Page 140 of The First Gentleman

He clicks the controller and puts up the picture of Suzanne—not the one in her cheerleading uniform; the one where she’s sitting at home laughing.

“As you begin your deliberations, please keep Suzanne alive in your minds. You’re the only ones who can speak for her now.”

CHAPTER

126

The judge gives his instructions to the jury, then adjourns the trial around five p.m.

I walk out of the courthouse and look for a quiet corner to cry in. After all these months, after all Garrett and I went through together, after all I’ve been through alone, it’s finally hitting me.

This part of it is over. Out of my hands.

All I can do is tell the story—the whole story—as best I can.

My eyes are burning, and tears are streaming down my face. God, I wish Garrett were here! I wish I could talk with him just once more. We were supposed to be sharing this together!

I sit on a bench and keep my head down so none of the other spectators will notice me. I probably look like a mess.

A figure stops in front of me and bends down. “Are you okay, honey?”

I look up. It takes me a second to place the face.

It’s Detective Sergeant Marie Gagnon, New Hampshire State Police. She reaches into her purse and hands me a packet of Kleenex.

I take it and pull out a few tissues. “Sorry. I didn’t know I would be this emotional.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s an emotional case.”

I hand her back the packet. “Keep it,” she says. “I’ve got plenty.”

Without thinking, I blurt out: “You must see a lot of crying in your line of work.”

“I’ve seen my share,” says Gagnon.

“Well, anyway, thanks for stopping. That was thoughtful of you.”

“No problem,” says Gagnon. “You take care.”

I watch her walk down the steps and get into an unmarked car a trooper has pulled up to the curb.

I get a little jolt when I remember it’s the second time Gagnon and I have spoken. The other time was on the phone. I’m trusting she doesn’t have a long-term echoic memory for voices—especially those of anonymous 911 callers.

I need a drink.

CHAPTER

127

Kingston, New Hampshire

The minute I walk into my hotel room, I open my minifridge and pull out a cold beer. I take a long, deep gulp from the bottle. For some reason, the beer hits me like a shot of tequila. Maybe because I haven’t eaten anything since last night. In a few seconds, I’m all warm and buzzy.

My phone vibrates; the screen says Unknown Caller. Those are the only people I seem to hear from these days. I answer anyway.

“Is this Brea? It’s Caleb Stringer! Can you hear me okay?”

The Dartmouth alum from Laurie Keaton’s list.

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