanner. Conrad’s news upon learning we were pregnant. Other forms of photo ID.

The house was burned to the ground. Including Conrad’s precious office and all his customer files.

But some things he valued even more than his office. Some things he made fireproof.

I am not helpless, I tell myself. I’m damaged and incredibly sad. But I’m not helpless.

And now, with a little help from my lawyer, I have a plan.





CHAPTER 14


    D.D.


“I THINK I MIGHT HAVE SCREWED up an investigation.”

“You? Never.”

It was after nine P.M. Jack nestled in for the night in his red race-car bed, Kiko curled up at his side and taking up nearly as much of the mattress as the boy. Alex had poured himself and D.D. both well-deserved glasses of wine. They sat side by side on the sofa, engaging in their own nightly ritual of catching up and winding down.

“So I’m investigating a pregnant woman who’s accused of murdering her husband last night, and who also confessed to accidentally shooting her father with a shotgun sixteen years ago.”

“I remember. You handled the father’s shooting.”

“Exactly. And I believed her. Bought her story, her mom’s story, the whole kit and caboodle. This afternoon, she informed me she’d lied.”

Alex paused, wineglass halfway to his lips. “Interesting defense strategy.”

“According to her revised statement, she and her mother weren’t even home at the time of the shooting but must’ve walked in moments later. The spatter in Evie’s hair and clothing was from blood dripping down when she walked through the door. The GSR from her picking up the shotgun.”

“Okay. But given that scenario, why confess?”

“Her mother didn’t want to risk an investigation that might result in findings that would tarnish her father’s intellectual legacy.”

It didn’t take Alex long. “Suicide. She assumed her husband had shot himself.”

D.D. nodded. Took a sip of her own wine. She waited. She did her best thinking out loud. Alex, on the other hand, had a tendency to compose himself. Then, a true teacher, deliver his lecture.

“Suicide by shotgun happens,” he said now. “Generally the end of the barrel is positioned under the chin or against the ribs, pressed against the skin in order to help stabilize the long gun while the victim reaches down for the trigger. Though I did read about an enterprising young man who used his toes to pull the trigger. Then there’s the Australian case of the triple-shot suicide, where the victim’s first attempt ended up being clean through the chest cavity, missing major organs. Then he set up for under the chin but flinched upon pulling the trigger—which happens more than you think—destroying half his jaw, but again, not incapacitating himself. I don’t remember his third choice—maybe that was the same guy who finally sat down and used his toes—but the third shot got it done. Now, from an investigative perspective, can you imagine walking into a scene of a man hit by three shotgun blasts and thinking even for a second that it was suicide? In our jobs, anything is possible.”