Beneath Devil's Bridge(92)
“They’re my grandbabies,” she whispers into my shoulder. “They’re my world.”
“I know,” I say gently. “I know.”
But despite my words, I’m fearful. The odds of the kids being found safe, alive, sink with each minute they haven’t been located. Especially if Zane Rolly is the Devil Riders’ connection to Clay Pelley’s murder on the inside.
“Mrs. Galloway?” We all turn. Two uniformed RCMP officers stand in the corridor outside the room, along with a Twin Falls officer. “Could we have a word, Mrs. Galloway?”
Eileen wipes her tearstained face and nods. The male RCMP officer leads her away. The female says to me, “Are you the mother—Maddison Jankowski’s mother?”
“Yes. I’m Rachel Hart,” I say.
“We’d like to speak to your daughter, Ms. Hart.”
I nod and try to reenter the room with the cop, but the RCMP officer stops me. “Alone. We’d like to talk to her alone.”
I glance at Maddy.
“It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay.”
TRINITY
NOW
Monday, November 22. Present day.
Gio has gone to the hospital cafeteria to find coffee. He and I arrived early this morning, after we heard on the news that some of the occupants of the house were brought here after the fire. No one is speaking to us about who was hurt or who is alive. Outside the main entrance doors to the hospital, photographers and journalists with mikes are clustering. Through the windows I see a couple of news vehicles farther down the road, one with a satellite dish atop. The AMBER Alert for the Forbes children—Doug, age six, and Chevvy, age four—is all over the news. Beth Forbes is on the lam with her children, and I believe I know why.
I returned the truck driver’s call. I heard his description of the young woman with waist-length, white-blonde hair blowing in the wind. It was Beth. I’m sure of it. With an as-yet-unidentified male on Devil’s Bridge that night, following Leena, right before she was killed.
Beth’s mother, Eileen Galloway, works at this hospital as an equipment purchaser. Gio and I hope to ambush her if she comes in. We got inside before hospital security started barring journalists from entering the facility.
The reporters also want to talk to me. My cell has been ringing nonstop. A woman with Global TV broke the story this morning that I am the daughter of Clayton Jay Pelley, and that my father was murdered in prison. It’s all going viral. My podcast and I have become the story. Reverb. It’s the mark of the live narrative form—the unfolding, unraveling, and ripple effects occurring in real time. An old case, once thought to have been solved, has turned into a live and red-hot one.
Gio returns from the cafeteria with two coffees. Excitement crackles in his eyes.
“I think I just saw Maddy and Darren’s girls in the cafeteria,” he says, voice hushed as he takes his seat beside me so that no one can overhear. He hands me a coffee. “I followed at a distance as a nurse led the two little girls back down the corridor, and I heard someone say that their mother is okay, but that it’s so sad about their dad.”
Thank God. I look away. I want to cry. I no longer have any control over what I’ve unleashed. And as thrilling as it has become, I am now frightened, and it’s overwhelming me. I think of Rachel’s warning in the diner.
You can’t air this. This . . . this is not the whole picture. You cannot let this go live until we’ve gotten to the whole truth. If you let this out, it . . . it’ll do damage you don’t understand.
Have I been reckless? Irresponsible? Should I have followed things further before just putting that last segment on the air?
“Rachel told me to hold off airing that last episode,” I say quietly to Gio. I take a sip of coffee. “She said I didn’t understand the full scope of the story yet, and people could get hurt. I . . . I just didn’t think it would end up like this. People burned in a house fire. Little children almost dying. Other kids in danger and on the run with a mother who could be a killer. What have I done?”
“Hey,” Gio says softly. He places his coffee on the table in front of us, and he wraps his arms around me, draws me close. I don’t pull away. I just let myself be in his arms. I’m surprised at how comforting it feels. I am startled by the sense of warmth this contact sends through me, along with a feeling of solidarity. Connection. I need this man. I didn’t realize just how much. I feel like I know Gio so well, and yet not nearly well enough.
“You couldn’t have changed anything, Trin.” He smooths hair away from my brow. “That clip—it was already scheduled to go live before you knew Clayton was dead. It was live before you even met with Rachel in the diner. You couldn’t take it back from those who’d already tuned in. It was out there.”
I rub my face. “Maybe I just should have held off in the first place, until I understood the context better. I’m worried about those children, Gio, Beth’s kids.” I hold his gaze and whisper, “Do you think Beth and that man who picked her and the kids up did it, organized to have my father silenced?”
“You’re jumping to conclusions, Trin,” Gio says.
“The AMBER Alert says to be on the lookout for a truck with a spiderweb graphic on the side.”
He glances at the gaggle of reporters outside the windows. Wind is blowing their hair and flapping their coats. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, I think it’s possible. It adds up. If Beth was on that bridge, she could have done something really terrible she needs to keep quiet. Terrible enough to use a Devil Riders connection to silence your father, and then go on the run with her kids, leaving her husband and life behind.”