Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Safe in Fletch’s embrace, in the middle of a secret compound, Michelle closed her burning eyes. She knew she wasn’t guilty; nevertheless, the thoughts returned from eight years ago, the ones that sought to spread the seeds of doubt.
If Michelle questioned her own innocence, wouldn’t a grand jury do the same?
The evidence was stacking up.
Three fires.
Two people dead.
Two explosions.
Michelle was the connection between all of it. She was the center of a Venn diagram.
Her temples throbbed. However, before she could break away from Fletch’s strong arms, his doorbell rang. At the tones, Fletch stiffened. Michelle looked up to his dark stare.
“Go in the bedroom and shut the door.”
Fletch’s tone sent her frayed nerves into overdrive. “Could someone be coming after me?”
“That person would have to go through me first.” He kissed the top of her head and led her across the hallway to the bedroom. “Let me see who it is.”
The doorbell rang again.
“Do you get many visitors?” Michelle asked.
“Never.”
She took a ragged breath. That wasn’t the answer she was looking for.
Michelle reached for her own hands. They felt numb as if the circulation had stopped.
Her body trembled as Fletch closed the bedroom door.
Before it was fully shut, she saw him reach for his pistol from his holster.
She backed away from the door, one step and then two.
Her focus was on the doorknob. There was a small switch in the middle of the knob to lock the door.
It wasn’t enough. Michelle knew without a doubt that the flimsy lock was insufficient to keep Fletch or possibly anyone from getting in.
Tentatively, she stepped forward and laid her ear against the door, straining to hear what was happening in the other part of the apartment. She even longed for the thin walls in the cheap motels.
Michelle heard voices, Fletch’s and someone else’s—a man’s—but she couldn’t make out the words. There was no yelling or gunshots. After a minute, she sat on the edge of the mattress. Her thoughts went to the press conference.
Lying back, she laid her arm over her eyes.
She was certain the night in Iron Falls had occurred exactly as she recalled. How could anyone suspect her of killing her father?
Her father probably had guns. As a retired policeman, she recalled he was always fanatical about gun safety. The only gun she owned at the time her father was shot was in a gun safe on the top shelf in her closet in Indianapolis.
Not only couldn’t Michelle have shot him, but she also wouldn’t.
Her thoughts went to her mother’s death.
After the explosion and her mother’s death, Michelle agreed to be questioned by the police. In her mind, she had nothing to hide. Yet, the more she was questioned, the less sure she was of her own memories.
Yes, she was upset that her parents weren’t home to greet her.
Yes, she canceled her last planned visit. It was because she was called in to work.
Yes, she chose to spend the night with her friends instead of going back to her home.
No, she wasn’t rebelling. Her friends called. She missed them.
Yes, she missed her family too.
Yes, she had access to the gas stove.
No, she wasn’t worried about her semester grades.
Yes, she was the last person to leave her parents’ home.
A kernel of uncertainty was all it took to make Michelle begin to question her own memories. Then came the psychological evaluations. She answered honestly about her childhood.
How did she feel about being an only child?
Fine.
Did she consider herself selfish?
Was that self-centeredness why she was upset when no one was home?
Michelle didn’t consider herself self-centered, jealous, dependent, or quarrelsome, or any of the qualities associated with an only child in antiquated psychological research. She didn’t like or dislike her lack of siblings. It simply was what it was.
The evaluating psychologist asked Michelle for her memories of her older sister. If she hadn’t learned of Sarah’s existence a few years earlier, the question would have thrown her for a loop. Michelle answered truthfully; she had no memory of a sister. Sarah died before she was born.
On Michelle’s currently overstressed brain, this train of thought was the beginning to a bottomless rabbit hole.
Moving her arm and staring up at the ceiling in Fletch’s bedroom, other memories returned.
As part of her attempt to avoid formal charges, Michelle agreed to court-mandated counseling.
She recalled she liked the counselor at Purdue.
Her name was Naomi. The last name was lost to her.
A scene came back, during the second semester of her sophomore year.
The office in the Purdue Counseling and Guidance Center was simple with light gray walls and darker gray carpeting.
There was a large round bright-white rug in front of the sofa.
The bookshelf behind the counselor’s desk was filled with books with colorful spines.
The windowsill was lined with multiple thriving plants despite the gray winter skies beyond.
Her standing appointment was every week after her economics lecture.
Naomi sat in a chair, and Michelle lay back on the sofa.
“What are some of your first memories?” Naomi asked.
Michelle was used to the routine. Sometimes it was cathartic as if she was regaining her ground. Other times it was sobering, making her feel melancholy when they were done talking.
She sighed at Naomi’s question, trying to take her mind back in time. “I’m not sure what I recall from pictures and stories and what was real.” She’d looked through scrapbooks her mother made. Though now after the explosion, those too were only memories.
“It’s all right. Let’s set the stage. What did your bedroom look like?”
“I probably had a nursery, but what I remember is a room with pink wallpaper. There was a border with princesses.”
“Tell me more,” Naomi said.
“There was a small chandelier over my bed. My bed was white wicker. There were two beds.” She shook her head. “No, that’s not right. Just one. My bedspread was frilly—girlie. I had one of those big dollhouses in the corner.”
“Is anyone with you in your room?”
“Sarah.” Michelle’s answer surprised even herself. Catching herself, she sat up and smiled. “My mom told me I had an imaginary friend named Sarah.”
Naomi peered back in her notes. “Wasn’t that your sister’s name?”
“Yeah, but I never knew her.”
“You don’t remember her?”
“My parents never said anything about her until a few years ago.”
“All right. What are you doing in the bedroom?” Naomi asked.
“Playing with the dollhouse.”
The opening of the bedroom door brought Michelle to the present. Startled, she sat up, watching as Fletch entered.
“Peterson is here.”
The announcement didn’t fill Michelle with optimism. “He saw the press conference?”
Fletch nodded.
“He wants me gone.”
Fletch offered her his hand, his large palm facing upward.
She laid her hand in his, sensing his warmth as his long fingers enclosed hers.
“No. You’re staying. Come, let me introduce you.”
Michelle looked down at her blue jeans and sweater. Fletch may not feel the need to dress appropriately for important meetings, but Michelle did.
It was as if Fletch read her mind. “You’re perfect the way you are.”
“What do I say?”
The glint in his brown eyes offered support. “Be honest. Say whatever you want to say.”
“Have you already told him things?”
“Some. He wants to hear from you.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay.”
Holding tightly to Fletch’s hand, Michelle followed him out into the living room and toward the kitchen.
A man with dark hair stood near the breakfast bar.
His casual attire suggested that there wasn’t much in the way of dressing up in this secret agency.
The mysterious Peterson was a Black man in his forties—as suggested by the beginning of gray in his hair—probably three to four inches shorter than Fletch and equally as muscular.
“Ms. Holdcraft,” he said in a deep, demanding tenor as he offered her his hand.
Michelle went forward and shook. Peterson’s handshake was as firm as his tone. “Mr. Peterson, please call me Michelle.”
The tips of his lips curled, if only slightly. There was a twinkle in his astounding light-green eyes. “I’ve heard you referred to as Shelly, but if you want Michelle—”
No doubt, it was her dad who called her Shelly. “Shelly is fine,” she interjected. “I believe I have you to thank for allowing me to stay here. Thank you, sir.”
“Peterson is fine. No sirs around here. We don’t have ranks in the agency. My condolences regarding Denny.”
“Thank you.” I didn’t kill him, she wanted to add.
Peterson’s gaze went to Fletch who was protectively at Michelle’s side. “Arrow’s the man to thank. He was quite convincing with his appeal and proposal.”
She turned, giving Fletch a smile, and then turned back to Peterson. “You heard the press conference out of Indianapolis?” She knew the answer.
“I did. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if that’s all right with you?”
He had the voice of a man in control, as if his question wasn’t really a question, simply a polite demand. Michelle had to remind herself that Peterson wasn’t the police, she wasn’t twenty years old. “Yes, we can speak.” She met Fletch’s eyes, silently questioning if he agreed.
Fletch motioned toward the living room furniture. “Why don’t we have a seat? The table is a bit full of Chell’s computers.”
Peterson nodded as they walked the few steps to the living room. “Arrow tells me you’re a bestselling author.” He sat in the lone soft chair.
Michelle took the sofa, and Fletch sat at her side.
She grasped her hands in her lap. “I am. I write fiction, not whatever is happening now.” She shrugged. “It’s supposed to be a secret that I write under the pseudonym D. Valentine, but with the events of the last week, that secret is out.”
Peterson leaned forward, placing his forearms on his legs. “Shelly, is there any truth to the press conference we heard today?”