Beneath Devil's Bridge(52)

“She also claimed her husband smelled of sex,” I say.

Tucker clears his throat. Ray crooks up his brow. “So Pelley had opportunity,” Ray says.

“Both opportunity and means,” I say. “And if he slept with a student who threatened to rat him out, he also had powerful motive.”

“Anything else from the lab yet?” Ray asks.

“Still waiting on results to see if the soil on Pelley’s boots is a match to the soil under Devil’s Bridge. That would put him at the scene. We’re also still awaiting results on the nail scrapings from under Leena’s nails. Plus some of the hair and fiber evidence.”

Ray says, “So far we have only one witness—a young teen—who claims she actually saw Pelley having sex with Leena Rai in the woods. Unless the lab coughs something up, or the warrants do, or those ident guys find something—a used condom, fibers, hairs—we need more.”

“What I don’t get,” says Tucker, “is why in the hell those kids kept silent about their teacher being there in the first place.”

Dirk says, “Kids do weird things. I’ve lived and worked in this town long enough to know how powerful those pacts of silence can be when it comes to a cohort that bonded in kindergarten and has moved all the way through the school system and into young adulthood. It’s like a pack. A herd. And that unit can display more powerful connections to each other than the kids have with their own families and parents. They will keep secrets and do things for each other that can be hard to understand.”

I think of Maddy. Her tight friendship with Beth, and with the rest of her group, and I know Dirk is talking truth. We all know it. While a small town can be wonderful, the lack of diversity presents other unique challenges.

“Well, yeah, maybe,” says Tucker. “I mean, I grew up here. I know this. But not mentioning a fellow student being sexually abused by a teacher? And not just a teacher, a friggin’ guidance counselor who’s supposed to guide them through this weird period of sexual unrest in their teens?”

We all stare at Tucker. His face goes red.

“Sorry, but it works me up,” Tucker says. “Just because this kid—Leena—was an outsider, she’s left to the wolf, and no one says a goddamn thing because she’s not one of them.”

I inhale deeply, look down, and study the tattered carpet squares. This is my child they’re talking about. My failure as a mother. Perhaps my failure as a cop, too.

“What about the ripped journal pages?” Ray asks with a nod to the copies on the board.

“The ‘He’ that Leena writes about could easily be her teacher. It adds up,” I say. “If she was infatuated with Clay Pelley, in love with him, he could have abused that. Taken sexual advantage.”

“But why were they ripped from the journal? Why were they at the river?” Dirk muses.

“Maybe he wanted her to get rid of them, because the pages implicated him,” I say.

Luke adds, “The two could have gotten into some kind of fight where he tried to grab the pages. And it escalated into him hitting, then beating, then needing to silence her by drowning.”

Dirk rubs his chin. “The autopsy report shows vaginal trauma. Tearing. That doesn’t square with consensual sex in the woods.”

“It might—if the sex in the woods was rough,” I say.

“I dunno,” says Dirk. “Perhaps we need additional input on that postmortem evidence. Whatever happened to that girl, it was violent.”

“Pelley’s temper could have cracked over journal pages, and then he went over-the-edge crazy,” Luke says. “The damage to Leena’s face—that feels like rage to me. And very personal. It would fit.”

“And the CCTV footage from outside the donair place?” asks Ray.

“Darsh Rai’s account of events holds,” says Luke. “So does Tripp Galloway’s. It also fits Amy Chan’s and Jepp Sullivan’s stories.”

“And still no sign of the jacket or the rest of the journal?” asks Ray.

“Not yet.”

“Okay, let’s execute those warrants and bring the bastard in,” says the chief.

But just as we begin to move, the door to the bullpen swings open, and Bella, our civilian admin assistant, with her big blonde hairdo, pokes her head into the room. “Rachel—there’s someone at the front to see you.”

“Can it wait?”

“She says it’s urgent.”

“Who is it?” I ask, voice clipped.

“Wouldn’t give her name. She’s in the waiting area.”

I stomp through to the reception area, then freeze in my tracks as I see—on the other side of the counter, sitting in the waiting area on a plastic chair—a thin, ragged woman in an oversize coat. Her hair is stringy and she’s white as a sheet. On her lap is a stuffed gym bag. She’s clutching it tightly as she rocks back and forth.

Hurriedly I open the half door that divides reception from the waiting area.

“Lacey! Are you okay?”

She surges to her feet, looking like a terrified deer caught in headlights. She hugs the gym bag tightly to her tummy. Her whole body is trembling. “I . . . I need to talk to you. Right now. I . . . need to show you something.”

I take her arm, lower my voice. “Where’s baby Janie? Is the baby all right?”