Chapter 19 Selene
SELENE
Bringing Beck and Cal up to speed doesn’t take long.
Mainly because they’re quick studies, but also because I don’t have a lot in the way of actual proof.
My whiteboard—which Monique has taken to calling a ‘murder board’—is divided in half.
One side dedicated to the things I know for certain, and the other filled with theories, questions and, towards the bottom, names and other single word phrases I haven’t figured out where to place.
“Mistook peanut butter for tahini?” Beck gapes at the witness statement from the sous chef who made the fatal swap. “Isn’t tahini white?”
“It’s more beige or deep brown, depends on how the sesame seeds are processed,” Cal says, leaning in close to my computer screen to get a good look at the pictures of Sutton’s planner that her father sent to me.
Several dates marked ‘CD’ with little hearts around the letters corresponded with times Aubrey was at Camp David.
Cal and Beck were always with him on those trips, but they said if she was there, they never saw her.
It doesn’t surprise me since they never got to see or vet a lot of the people who visited Aubrey there.
While they’ve pored over all things related to Sutton, I’ve tasked myself with rescuing at least one thing from the side of the board that represents obscurity and insignificance. So far, I’ve had no luck.
Beck appears at my side suddenly, the frustration rolling off me as I gaze at the board a beacon he can’t resist. “Why do you have President Sanders up there?”
In an instant, Cal is on my other side, and then I’m wrapped in the bubble of their warmth and familiar scents.
Despite the stressful circumstances that made this moment possible, I’m nothing but grateful to be standing here with them looking at the pieces of a puzzle and figuring out how they all fit together.
“He died in the middle of the campaign, and his death guaranteed Aubrey’s win.”
“So did the sympathy he garnered from your kidnapping,” Cal points out. “Why isn’t that up there?”
“You think Aubrey was involved with my kidnapping?”
I never even considered it. Some things, like the kidnapping and AJ’s death, felt so clear to me in terms of responsibility.
Jacob was responsible for my kidnapping.
He recruited Leigh Anne and flipped Charlie and Agent Harris.
He introduced my temple to the barrel of a gun.
He was bred in hate and fed pain from the time he could walk and talk.
That same thing was true for the child who ended AJ’s life.
None of those things had anything to do with Aubrey, or, at least, I didn’t think so.
Beck plucks the marker from my hand and walks over to the board, adding the kidnapping under the half-erased note about the military base.
“We’ve never found any links between Aubrey and Jacob that didn’t include you.
Personally, I don’t think he was involved, but when you’re conducting an investigation, everything matters until you’re able to determine that it doesn’t. ”
My core clenches, something primal in me reacting to the display of competence. Cal’s gaze is warm on the side of my face, but his knowing chuckle is an open flame that threatens to melt me.
“Did that turn you on, pet?”
I bite back a smile, wondering how it’s possible to be wet when we’re talking about one of the scariest days of my life. “Shut up, Drake.”
“Are you two even listening?”
“Of course we are, love.”
Beck is clearly skeptical, twisting his lips up at Cal’s overenthusiastic answer. “What did I just say then?”
“Yeah, what did he say, Cal?”
We both stare at him, waiting for him to say something. When he throws his hands up in surrender, we all share a laugh. It’s short lived, this moment of levity, but it’s a nice glimpse into the future we’re working towards.
“Anyway,” Beck says eventually, ready to get back to work. “I was asking if you had anything on Sanders’s death, Selene.”
“Nothing outside of what was readily available to the public,” I tell him, moving over to the conference table to find the file. “I had Nichelle put it together, but I never really got around to looking through it because I’ve been so focused on Sutton.”
“It was probably the better use of your time.”
Cal hums his agreement with Beck’s statement.
They join me at the table, watching as I lay all the items out.
There’s the printed history of Sanders’s health, which he made public record after his hospitalization during the campaign.
Multiple articles about his death, including an emotional tribute by his oldest daughter that was published in the Times.
Lastly, and to my complete surprise, there’s a copy of his autopsy accompanied by photos taken outside of the Sanders’ Chesapeake Bay home from the day he died.
Press descended on the waterfront home within minutes of the 911 call Deborah Sanders made when she found her husband unresponsive on the patio where he’d been having his morning coffee, so there are plenty of angles to work with.
I take the stack of photos and split it between me and Cal while Beck takes the autopsy.
“How did Nichelle even get this? I thought these didn’t become public record for years.”
“They don’t,” Cal says. “But they’re always available somewhere if you know the right place to look.”
He’s right. The internet is a vast and extremely dark place sometimes.
I heard once that photos of the report written by the coroner who examined AJ’s body ended up there, free and available for the whole world to see.
I don’t find it shocking at all that the same thing has happened here.
Sanders died in the midst of an election, so there were bound to be questions and impatient constituents unwilling to wait twelve years for the documents to be released by the National Archives and Records Association.
Both men go quiet, disappearing into their work, and I do the same, walking the length of the room as I shuffle through the pictures.
Even though Cal has half the stack, I still have close to fifty photos in my hand.
Some of them are basically the same photo just with minute differences like a person’s hand moving from inside their jacket pocket to running a finger over the yellow tape billowing in the late October wind.
It’s an odd thing to do.
Touch a line that’s not meant to be touched.
That’s what catches my eye. The audacity.
The disregard. The flirting with the idea of crossing a clearly defined boundary.
But what keeps my attention, what steals my breath and makes my skin vibrate over my bones is the scar.
Thin and silver in the shape of a crescent moon and attached to the hand of a man whose face I couldn’t make out in Sutton’s photo but see clear as day now.
“Oh my God.”
The rest of the stack falls away, landing in a messy heap at my feet, and I slip on them as I rush over to my desk, clutching the only one that matters to my chest. My outburst has, of course, drawn the attention of the men in the room.
They’re on me in an instant, large bodies curved over my desk and crouching by my chair, wild eyes watching my fingers fly across the keyboard.
Cal gazes up at me from his perch on the floor. “What is it?”
Beck scoops up the photo I’ve left beside the keyboard, onyx eyes roving over the photo trying to see what I saw. “Did you find something?”
“Please, just hold on a second.”
They both go quiet, barely breathing while I click through several pages of Google links looking for the article I need.
It’s buried deep. I should have been more specific with the search terms, but I wasn’t thinking straight.
I don’t even think I spelled his name right.
Glancing up, I see there are three f’s in officer instead of two and an extra ‘l’ in his last name.
None of it matters though, because after just a few minutes, I’ve found it.
The article published just over a week after AJ died, the one that shows Officer Travis Langham in his dress blues standing next to me and Aubrey at our son’s funeral.
I’d remembered it as the one with the clearest view of his face, and I was right.
It’s him.
The officer who stood on the other side of a line of caution tape and told me my son was gone is the same man in the photo Beck is holding.
With a few clicks of my mouse, I pull up the email Sutton’s dad sent, opening the image he showed me that day in his home.
I refused to take it then, but I’m glad I have it now because it’s a tangible link between Aubrey, Sutton and Sanders.
I fall back into my chair, staring blankly at the screen until Cal and Beck block it out with their bodies, and I’m left with no choice but to look somewhere else.
“He didn’t have the scar back then,” I mumble, studying the skin on the top of my right hand while they compare the man in the photo they’re holding to the ones on the screen.
“It’s definitely him,” Cal confirms. He glances at me over his shoulder. “How well do you know this Langham character?”
“He was the officer in charge of the scene at Beaumont High. I haven’t seen him since the funeral. I don’t know him at all.”
“But you did,” Beck insists, shifting around to sit on the edge of my desk.
Cal mirrors his stance, and suddenly I’m the subject of an interrogation.
They don’t mean for it to come across that way, I know, but it still does.
It’s their expectant gazes and perked ears open and ready to receive information I don’t have to give.
It’s the questions that roll into each other.
Did Aubrey and Langham seem friendly?
Did he ever mention Langham in the years after AJ’s death?
Do you think it’s strange Langham is the only thread outside of Aubrey connecting three separate instances of suspicious deaths?
That one gives me pause. I hold my hand up to stop them both from speaking.
“Three?” I shake my head, ticking the names off on my fingers. “Sutton and Sanders. Those are the only suspicious deaths we’ve connected Langham to.”
I don’t miss it. The pity that passes between them or the silent conversation that happens after they’ve tucked it away that determines who’s going to say the hard thing to me.
Beck’s lips part on a sigh, and I want to stop him, to tell him he doesn’t need to say it because the connection has already been formed in my mind.
It’s been there since Beck lectured me about looking at everything with fresh eyes, but I’ve refused to acknowledge it, to give any credence to the idea that my son’s name belongs on that murder board.
“Selene,” Beck starts, Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows. “We have to consider the possibility…”
No part of me is able to sit here and withstand this.
I stand suddenly, storming out of the room with tears clouding my vision.
They don’t stop me from seeing anything, but when I run into Monique in the hallway just outside my office with Isis and Imani in tow, they are a little blurry.
I stop short, put off by Monique’s sudden appearance and the fact that Imani and Isis are still here when they were supposed to be picked up over an hour ago.
“Hey!” I force a smile, hoping to ease the tension lining both girls’ shoulders. “What are you two still doing here?”
Isis throws herself into my arms, and Mo’s eyes stretch wide when I hug her back instead of cringing or shying away. The truth is, I wouldn’t deny either of these girls anything, especially the physical affection I’m sure they’re not getting at home.
“Mama Jo is running late,” she explains, voice muffled because her face is in my chest.
Monique gives me a look that suggest there’s more to the story. Imani is happy to provide that context, crossing her arms over her chest and pursing her lips.
“She forgot about us.”
Isis twists around, breaking our embrace. “No, she didn’t! When Ms. Monique called her, she said she was on the way.”
“That was an hour ago, dummy. We only live twenty minutes away.”
“An hour?” I aim my confusion in Monique’s direction. “Why didn’t you come get me?”
“Because you were occupied, girl.” She waggles her brows, and I roll my eyes. I texted her earlier to let her know Cal and Beck were on the premises, and she’s been making inappropriate jokes through text all day.
“We were working.”
“Sureeee,” she drawls teasingly, making the girls giggle.
Ignoring her childish antics, I turn back towards my office doors and wave a hand for them to follow. “Come in and sit down. I’ll see if I can get Joanna on the phone.”
Cal and Beck are shocked by me reappearing with company in tow, but they adjust easily. We make a silent agreement to revisit the conversation I walked out on the moment they see Monique, Isis and Imani behind me, and I couldn’t be more grateful for that.
“Oh, y’all have been busy,” Mo exclaims, taking in the mess we’ve made of my office.
Imani looks around too, her interest clearly piqued.
She starts to creep over to the conference table where Sanders’s autopsy is sitting on the top of a pile with the word CONFIDENTIAL written in bright red letters.
I open my mouth to tell her to stop, but Beck swoops in first, managing to keep his distance and avoid startling her even as he puts himself between her and the table.
She jerks back, glaring slightly at him, and my heart starts to sink.
I didn’t realize it until this very moment, but I really want Isis and Imani to get along with Cal and Beck.
I had the same desire with them and Monique, and they hit it off instantly, but I know it won’t always be that simple when it comes to bringing people together from different parts of my world.
Imani hooks a thumb in Beck’s direction, eyes bouncing from him to Isis. “Did this man just hit the Naruto run?”
Isis snorts. “He really did!”
“Like he was using Flying Raijin,” Cal quips, laughing when Beck flips him off. Pretty soon, all four of them are lost in a conversation about the fastest characters in anime while Cal and Beck clear the table, and Monique and I stand by the desk, completely lost.
“Well, that’s sexy as hell,” she whispers.
“What?”
“Them being good with kids.”
“Yeah,” I muse, catching glimpses of a future I didn’t plan for or even know I wanted in the laughter and easy conversation flowing between four people who were just perfect strangers.