Page 87 of Trapper Road

“I’m aware of that.”

I let out a breath. “I understand how difficult this is,” I tell her. “I’ve been through something very similar — discovering that someone I love has done something terrible.”

She holds up a hand, cutting me off. “If it were your son, or your grandson, and you knew in your heart that he was innocent, what would you do?”

Her aim is true, her statement hitting me right in the heart. I know exactly what I would do. I would dive into the evidence. I would tear apart the case. I would spend all night combing through FBI files to prove that my son wasn’t involved in what they’re accusing him of. “I would fight.”

“That is what I’d like to hire you to do.”

I’ve seen where she lives, so I know she doesn’t have much money. She certainly doesn’t have the disposable income to pay J.B.’s rates. I can’t ask her to spend her money on what’s likely a fool’s errand.

But there’s also desperation in her eyes. It’s hard to turn my back on that. I let out a breath. “Would you like to talk over coffee?” I ask. “There’s a diner next door.”

She nods, her relief muted by the tension still radiating through her. “Thank you.”

I hold up a finger. “Just give me one second first.” I close the door and reholster my gun. I move to the connecting door and give the all-clear knock before opening. I find Vee and Connor on the other side. Both had been poised to attack. I’m glad to see they took my warning seriously.

“It’s okay,” I tell them. “It’s just someone wanting to discuss the case. We’re going to head to the diner next door. Will you two be okay here on your own for a bit?”

In response Vee drops the iron and falls face first back onto her bed with a “Mmmpfh.”

I smile and pull the door closed. Together, Mrs. Martindale and I make our way across the parking lot to the diner. It isn’t crowded this time of day, just an old man in a booth in the back, with two plates of pie and a cup of steaming coffee in front of him. I glance toward the exits, automatically planning potential escape routes. It’s a habit I’ll never break.

We take a booth near the front, by the window so that I can keep an eye on the motel. “Okay, Mrs. Martindale,” I say once the waitress has poured us both coffees and retreated behind the counter. “Tell me why you think your grandson is innocent.”

She takes a long breath, gathering herself. “My son Calvin — Trevor’s daddy — was a good boy, but he was easily misled. He fell in with a rough crowd, and he met a girl and got her pregnant. He did the right thing by her and married her, but she didn’t feel like changing her lifestyle. She drank through her pregnancy, did drugs. When Trevor was born, it was obvious there was a problem with him. That baby was colicky like you wouldn’t believe. Screamed day and night. His momma couldn’t handle it, and she took off. Left that child and never came back. My son tried his best, but he was a kid himself and didn’t know much about being a father. He was killed in a motorcycle accident when Trevor was two. I was the boy’s only living relative, so I became his guardian.”

It’s a terrible story. “I’m sorry about your son,” I tell her.

She nods in acknowledgement. I can tell by the set of her jaw that the memory of him is still painful. His absence a loss that will always be felt.

“Trevor’s a sweet boy. And kind too. Gentle. But the thing is…” She hesitates, choosing her words. “He’s never been the brightest, bless his heart. It’s because of his momma, and the things she did when she was pregnant — the drinking and drugs. He’s always been slow. That’s how I know he didn’t do this.”

“I don’t understand what his intellect has to do with what happened.”

She reaches into her purse and pulls out a sheaf of papers. She passes them across the table to me. I notice her hands trembling slightly. “That’s his confession.”

My eyes widen. “How did you get a copy?”

“I demanded it,” she says simply. “I refused to believe them when they told me what he’d done. They gave me that, expecting it would make me back down and go away. Instead it made me realize he’s innocent.”

I frown. “How’s that?”

She nods at the pages. “Read it.”

I slide the confession closer. The handwriting looks like that of a child, with the kind of forced attention to the shape of each letter. It makes the content somehow seem even more horrific. Over the course of several pages, Trevor describes stalking Juliette, catfishing her online, and pushing her to meet up. He explains picking her up on the side of the road that afternoon and driving her to a spot in the woods. When he gets to the murder itself, he spares no details.

My stomach turns, memories of Melvin swimming to the surface as Trevor talks about torturing and mutilating the girl. He raped her as well, several times, but is oddly unspecific about that aspect. In the end, he says he choked her to death before smashing her face in with a rock for good measure. He then dug a shallow grave and buried her the best he could. Unfortunately, he couldn’t specify where because he was still too crazed with bloodlust when he left her.

I finish the confession and set it on the table, smoothing my hands across the folded papers. I’ve seen a lot in my life so it takes a lot to get under my skin, but Trevor’s confession manages to do so. I feel dirty and gross.

Maybe it’s thinking about those pictures of Juliette on her parents’ mantel, or maybe it’s the way Trevor smiled at me so innocently, but this entire case hits uncomfortably close to home after my experiences with my ex-husband. It dredges up memories I prefer to keep buried.

I feel my hands begin to tremble, and I realize that I need a moment to collect myself. “If you don’t mind,” I mumble.

I can’t even look at Mrs. Martindale as I slide from the booth and make my way to the bathroom. Once there I hold my hands under the cold water before pressing my fingers against my heated neck.

I’ve seen so much ugly in this world that I know it should no longer surprise me, but it does.

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