The Book of Cold Cases(41)

“Fuck,” Beth said, just to shock him. Then she said it a dozen more times, filling the car with the word. Men hated it when she said “fuck.” Women hated it, too, but it was more fun to shock men, watch the expressions on their faces as their opinion of her changed. And it always changed. Even the good-looking ones, the ones who’d started out looking at her with appreciation—their opinions changed just like everyone else’s did.

Detective Black waited it out, grimly driving the car as Beth finished her tantrum. When she finally slumped silent into her seat, he said, “I told you, it isn’t what you think. I didn’t do this to entrap you. I did it to warn you.”

Beth didn’t feel drunk anymore. She felt painfully sober, her head throbbing, her throat sore from all of the shouting she’d done. She wanted to be drunk again. She was drained and tired and she didn’t want to look at him anymore, because the more she looked at him, the more she was tempted to ask him to come inside the house with her, just to see if he’d say yes. She could feel the thin thread of possibility, the razor’s edge that she could ask him and he’d come, even though everything about it was wrong, even though he had his kindergarten teacher. Maybe, just maybe, he’d ruin himself for her. She could taste that on her tongue, and she wanted to spit it out.

“Listen,” he said when she didn’t speak, oblivious to the turmoil in her exhausted brain. “It looks bad for you. I’m telling you this in my professional capacity. Do you understand?”

She tried to bring her mind around. “They’re going to arrest me.”

“It looks likely. You’re their only suspect, and they have to arrest someone. The public has to see someone blamed for this.”

That made Beth angry again, because she saw the meaning of what he was saying. “You don’t believe I did it.”

He was silent for a second. “I’ve lain awake every night for a week, trying to figure it out.” He sounded almost as if he were talking to himself instead of her. They were in Arlen Heights now, winding through her darkened neighborhood. “I can’t understand why you would suddenly kill two random people. Why it feels wrong to me, yet it feels right at the same time. When I look at you, I see a dangerous killer, and I also see a girl who was left alone to wander lost after her parents died. I see both of those things at the same time, and it drives me crazy.”

Beth sat silent, her eyes burning. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried.

“Then I finally got it,” Black said. There was quiet wonder in his voice. “Damn it, the answer finally came to me, and it’s worse than I thought. You’re very clever, Beth, and I hate to say it, but you’re also goddamned brave. What I still don’t know is why you would do it.”

He pulled into her driveway now, his headlights illuminating the mansion that she hated so much. “Why I would do what?” she asked, her voice dull, her stomach turning. Maybe whatever he thought he knew was wrong, but hope was dying in her by the minute. It had been dying since she got in the car.

“Why you’d cover for someone else’s murders,” he said.

That did it.

Beth pushed the car door open, leaned out, and threw up onto the driveway.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


October 2017





SHEA


It had started to rain as I sat in the corner bar. I could see the drops rolling down the windows. It wasn’t even late; I’d left Esther’s right after dinner. Then I’d sent myself straight from that awkward evening into this one.

My hands were clammy where they curled around my glass of soda with lemon, but otherwise I was surprisingly calm. Even though I’d only seen one photograph of him, I was sure I’d recognize Michael De Vos when I saw him. And I did.

He was wearing jeans, a white shirt, and a dark brown blazer that matched the dark brown of his hair. His brows were furrowed as he came through the door and scanned the dim room, and then he saw me. We stared at each other.

Michael came toward me. His brows were still furrowed, like he was trying to figure something out, which he probably was. As he got closer, I realized he was bigger than I’d thought—over six feet tall. He looked nothing like my ex-husband, Van, who had his name because his parents were Van Morrison fans. Van was slender and occasionally grew a patchy beard. He was the kind of guy who looked ridiculous in baseball caps. Michael’s shoulders filled out his jacket, and even though he was clean-shaven and clean-cut—except for the fact that his hair was an inch too long—he had shadows under his eyes. Still, the photo I’d seen hadn’t done justice to what he was like in person.

He pulled out the chair across from me at my little table and sat on it. “This is a surprise,” he said.

It was his voice, the voice I knew so well from the phone. “Thanks for meeting me,” I said.

“Are you kidding me?” His eyebrows rose. “You’re my most mysterious client by far. I couldn’t pass up the chance to finally meet you in person.”

I wondered if he was teasing me, but he wasn’t. He actually thought I was mysterious. I glanced down at my jeans and hoodie, thought about my dark hair in its ponytail and my lack of makeup except for a few swipes of mascara. I didn’t look anything like Beth, with her expensive slacks and beautiful turtlenecks. She was the epitome of the mysterious woman, the siren who walks into the detective’s office and begs him to take the case of protecting her, sending him straight into trouble.