The Lies I Told(13)
“It’s me you’re talking to. I know Jo-Jo.”
“She’s evolved.”
He chuckled as he leaned closer to an image of an old tree’s twisted branches dangling over the high waters of the James River. “I know this location.”
“We hung out on the rocks when we were in high school.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It’s also not far from where Clare was found.”
“Yes.” I’d stayed away from this place for years, and then last fall, I’d been pulled to the river rocks. I’d stood for hours, staring at the rushing waters, trying to conjure the secrets I knew were buried under the troubled surface.
When I returned to the site the next time, I had my camera and began shooting. After I developed the images in my makeshift darkroom, I stared at them, willing myself to see something that had escaped everyone thirteen years ago. Tell me who killed Clare and left her body on the banks of the James River. But no matter how many images I took, how long I stared, I saw nothing, heard nothing.
“Why’re you chasing this now?” Kurt asked. “The cops crawled over every square inch of that land, hounded us all for months, and the press damn near ate me alive. Reopening this won’t help anyone.”
“Maybe these photos are my way of dealing with the shit that drove me to drink.” I added a half smile, as if it would make me sound a little more reasonable.
“Have the cops been around lately?” Kurt asked.
“No. But I’m going to check in with Detective Richards tomorrow. He’s supposed to retire soon.”
“I can’t believe he’s still on the job. He seemed ancient when he talked to us.”
“He was fifty-one at the time. He’s sixty-five now.” To Richards’s credit, he’d initiated something new in the case every six or seven months to keep it from being classified as cold. Once he was gone, the files would still be at the station, maybe assigned to a new cop, but everything Richards carried in his head—the leads, theories, subconscious connections—would leave with him.
“He was rude,” Kurt said. “He said terrible things to you.”
“He was overworked and under a lot of pressure to solve the case. Since then he’s never said no to me when I call and ask to stop by his office.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“About eighteen months ago.”
“He’ll see you on a Saturday?” He reached for my hand.
I angled away from his outstretched fingers and walked to the door. “I have an appointment.”
“Do you really think opening this wound will help you?”
No one wanted to remember how Clare had died. It was an uncomfortable truth that everyone assumed time would fix or heal. “It’s not about me.”
“Maybe let sleeping dogs lie.”
“They aren’t sleeping or lying. They’re howling.”
He exhaled. “I want you to be happy.”
“I’ll be happy when I find out what happened to Clare.” I drew in a breath. “I’m tired, Kurt.” That was true. Surging desire had cooled, and I felt drained. “I’ve an early shoot in the morning, and it’s time you leave.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to put up a barrier between us. I care about you.”
“I get it. I do. I’m just exhausted.”
He studied me a long moment and then nodded. “I’m glad I came.”
“Me too.”
His body angled as if he might lean in and try to kiss me. (Can’t blame a guy for trying, right?) But he seemed to reconsider, nodded, and opened the door. He stepped onto the elevator, and I carefully closed and locked my door, standing still and listening to the elevator open and then the building’s entrance close. I glanced out my window and watched Kurt disappear into the night.
Folding my arms over my chest, I walked to the black-and-white images on the wall. I stared, remembering the exact days and times I’d snapped each. With each shot I’d been chasing the light, hoping the next picture would whisper a secret the river held. It knew who had killed Clare. But it wasn’t talking.
6
BRIT
Saturday, March 12, 2022
8:00 a.m.
I punched in the security code to Marisa’s apartment building and walked to the elevator. Initially, while Marisa had been in surgery to relieve the pressure on her brain, I’d thought caring for her could be endless, so I’d had her keys copied and gotten the security code from the building manager. Braced for the worst, I had been ready to step up.
Turned out my sister was far more resilient than the doctors had initially thought, and she’d awoken. The only residual effects of the accident had been a mild form of amnesia, shorter hair, and wrecked taste buds. Marisa couldn’t remember the ten days leading up to the accident, the crash, or why drugs had been found in her system. I decided to back off, considering how bad it could’ve been.
I’d searched every inch of Marisa’s apartment after I talked to the surgeon and learned the paramedics suspected drug use. I’d been so pissed but not really surprised to hear about the drugs. All these days, weeks, and months of Marisa claiming to be sober had been a lie.
I had found not a drop of booze or any kind of drug. That didn’t mean Marisa wasn’t guilty. It just meant I’d not found the evidence. She was very intelligent, and addicts can be sneaky.