Beneath Devil's Bridge(28)

“Trinity wants to interview me,” I say. “About the investigation that put Clay Pelley behind bars.”

“So?” Maddy doesn’t bother to turn to face me. “Is this just an excuse for you to come see the girls?”

I seat myself on a bar stool at the kitchen counter. “Trinity says she’s going to try to talk to everyone who was involved. Detectives. Leena’s parents. Her classmates. The people who saw Leena at the bonfire.”

Maddy gives a shrug and sticks a plate in the rack. But I can see her shoulders have stiffened. I realize Darren is standing in the doorway, also listening, with Daisy on his hip.

“I . . . just thought I’d give you a heads-up, Mads. In case Trinity calls you, or stops by.”

Silence presses into the kitchen as she washes a knife, then jabs it violently into the cutlery basket on the drying rack.

“Why? Because you think it will upset me?”

I say nothing.

She spins around. Her eyes glitter. “You think it might hurt me to be reminded of how you broke up our family during that investigation? How your affair with that cop ruined our life? How Dad had to leave—”

“Your father was already having an affair of his own, Maddy.” My voice comes out clipped, and I realize she’s already baited me. And I swallowed it, hook and all. My blood pressure instantly shoots sky-high.

“So that makes what you did right? Dad only started seeing someone because you’d already cut him out of your life. You cut us both out. It was always work first. And then came the Leena case. And it was an excuse for you. You were more worried about a dead girl than your living family. It was all Leena, Leena, Leena, but really, it was all about Luke O’Leary, wasn’t it? All those long nights? The excuses about working late—really just excuses to fuck your colleague. And you weren’t even subtle about it—”

“Maddy,” Darren warns from the door.

She ignores him. My daughter is back on her bitter roll, her gaze locked fiercely on to mine.

“You were seen by my own friend and her mother in that alley. You literally drove Dad to drink. Are you afraid I will tell all that to Trinity Scott? That you were a shitty cop, and a shitty mother?”

“Jesus, Maddy,” Darren says.

“Oh, back off,” she snaps.

“It’s all right,” I say. “I’m leaving.” I come to my feet. But Maddy has turned her back to me again and is facing the sink, looking at the two climbing specks on the granite mountain that forever looms over our town. And our lives.

“The first two podcast episodes are already live,” I say quietly. “Clayton Jay Pelley spoke.”

“Clay spoke?” Darren asks.

I keep my gaze on the back of Maddy’s head. “Yes. Clay said he didn’t do it. He did not assault and kill Leena. Clay said the killer is still out there.”

Maddy doesn’t move a muscle. Not even a twitch. From my pocket I take Trinity Scott’s business card. I place it on the counter and say softly, “The website addy for the podcast is on this card. You can also download it from iTunes.”

Still she doesn’t move.

“I can show myself out,” I say to Darren.

As I open the front door, I hear Darren and Maddy beginning to argue in the kitchen, their voices going louder. As I step out the door, I hear Darren telling his wife that she could at least try to be nice to her mother. I hear him saying to Maddy that she’s being unreasonable.

Stories do not end . . .

I drive away from their perfect-looking house in the perfect-looking subdivision that sits in the shadow of Chief Mountain, and I try to remember exactly when it all started to go wrong. Were things wobbling off the rails between Maddy and me before I started working Leena’s case?

Or did it happen because of what had been done to Leena?





RACHEL


THEN


Monday, November 24, 1997.

It’s almost 5:30 p.m., and Luke and I are waiting in our unmarked vehicle at the Laurel Bay ferry dock. We see the lights of the small ferry coming in through the mist and darkness. Rain continues to drum down heavily on the roof. Behind us is the Twin Falls Provincial Park. We can hear the thundering of the falls.

“The mill is not accessible by road?” Luke asks.

“No. Back in the twenties there was a settlement around the mill, complete with a school, but families have long since moved away.”

The ferry horn sounds as it comes in to dock. The gangway goes down, and foot passengers start disembarking. They come toward the parking lot in small groups. Several mill workers sport turbans. Other employees wear coveralls and ball caps, or lined jeans with suspenders, plaid shirts, and heavy jackets. Some carry lunch pails and look tired as the lights catch their faces. Especially the old-timers. The younger ones are easy to spot—they still have pep in their step. These mill workers represent the changing demographics in this town, new immigrants mixing with those who were born in BC and grew up in and around the forestry and railway industries.

“That’s him.” I put on my cap, point. “The tall guy. Black hair.”

Darsh Rai strides a head taller than the rest. His hair is glossy and wet with rain as it catches the light from the lamps along the causeway. We exit the car and make for him.

He aims toward the employee parking area.