Chapter 51 #2
She bites her lower lip. A storm is approaching, despite all her efforts to remain calm.
“That’s rich, Crosbie,” she hisses at me.
“Using my own words to justify you exposing my secrets to the world, stuff I could’ve exposed to a counselor or my own inner circle of support instead, on my own terms.”
A part of me is glad to see her anger. She hasn’t been to a counselor. The only friend she knows is Allison, and she’s sworn her to secrecy. But the anger is better than detachment, which I know all too well is a defense mechanism.
In addition to the deep ache piercing my heart, I’m also furious at her, too. There’s so much that hasn’t been said.
“You can do this on your own terms,” I say. “Like I said, your name’s not even mentioned.”
“Anyone who knew Mark Coleman in this small town knew he and I were hanging out at the Silvertip.”
“That’s conjecture, Jess. And for that, I’m sorry.
But also, in a way, I’m not. This might be for the best.” I know I sound a little callous, but quickly—very quickly—it’s dawned on me that I can’t shelter my sister anymore, even for Sam’s sake.
I clearly have done no good by doing so, and in fact, have made things worse.
I brace for her reaction, but Allison comes into the kitchen before I get one.
“I smell coffee,” she says. Sam is behind her, wide awake like he’s already been playing in his room. Allison’s in a pair of jeans and a rumpled T-shirt. “This little guy came and got me in the office wanting to play, can you believe it?”
Jess grabs Allison a cup, too.
“I thought I heard talking,” she says. “You’re here early. Jess reminded me that this is it. The day after.” She has the same wide-eyed questioning look that Alderson had at the end of the day yesterday—a what in the world are you going to do look.
“Yeah, I had some things to tell Jess, but I’m leaving now.
” I can’t tell if Jess has filled Allison in on what I told her the other night, and if she has, I wonder what she thinks of me and my actions with Railes, but I’m not going to hang around to find out.
I still feel bad about letting our friendship slide, but mostly right now, I feel embarrassed and bruised.
My heart aches in a way I’ve never felt before.
But this is supposed to be a quick visit.
I’ve accomplished my mission to fill Jess in, and now I need to get out of their hair and be on my own for a while to continue to investigate this, to pay very close attention to every single person who approaches me or comes to my house, and to coordinate all my actions with Alderson and Greene so that I have backup for wherever I go, like now.
For simplicity, I plan to stay away from my office for the time being.
I hug Sam and snuggle him in close.
“What are you wearing?” Sam asks, wrinkling his nose.
“Oh, just a little armor,” I say. “You know, in case one of your scary monsters comes for me.”
He looks at me funny. My throat constricts. I am raw to my bones, not only from exposing the truth and from hurting Jess, but from knowing I may never see them again if I mess up today or the next. Or . . .
Even if I escape this mess and catch the killer, Jess may never forgive me. She may even withhold Sam from me. Sam squirms, and I force myself to let him go.
“Sorry if we woke you,” I say to Allison. “But thanks for staying last night. I appreciate you keeping Jess company.”
“I’m an early riser. Plus, I need to get going, too,” she says, grabbing her purse from the counter. “Got to run home to clean up before I get to work this morning. I can do it again tonight, if you want.”
“Yes,” Sam says. “We had a sleepover.” He smiles. “And Allison helped me with my space station. Will you help me today?” he asks me.
“Oh, that does sound so fun, but you have to go to school.”
Sam groans. “After?”
“We can work on it next time, but right now, buddy, I need to get going, too.” I give him one more hug, but he wriggles away.
“You stay safe.” Allison grabs her keys out of her purse, then seems to realize she’s sleepy enough she hasn’t yet put on her jacket, a thin, shiny little black thing hanging over the back of one of Jess’s stools.
A tiny corner of white trails out of one of the pockets.
Tissue, I think, and tell myself that every time I spot a tissue, for God’s sake, I can’t get weirded out.
But then she sets her keys down on the counter to put on her jacket. My eye catches on her key chain. Attached to a ring holding a flat plastic rectangle with a metal bottle opener on its end are her keys. And also attached to the ring is a colorful arrowhead made from agate.
I narrow my eyes and cock my head a little, trying to place where I’ve seen it. The plastic rectangle bottle opener faces down, so I can’t see the picture on it, but the combination of a bottle opener and an arrowhead attached to a set of keys triggers my memory.
Leon.
Leon had the same.
Allison sees my glance and picks up the keys, closing her hand around the plastic.
“That,” I say. “Your key chain. Where did you get it?”
She holds up her hand to show me the tip of the arrowhead. “This? These are so popular now. Got it in Polson at a gift shop there.”
“Allison, did you know Leon Spencer?”
“Leon who?”
“The man involved with the guy Billy shot.”
“Oh, that poor boy? No, why?”
“Your key chain. It’s like his.” I lift my chin, see her hand tightly palming the ring, barely showing the tip of the agate.
She gives me a quizzical look like, What a strange thing to ask.
“No,” she says. “Like I said, they’re popular.”
There may be a gazillion just like it in gift shops around Montana.
Greene comes back into the kitchen. “Ready to go?”
I steal another quick hug from Sam, then give Jess a longer one.
“We’re still sisters,” she mumbles, gripping me tightly.
When we finally part, she looks like she might cry.
Was her indifference earlier simply an act, a way for her to stay strong for a change to get through this?
My heart almost splits in two knowing that although she’s fuming, she still aches and is terrified for me and the whole situation.
“Come on, Sam.” Her voice cracks. “We need to get ready for school.” She wipes her eyes and starts toward her bedroom.
“I’m going to wave goodbye.” Sam darts to the front window and stations himself there in his green dinosaur pj’s, which are now high-waters on him from his latest growth spurt.
“Okay if I grab a cup for the road?” Allison calls to Jess.
Jess points to a catchall cabinet above the fridge. I walk out with Greene. She begins telling me Alderson learned from the coroner that Clarissa died from blunt force trauma to the head before water entered her lungs.
But I can barely track what she’s saying. The fierce grip of Jess’s hug, like she’ll never hold me again, takes my breath away. At the same time, Sam is completing our ritual—waving to me from the front window until I’m officially out of sight.
I flash a big smile and wave back, trying to act carefree. I’m anything but.
Outside, dawn is beginning to rub away the night sky, but it’s still dark enough to see through Jess’s front windows, the lights inside spotlighting Sam at the window.
I wave again, but as we get into Greene’s black SUV, I’m picturing how tightly Allison gripped the key chain, her knuckles white.
Wouldn’t anyone have held it out if I asked about it?
What was that all about? I’m not positive Allison has Leon’s key chain, but I’m suspicious.
Of what?
Why on earth would she have that poor dead kid’s key chain?
Have I gotten to the point in my life where I have nothing but enemies and can barely trust anyone in my orbit?
But I’ve heard a lot of lies during my time on both my jobs, and although I may not pick up on them all the time, when my senses wake up, there’s usually a reason for it.
And they’re tingling like hell.
“Mitchell, are you even listening to me?” Greene asks.
“What?”
“About Clarissa Hayes’s lungs. She died from a blow, not drowning.”
Greene puts her keys in the ignition and adds something about the DNA on the water bottle in Clarissa’s pack. I watch Allison come up behind Sam, holding her to-go coffee. Sam is beaming. She is not.
Like a lens on autofocus bringing an object into sharp relief, I make out her expression more clearly. It’s a complicated anxiety, like it’s not just for my safety, but an examining of me and Greene all mixed. There’s calculation in her hard stare.
Allison looks thin and gaunt, stressed in the same way Jess has been, like she’s been through the wringer. Newly formed deep lines etch around her eyes.
Images flash through my head like a skipping film.
Allison doodling at her desk, sketching a lynx on notepaper and me complimenting her, telling her how good it was.
Allison mentioning once that, in Casper, her hometown in Wyoming, when her older brothers were angry at her, they’d bully her by tying her up to one of the pasture fences after dinner, forcing her to stay out till dark in the relentless wind, listening to the coyotes yipping out in the field until their mom yelled at them to go fetch her.
She told me her brothers always said if she ratted on them, they’d exact revenge, use her for target practice instead of the old aluminum cans.
Allison complimenting my earrings at the banquet, moving in closer to get a better look.
Allison at the shooting range: Try putting a picture of him on that bull’s-eye, she had said when we talked about Hartley, and I had laughed.
Allison raising her nephew after her sister deteriorated and passed on.
I never met the boy. By the time I joined the force, he was already in high school. I recalled how she sometimes left early for school events. How she talked about him with such warmth, bragged about him being smart and genuine.
“But her nephew?” I say this out loud. To myself. To see if I hear a click. “Could it have been?”
“Mitchell?” Greene starts the car. “What are you talking about?”
“You know Allison, the dispatcher? Her sister died from a neurodegenerative disease, Huntington’s chorea, when her nephew, who she called .
. . what did she call him? I’ve never even met him.
She never brought him by the station or anything.
When I asked her why, she said, Would you bring a family member around these goons? ”
“So?” Greene asks.
“It was Tom, that’s what she called him. She said she’d raised him since he was seven, just a year older than Sam is now. Okay, yes, it was Tom, not Leon.”
I sigh loudly, feeling silly but relieved, but before I even fully exhale, more details flash through my mind. Leon’s driver’s license.
Thomas Leon Spencer.
But he went by Leon. I jolt straight up in my seat. Greene is pulling out onto the street. I refuse to take my eyes off Sam and Allison standing in Jess’s window.
“Pull back in,” I say, keeping my eyes glued on them. “Allison is Leon’s aunt.”
“Leon?” says Greene. “Who’s Leon?”