Page 26 of Death in the Family
“You should try to get this thing resolved fast.”
“Thank you,” I said, “for acknowledging this is a serious case and not a goddamn game of Clue. Don’t worry, Mac, I’m all over it.”
“Because it can’t be good for you to be out there. Fact, it might be pretty bad.”
Ugh. In all of Jefferson County, McIntyre was the only person besides Carson who knew what happened in New York. It isn’t like I could hide the details from her. They were all right there in my file. No matter how much physical distance I put between myself and the city, no matter how much time has passed since those days that changed my life, I’ll never be able to keep it entirely to myself.
A few weeks ago, I stumbled onto my story—funny to call it a story, as if it’s something comforting to share at bedtime—online. A lawyer working on behalf of my former department got the pressto omit my name from all public reports, but even seeing the wordsundisclosed female officerfelt like an invasion. When I mentioned the old article to Carson, he made me read it to him out loud, as if I were a kid and he were the teacher checking I got the intonation right. He said I had to own it, which I thought was odd advice considering we just ran away.
Unless someone knew what to look for, they couldn’t easily connect me with the case. I don’t know why I chose to tell McIntyre the extra bits that weren’t in my file, or even in news stories like that one. That was stuff no one could get anywhere else, the behind-the-scenes footage hardest of all to share. I guess I felt a kinship with her. Maureen McIntyre’s a sheriff, but I had also come to consider her a friend.
Shivering in that shed, I wondered if I shouldn’t have been so quick to open up. “It’s not a problem,” I said firmly, my ears uncomfortably hot. “This isn’t the same thing. Not even close.”
“I know it’s not. But it is a missing persons case, and it’s your first since you started working again. I heard there’s blood on the scene. Cause of injury?”
“We think he was stabbed.”At least I do.
“Stabbed.” Coming from her, the word oozed meaning. “With the troopers held up and this weather”—as if on cue, a sheet of rain assaulted the shed window—“the reality is you’re going to be there on your own for a while. So I’m wondering if it might make sense to have a private chat with Tim.”
If it was me, well... I would tell him. That’s what McIntyre meant, and it disappointed me. After I opened up and asked her to keep my truth to herself, she’d made this same recommendation. She respected my decision, meaning she hadn’t gone to Tim herself,but she didn’t agree with it—and so I hadn’t hurried to unpack my boxes in A-Bay. My abilities... those McIntyre trusted. It was my judgment she questioned. And in my line of work, judgment counts for a lot.
It’s not that I didn’t understand where she was coming from. Tim was the closest thing to a partner I had out here. In order to work together effectively, we needed to be in sync. Offset each other’s weaknesses and play off each other’s strengths. Many days after I started coming to the station and sitting at the desk next to Tim’s, I visualized what it would be like to bring him some sludgy, too-hot office coffee and ask for a few minutes of his time. In my mind, the scenario always ended with him giving me a sorry look that mutated into bottomless concern. If by some miracle he heard my story and didn’t immediately start questioning my mental state, he would surely see me as a charity case. Assume I was hired because of some obscure office policy that required damaged officers be given a chance to prove they’re healed. I’d always be broken to Tim.
As an experiment, I reversed the situation in my head. What would I do if my new colleague and informal adviser recounted a story like mine right after we met? The fact is, I wouldn’t trust him. And I deserve to be trusted, don’t I? There’s more to me than those dark days spent in the East Village, clawing at a cellar door until my fingernails bled. Screaming under the city in the land of rats and rust, and carving objects out of the kind of dark so full and rich it has texture. What happened with Bram doesn’t define me. It was Carson who taught me that, though I can’t say I was a quick study.
Telling Mac and telling Tim were two very different things.Tim wasn’t a self-imposed mentor like McIntyre, but a peer I’d have to see every day. He was someone Carson knew—hell, Carson wanted him at our wedding. If I allowed that to happen, Tim would meet my parents and see the everlasting shame and sadness in their eyes. There was no way he’d understand.
“This is entirely your call,” McIntyre said. “I’m just saying you should give him a chance. Tim’s a good man, Shay.”
“I know he is.” In the three months I’d known him, Tim hadn’t done a thing to suggest he lacked empathy. About everything else, in every situation, he’d been sympathetic but strong, compassionate without being feeble. That was part of the problem. I liked the guy. Tim’s opinion of me mattered.
“If you need help out there, he can give it to you.”
“Speaking of help,” I said, anxious to change the subject, “have you got a few minutes to do some recon work on our witnesses?”
McIntyre missed her detective days, and I knew she’d love to pitch in. With a smile in her voice she said, “What do you need to know?”
I gave her every name I had and asked her to poke around for anything peculiar. Assault charges, divorces, bankruptcies.
“I’ll text you when I’ve got something, see if you’re free,” she said.
I thanked her and quickly hung up. The walls of the shed were quaking. Through the back window I could see the river raging like an open ocean. If Jasper was unlucky enough to end up down there, then down there he would stay.
Tell Tim. I pressed my hands over my eyes. Where would I even begin? There was no way I could tell him, not now. Maybe not ever.
My conversation with McIntyre still fresh in my mind, I flipped open my notebook and started to map out the case. Back at the Ninth Precinct, I’d have an interactive whiteboard or touch screen to help me picture the connections I’d made. All I’d get in A-Bay was a communal bulletin board.
Out on the island, pen and paper would have to do.
There were links all over the place. Our witnesses all had ties to Jasper and to each other. They interacted in the city, on the island, at work. By the time I was done with my preliminary visualization, the notebook page was filled with scribbles and lines and I was staring at what looked like a distorted family tree.
When I stepped back outside I could swear my nose hairs frosted up. The house loomed tall before me as I struggled against the force of the wind. The rain was relentless, painful on my exposed skin. I was dying for a hot coffee and desperately needed to pee, and I wasn’t sure how to go about resolving either issue. Being at the Sinclairs was like visiting a great-aunt’s house when you’re a kid. You tiptoe around without touching anything, and deep down you just want to go home.
My gaze returned to the second-floor windows. Flynn and Ned’s bedroom was on the other side of the house, and Camilla’s was upstairs. Norton’s sleeping quarters were on the main floor, so the rooms on either side of Jasper’s must belong to Bebe and Miles, and Jade. In one of the windows a curtain twitched and a pale flash caught my eye. I squinted up at it.What on earth?Jade was in her bedroom, and damned if she wasn’t smoking a cigarette. Behind the pane she took a drag, looked down at me, and smiled.
I watched the teenager, and she watched me. Jade hadn’t factored into my investigation yet, but this wine-guzzling, cigarette-smoking child would need to be vetted just like everyone else. Aftera minute she broke eye contact. She’d grown bored with me, I guess. Funny how she didn’t seem bothered by my presence on the island, let alone the fact that she woke up this morning to find her fun-loving uncle was gone.
Jade disappeared behind the curtain, but I stayed put. What was it Tim said earlier? Jade spent a lot of time brooding in her room.
