Beneath Devil's Bridge(70)

“Was it you?” I ask.

“Me what?”

“You know what. There was no one in town twenty-four years ago doing what you did. Was it you who treated Clay Pelley for addiction?”





RACHEL


NOW


Saturday, November 20. Present day.

“I don’t believe it.” I say the words quietly, slowly, as I stare at Granger. It’s like I’m suddenly seeing a man I don’t know. “So Clay was seeing you?”

“You’re jumping to ridiculous conclusions.”

“How many professionals were there in Twin Falls in 1997 who treated addictions? It was your big schtick. Using hypnotherapy to help break patterns of addiction. You put patients into a hypnotic state in order to ‘talk directly to their unconscious,’ where you could seed suggestions that would be activated by triggers once they were out of the trance and fully cognizant again.” I know because Granger used this technique to help treat my PTSD.

“Jesus, Rache, what has gotten into you? Why all this anger? This . . . this is exactly why I didn’t want you to listen to that goddamn podcast! This is exactly what I expected to see—you going off the rails via some guilt trip because you’d start second-guessing everything you did, including sleeping with Luke O’Leary and screwing up your marriage. And now it’s messing with our relationship. And you’re attacking me.”

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Oh, for chrissakes, I don’t mean I think your sleeping with Luke messed up your marriage. It’s what you told me you think. We worked through this, remember? In therapy. All of it. You and me. I helped you work through it. And Clay Pelley . . . He could have been going for treatment anywhere in the city, Rachel.” He flings his arm toward the window and points. “It’s a one-hour drive to North Vancouver, where there is—and was—a huge hospital and a surrounding neighborhood that houses all manner of medical and psychology and psychiatry professionals. Plus it’s just a short drive over the bridge from there into Vancouver, where there are more huge hospitals, and where psychologists, therapists, and addiction specialists are a dime a dozen. Now. And then. How dare you?”

He looks hot. Hungover. Edgy. His hair is ragged. Stubble shadows his jaw. He drags his hand over his hair as he registers me weighing him, and he tempers himself, lowering his voice. “Look, I appreciate that this thing has you on edge, but just leave it alone. She’ll wrap up her podcast. Whatever happens with Pelley, it doesn’t matter. Your record on the case is solid. He confessed. Leave it at that.”

But now I really, really need to know who Clay Pelley was getting treatment from. Because something deep inside me, evil and ugly, has taken hold. And it’s crawling up into my chest and into my throat, and it’s closing my throat, strangling my breathing, and blurring my vision, and it’s not going to let go of me until I can prove it wrong.

“I need to know who he was seeing.”

“Why? What difference does it make who was treating him?”

“Because if—just if—Clay is telling Trinity the truth, then somehow, from somewhere, he got the details—the exact, minute autopsy details—not only of how Leena Rai was murdered, but in what sequence these events occurred, and how the homicide investigation team was interpreting that autopsy information and the crime scene evidence.”

He glares at me. The tension is thick. “So why do you think it was me? You think I somehow passed information on? Because that’s absurd. You and I didn’t even know each other back then. I mean, I knew you by sight. I knew you were old Chief Hart’s daughter, and a cop, and Maddy’s mother. Because Maddy was friendly with Johnny, and I’d seen you around the school. But that’s all. I had zero to do with the case.”

I hold his gaze. My brain is whirring. I sense there is something I am missing, something I know in my unconscious, but I haven’t managed to surface it yet. And I don’t like what I see in Granger’s eyes. It scares me.

Follow the truth, Rache. Even if it hurts. Even if it takes you where you don’t want it to go.

Very quietly I say, “I’m going to go see him. I’m going to ask him directly who his therapist was, and where he could have gotten police holdback information. If I can’t get the answers anywhere else, I’m going to ask him to his face.”

“Pelley?”

“Yes.” I make for the office door.

“You can’t just show up and see an inmate, Rachel. There’s a process.”

“Then I’ll start it. I still have contacts who could help speed things up.” I stop in the doorway, face him. “I’ll pack a bag. I might have to stay overnight near the institution. I’ll call to let you know. Can you look after Scout?”

“Of course I can look after Scout,” he snaps. “But I think it’s a fucking stupid idea. He’s going to mess with you.”

I blink. Granger doesn’t use profanity with me. His eyes are furious, flashing. That unarticulated fear threads deeper into my core.

“He already did mess with me, Granger,” I say softly. “He messed with all of us. A long time ago. I need to finish this once and for all, so I can let it go.”



It’s almost 2:00 p.m., and I am driving over the Second Narrows Bridge on my way to the Mission correctional institution when my cell rings. I answer it on speaker so I can keep my eyes on the traffic. The highway is heavy with commuters. The pelting rain doesn’t help.