Page 21 of Aftermath
“Some of it’s just on my laptop, which I don’t keep here,” I explained.
“What do you have here?” he pushed.
I opened my files and found the one I’d labeled for records on the Coastal Killer. It was mainly scanned-in news clippings, police reports, and the non-gory crime scene photos that had been made public. I scrolled through, letting him glance over what the museum kept on record. It was only about 200 files, and some were entirely useless, with even a few duplicates.
“This is everything we keep here,” I said, reaching the end of the file.
“And what do you keep on your laptop?” he inquired, taking a step back.
I turned in the chair, my hands in my lap, feeling his scrutiny on my face. “Um-” I stuttered.
He crossed his arms, and my hands turned clammy. Any second, Francis could come in, and I would be completely out of luck. I was already brainstorming the excuse I would use when he left.
“If it’s anything illegal, I’m going to find out eventually. Better to admit it now,” he pushed.
“No, it’s not like that. It’s just-” I started, then paused to watch the doorway. “It’s a personal project.”
I chose the words carefully, realizing Beck was analyzing every word out of my mouth, like I was a suspect in interrogation.
Was I a suspect to him?
Panic took hold of my chest. I tried to keep my face neutral, but I failed miserably as I saw understanding cross his face,
“Your boss has no idea, does she?” he asked.
I shook my head slowly.“She turned down my idea for an exhibit using the research.”
“So, she doesn’t approve of you working on this research?” Beck guessed.
“You could say that,” I huffed.
My heart was pounding at my ears at this point, praying to God Beck wouldn’t reveal what I’d been working on to Francis. If she knew, I was a goner.
“And you kept working on it?”
Was that curiosity in his eyes, or was I imagining things?
I realized a second too late I was staring, and he was still waiting for his answer.I nodded. There was no point in hiding it. I had a feeling if Beck wanted information, he’d get it, no matter what.
“You wanted to make an exhibit on the Coastal Killer?” he asked, frowning.
“No,” I said hurriedly. “I wanted to make an exhibit on the victims. A memorial, a way to remember who they were.”
I let out a breath of frustration. Why did everyone always fixate on the killer?“No one else seemed to think it was a good idea, so Francis tasked me with a different project and expects I’ve ceased work on this.”
“Sometimes, people aren’t ready to face hard truths,” Beck murmured.
“Hard truths?” I asked.
“Like for one, that your boss is likely never going to take on this exhibit, yet you are still working on the project she tasked you with stopping,” he said.
I scowled.
What was his issue?
Everything out of his mouth was so calculated and logical. Even if Francis told me to stop, it didn’t mean all hope for my research and memorial was gone. If I could just find more on the killer, or if the FBI finally caught them, the town would be more open to the idea. I knew it.
“And two, some people aren’t ready to face the reality of these people being gone. They were friends, family, colleagues; that isn’t an easy truth to face,” Beck added.
