Page 60 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
“Sorry, Mom,” I mutter to myself as I send the call to voicemail.
She’s texted several times, asking if I’ve heard from the authorities in Ohio about Tate’s remains. I haven’t, of course. Because I haven’t contacted any authorities in Ohio. I guess my terse ‘not yet, will keep you posted’ responses are wearing thin.
I’m not unsympathetic. She genuinely believes he’s dead, and I’m sure she wants to make whatever final arrangements one makes for one’s disowned, emotionally disturbed child. But I have other priorities at the moment. Like the fact that Emily’s holed up with a woman Tate almost certainly tried to kill and the fact that there is literally nothing at all in these files that tie Tate to either the Ward murder or the Rowland murder. I exhale through my nostrils like a bull. My brother’s smart, but I refuse to believe he’s outplayed me this adeptly.
“I don’t know where Tate is, but I know damn well he’s not in a morgue in Ohio.” My words echo in the quiet house.
If I can’t find evidence Tate killed these women, I’m going to have to find Tate himself. I could call Dr. Wilde. It would be a logical starting point since he’s the one who was informed of Tate’s alleged death.
That’s a nonstarter, though. Since he thinks I’m Tate, I’d have a lot of explaining to do. And if I come clean about who I am, then he’ll want to discuss my six-year-long deception, and I don’t have time for that right now. Besides, Tate’s probably the one who called him and told him Tate Weakes is dead.
Unless Tate has a partner. I’ve wondered off and on through the years whether he teamed up with a partner because he sure seemed to want one. Of course, he might think murder is the sort of thing you keep in the family. In which case, when I turned him down, he’d have kept flying solo.
I do a few more public records searches for ‘Tate Weakes’ but nothing pops. It’s been a consistent theme: he’s like a ghost. He’s not a registered voter in any state that I’ve searched, doesn’t have a drivers’ license, doesn’t own a home, doesn’t have utilities in his name. It’s as if he doesn’t exist. He could have a fully papered alias, but more likely he sublets a place, utilities included, for cash, uses prepaid gift cards when he can’t deal in cash, and trades services for goods when he can.
Time for a break. I push back my chair and head to the kitchen. After staring into the open refrigerator for a full three minutes as if it contained the secrets of the universe rather than some leftovers and sandwich fixings, I settled on eating two heaping spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar, as unsanitary as my wife thinks that is. What Emily doesn’t know won’t hurt her, I tell myself as I return the jar to the pantry, wash down my ‘lunch’ with a swig of lukewarm coffee, and return my butt to my desk chair.
What Emily doesn’t know could hurt her. The thought sparks an idea and I switch tacks to research the one murder I haven’t gone back over: Cassie Baughman’s. I pulled her files a few times over the years while I was working at the crime lab and did the same thing I did with Giselle Ward’s file. I took pictures of the documents with my phone, transferred them to my home computer, and printed them. Forwarding myself the Rowland file via email was a risk, but I was too concerned about losing access to the materials to worry about leaving an electronic footprint.
I’ve got the file folder labeled ‘Appliance Warranties and User Manuals’ halfway out of my desk drawer when I freeze. The prosaic label ensures my wife will never open the folder, and the thick file does contain a sheaf of manuals for items as diverse and uninteresting as our hedge trimmer, toaster oven, and the furnace. I just happened to hide the gruesome file documenting the murder of Emily’s roommate and closest friend behind the manuals. Instead of opening the folder, I shove it back into its spot and slide the drawer closed.
An unanswered question scratches at my brain like a dog at the door, demanding to be let in.
I emailed myself the cold case file because I’d been unceremoniously sidelined from the Ward investigation. I’ve concluded I didn’t contaminate a sample—I’m too careful. Someone planted my DNA at the scene. If I rule out the crime scene team, that someone is Giselle Ward’s killer. Tate. He would obviously benefit the most from sidelining me.
But I can’t work out why he would go through the trouble of getting me kicked off the case only to turn around and fake his death. What’s the angle? I tip my chair back onto its rear legs and stare up at the ceiling. Why would Tate want me off and want me to think he’s dead?
The answer smacks me in the face and I return my chair to the floor with a thump. He’s going to finish what he started seven years ago. A scream rises in my throat and I push it down. I scrabble for my phone and redial the number Emily called from last night. Alex Liu’s landline.
Come on. Answer.
The phone doesn’t ring. Instead a steady, rapid busy signal beeps in my ear. Service must be out.
I swear loudly and hang up, jabbing at my contacts list to call Em’s cell phone. I know there’s virtually no chance she has coverage, but I have to warn her that Tate is coming.
I grab my keys and run toward the garage but before I’m at the door to the attached garage, the doorbell rings at the front of the house.
I have half a mind to ignore it, and later I’ll wish I had. But I don’t. Instead, like the fool, I dutifully turn on my heel and walk toward the front door. I pull it open and blink at the man standing outside.
“Graham, this is a surprise.”
Graham Stone’s smile is tight, and I glance over his shoulder to see two black and whites idling in the street. My pulse quickens. Surely he’s not going to arrest me for forwarding myself a file. Yes, it was a breach of protocol, and technically it’s a crime. But this seems excessive.
“Tristan.” His voice matches the smile—clipped, terse.
“Is something wrong?”
“I think you know it is.”
So this is about the file.
“I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. Come on in.”
The bewildered look he throws me confuses me.
“You’re sorry?” His tone is laced with disbelief.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. That was wrong.”
