Behind Every Lie(88)

“Your DNA wasn’t under your mom’s fingernails; Sebastian Clarke’s was. Plus you sent me those photos of the articles and the letter from your mom. No guilty person would do that. My gut instinct was to see what you found in London. I saw your credit card activity the minute you bought the ticket. Although I’ll admit I got a little concerned when you took your SIM card out of your phone. But I had a PI following you, so it wasn’t like you could go far.”

The eyes I’d felt on me in London. The man at the Tube station. It made sense now. Between Liam tracking me and the PI, no wonder I’d felt so watched lately.

“I wish I’d answered your calls. I could have avoided everything that happened. Maybe Liam would still be …”

I could barely force the words out. I turned to stare out the window, blinking fast. A hard ache of grief pressed on my chest, surprising me. Why did I care? I shouldn’t. Liam had stalked me. Oppressed me. Raped me. But I’d loved him once, and the hurt and betrayal were still raw.

“How’d you know Liam was at Mom’s house the night she was killed?” I asked.

“We looked through video footage from the Mukilteo–Whidbey Island ferry. Liam got the ferry to Seattle Sunday night, shortly after you did. Then, a few hours later, he caught the last ferry back to Whidbey Island. Obviously, that made me suspicious. When I came out to question him the other day, I took a DNA sample. I don’t have the results back yet, but I’m pretty sure it’ll match the DNA we found on the septic tank in your mom’s backyard.”

I watched the detective as he spoke, all sharp angles and quick eyes, his voice low and intense. He was exactly what I’d needed without even knowing it.

“When you e-mailed me that sketch, I told our CSIs to go back and widen the search area out from the immediate crime scene. That’s when they found the trailer. There were obvious signs it had been pulled over the septic tank. And then we found Sebastian Clarke’s body.”

Jackson’s leather jacket creaked as he leaned forward. “We’ll be closing your mom’s case soon. Sebastian Clarke’s wounds match the fireplace poker at her house, and hers are the only fingerprints on it. And Sebastian’s fingerprints were the only ones other than your mom’s found on the tea canister. It all matches what you remember.”

I closed my eyes, relieved. “Thank you.”

“Thank you. And thanks for giving us permission to search your house. We found passports for Liam in various names and thousands of dollars in cash in the safe. We also found documents with the names of local building inspectors he’d paid off to let building code violations slide.”

I wasn’t surprised. Liam had been pathologically incapable of hearing no. It just wasn’t in him to let anything stand in the way of what he wanted.

“There were also a number of photo albums in the safe. Mostly …” He cleared his throat. “Mostly long-lens shots of you.”

I closed my eyes, struggling to accept the magnitude of Liam’s betrayal.

Jackson slid a thick folder onto the bed. Inside were stacks of photos of me: leaving the hospital empty-handed; getting in my car; crying outside my mom’s house; walking along the edge of the lake by our house; coming out of work one day; leaving a restaurant one night with Holly. My life since the night I was raped was held in this folder.

“He followed me,” I said bitterly.

Jackson nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

He pulled an evidence bag out of his jacket pocket and set it on the bed. Inside was an iPhone. “We found this in a locked drawer in Liam’s office. The phone has an app on it called Burner. It lets the user have an anonymous number. Those threatening texts you got were from him.”

I felt like I’d been elbowed in the throat. I would never be able to explain what it was like knowing my own doubt and fear had blinded me to the biggest threat: my very own fiancé.

“You know …” I shook my head. “I kept thinking I wasn’t remembering things right. I thought I was losing my mind. And the more I thought I couldn’t trust myself, the more I relied on and trusted him. It’s probably exactly what he wanted me to do.”

“I believe psychologists call it gaslighting.” Jackson pulled a card out of his wallet, dropped it on top of the folder. ANNI DAVIDSON it said in bold black letters. “Anni’s a good therapist. If you like that sort of thing.”

“Thank you.”

He shrugged.

“No, seriously. Thank you. For believing me.”

He nodded. “Sometimes we’re in control of the things that happen to us, and sometimes we’re not. But what he did to you, that wasn’t your fault. Don’t waste any more time blaming yourself. It’ll drive you crazy.”

I looked him full in the face. “I was sorry to hear about your wife.”

“Thank you.” Jackson didn’t look surprised that I knew his story. He just looked sad.

“Did you kill him?” I asked. “The man who murdered her?”

Jackson didn’t blink; his face didn’t move, not even a muscle, but I saw something darken his eyes. Then he smiled, a contorted twist of his lips. “I’m not the sort of person who could kill someone in cold blood.”

I didn’t believe him. I knew now that we were all that sort of person when pushed beyond our limits.