Chapter 30
The EMTs arrive first, followed only minutes later by two gray-uniformed state troopers, who take brief statements from us in the hallway.
Hilary wastes no time in telling them that we have reason to believe this could be a homicide.
They herd us back into the living room, informing us that a detective will arrive shortly and that we’re to sit apart from each other without speaking or making any phone calls.
Per instructions, Hilary and I sit silently, forced to overhear the awful sounds from down the hall—people shuffling and murmuring, one man saying, “Yeah, yeah,” every minute or so. My stomach turns as I picture Riley’s lifeless form in there, awaiting someone from the coroner’s office.
This is what it must have been like for Mel that night. Total strangers tramping around her body, pawing at her in latex gloves, snapping photographs—in her case, with her pants around her ankles.
I retch and take several long breaths, exhaling through my nose.
“You okay?” Hilary calls over in a whisper. The flip’s gone out of her hair, and her makeup is slightly smeared from her efforts in the den. It must be taking everything she’s got to hold herself together.
“Yeah, sorry. It’s just so devastating.”
Could I be partly to blame for this? Because I wouldn’t stop asking questions? I was doing it for Mel so that the truth would come out, never guessing there might be collateral damage.
I lean forward and whisper across the room to Hilary, “I know the troopers said no calls for now, but are you okay with me texting Logan? Just to let him know where I am.”
But I’ve got an even more urgent motive than that.
“Sure. I just wish they’d let me call my poor nephew. He and my sister will never be the same.”
I slide my phone out from my purse and type quickly, keeping one eye on the corridor.
At H. Brown house in Edgerton. Found Riley dead. State police here now. pls get hold of Halligan ASAP. Apparent suicide but we think she was killed.
Seconds later the phone rings, Logan calling, of course. I quickly silence it and frantically send another text.
They won’t let me use phone now. Please call Halligan!
I’ve barely dropped the phone back in my purse when a tall man in a dark-blue suit and tie enters the living room and introduces himself as Detective Pendergrass.
He’s about forty-five, a little husky, with blond hair styled in a buzz cut.
Hilary quickly describes her relationship to Riley, our concerns when she didn’t respond to phone calls, and our efforts to save her.
She offers up the reasons we both have doubts she took her own life, including the detail about the mugs.
Pendergrass nods, not giving anything away.
“I’ll need to speak to each of you at much greater length,” he says, “but it’s best if we can do it at the station. Plus, we’ll be better able to examine the scene once you’ve vacated the premises.”
Hilary’s body sags in frustration. She reiterates that she’s an attorney and nearly begs him to let us give statements at the house so she can call her nephew from here the moment she’s able to. She asks if the two of us can wait on the patio until he’s ready to speak to us.
The detective relents, and after Hilary grabs her coat, we exit through the main bedroom and take seats at either end of the patio. And then we wait—endlessly, it seems. Who did this to Riley? I keep asking myself. Will we ever know?
It’s twilight by the time we see Pendergrass again.
He asks Hilary to come inside first and tells me he’ll be back in a bit.
I’m left to hang out alone in the chilly air, staring into the darkening woods and doing my best not to lose my mind.
Bas must be sitting down to dinner right now, with a fire blazing in the hearth.
What a fool I was to come to Cartersville without him.
I might have been a fool to come at all.
Pendergrass finally returns for me, shows me to a seat back in the living room, and opens his notebook.
He’s courteous enough, but at the same time he seems slightly wary of me—and how can I blame him?
Hilary must have explained who I am and why I showed up here.
He starts by asking me to describe the scene in the den, what I touched, and what my CPR efforts consisted of.
I answer carefully, trying to keep my emotions under control, but a couple of times my voice quavers.
As we’re speaking, Hilary’s voice suddenly intrudes from the bedroom. She must have been given permission to contact her relatives, and I overhear not only her anguished words but also faint cries of despair from the other end of the line.
Pendergrass plows ahead, now asking about my relationship with Riley, and I relate the reason I came today. I end by urging him to call Halligan, who, I explain, has been handling the investigation regarding Mel.
“Detective Halligan has no idea you showed up here today?” he asks, practically scowling.
“I hadn’t alerted him to my concerns yet,” I say. “It seemed premature.”
Finally, mercifully, Pendergrass says I’m free to go. Hilary has emerged from the bedroom, her face stained with tears, and as soon as I’m up from the couch, I approach her and ask if she’s going to be okay alone here.
“A friend is picking me up and taking me to her house for the night,” she says.
I nod and touch the edge of her sleeve, heartbroken for her and still churning with a vague sense of guilt. Is this somehow all on me? “Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” I say. Though I can’t imagine how I could possibly help.
Pendergrass leads me out, and I avert my gaze as we pass the corridor to the den.
Stepping outside, I see that the ambulance is gone, though there are several police vehicles parked in the driveway.
I pause on the lawn to take a breath and then call Craig, who miraculously says he can have a driver here in twenty minutes.
Next, I try Logan, who answers on the first ring. “Bree, please tell me you’re okay,” he demands.
“Yeah—just really shaken. I went to meet with Riley this afternoon, and Hilary and I found her hanging from a door.”
I choke a little over the last words.
“Christ. You’re still there?”
“Yes, but all done with the police now.”
“Let me come get you.”
“I’ve already ordered a taxi, and he’s closer than you. Have you reached Halligan yet? He needs to know about this as soon as possible.”
“I’ve left two messages, but I haven’t heard back yet. You really think this was a homicide?”
“Yes, and . . . I think it could be related to Mel’s case.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure, but like I told you in the text, Riley lied about the date of her attack. It happened six days earlier.”
“So that’s why she seemed evasive to you.”
“Right. And she apparently told someone right after it happened—maybe a friend or someone with the school, and that person might have told people, too. Which means the details about her assault were out there four days before Mel died.”
He’s silent for a couple of beats, probably worried I’m still struggling to accept the truth.
“Are we talking again about a possible copycat? About Jack?”
“Uh, maybe. Him or somebody else.”
I need to tell Logan about Mel’s affair, but I’ll do that when I have more time to explain.
“Just get back here, okay?”
“I will, but please—keep trying Halligan.”
As I hang up, I assure myself that even if we don’t hear back from Halligan, Pendergrass will contact him tonight. But what if there’s no evidence pointing to murder? I have to figure out who Riley spoke to right after the rape.
I dial Morgan next.
“What now?” she says instead of hello.
“I’m sorry, but I have some terrible news. Riley is dead—a suicide, it seems. She was found this afternoon.”
Pendergrass made it clear that I shouldn’t share specifics about the scene, and other than with Logan, I don’t intend to do that.
“My God, that’s horrible,” Morgan says.
“I know. Look, I’ve been a total nuisance so far, but can you meet with me one more time? There’s something important I need to ask you.”
I could ask now, of course, and make everything easier for myself, but this needs to happen in person, I think. Morgan must be sick to death of me, maybe ready to blow me off, and if I talk to her face-to-face, it will be easier for me to press if I have to.
“Is this really necessary?”
“Yes, please.”
I hear a sigh of frustration. “All right, then. Where?”
I have nothing in mind, but then I remember Craig mentioning in the car that Edgerton wasn’t far from Barrow, the town where Morgan and I had met.
“Any chance you can meet me at that diner again?”
“Bea’s? Yeah, I suppose. But not till around, uh, eight forty-five or so.”
“That’s okay. I’ll head there and wait.”
As soon as I arrive at the diner, I order a grilled cheese sandwich and coffee from the twentysomething waiter. I’ve arranged for a taxi to come back for me at 9:15—because I can’t imagine Morgan wanting to give me any more time than that.
My phone’s low on battery, so I update Logan by text rather than calling.
Back at 10 or so. I have some new questions for Morgan Kroll and we’re meeting in a few minutes.
What questions?
Pls just be patient. I’ll explain later.
The diner is only a quarter full, people finishing what, for the region, might be a late dinner.
I think again of Bas, perhaps getting ready for bed.
I feel desperate again to call him and describe this new hell, but what right do I have at this moment to ask for any comfort?
What if that right is gone for good? It’s quite possible I’ve ruined things with him, with no way to repair the damage—and I won’t know for sure until I get back to Uruguay.
I quickly shoot him a text on WhatsApp that I know he’ll see first thing in the morning.
Hope you’re still on the mend. So much happening here. Will call early tomorrow. I love you.
At 8:50, Morgan pushes open the diner door and strides in my direction. She’s in blue jeans, a tight black turtleneck, and a thin black puffer vest. As she nears the table, I see she’s not wearing her red lipstick tonight, so I’ve probably dragged her here from home.
“I can’t believe it,” she says, sliding into the booth and shaking her head. “Though maybe I should have seen it coming.”
The waiter returns to the booth immediately, and this time Morgan orders a Diet Coke.
“You bet,” he says, “but just so you ladies know, we close at nine.”
I have even less time than I thought, but I give the waiter a chance to move away before I lob my first question.
“What do you mean by ‘should have seen it coming’?”
“When Riley called me earlier this week, she sounded like a total wreck. She said she was proud about finally going to the police, but I could tell it was going to bring everything to the surface for her again—in the worst way possible.”
“Things got even more complicated since I talked to you last,” I say. “You know how I asked if Riley might have misinformed us about the date of the attack? Well, it turns out she did. She was actually raped the previous Monday night, almost a week before she spoke to you.”
Morgan straightens in her seat, clearly taken aback. “What makes you so sure now?”
“She more or less admitted it to me over the phone, and she told her lawyer straight out.”
“But what about the bruises she showed me?”
“I did a bit of research, and it might have been hard for you to tell they were nearly a week old.”
“Fuck. Why would she lie about which night it was?”
“Because of my daughter, I assume—not wanting to be blamed for her death.”
Morgan’s Diet Coke has arrived, along with the check, and she stirs the straw around and around in the glass, making the ice clink. “Wow, I got played for a fool, didn’t I?”
The bitterness in her tone surprises me.
“Don’t think that way, Morgan. Look, I’m furious about Riley keeping quiet, but I get the reason for it. She was frightened and ashamed.”
Based on her expression, I’d say my comment hasn’t mollified her.
“Are you worried again that this might blow back on you professionally?” I ask.
She keeps stirring her Diet Coke.
“Yes, because it could blow back,” she says finally. “I couldn’t have saved your daughter, but if I’d convinced Riley to report the crime or gone to the police myself, I might have saved that second girl in Plattsburgh.”
“Surely people will understand why you made the choice you did.”
“Only time will tell, won’t it?”
She stuffs a hand in her jeans pocket and fishes out a few dollars, obviously eager to split. I can’t let her go without asking the question I came with.
“Please, here’s the reason I wanted to see you, and then I promise—you never have to hear from me again.”
She drops the bills on the table and leans back in her seat.
“Shoot.”
“When I spoke to Riley today, she admitted someone else knew about the real date, someone she told right afterward, but she didn’t say who it was. Did she give any hint who it might have been?”
Morgan shakes her head. “Like I think I mentioned, she said she’d been alone the night before, so I figured I was the first to know, but I suppose she might have told someone—especially if there was all that time in between.”
“Can you picture her telling Jeffrey Handler?”
“Handler? Why in God’s name would she go to him?”
“Maybe she went by the English department the next day—the real next day—to ask about extensions and ended up running into Handler and telling him what happened, then dropped by the following Monday to check in with him again, but she ran into you instead. So you were the second person to hear the story.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t imagine her sharing the story with him, even if she’d been locked in a room with the man. You just have to read his poetry to know that the only thing he gives a shit about is stuff like crows and rock croppings.”
The lights in the diner flash, startling me. I notice we’re the only customers still here, and the remaining staff must be signaling that it’s time for us to wrap up. I push the bills back toward Morgan.
“Let me pay,” I tell her. “I appreciate you coming all this way tonight.”
As I quickly take care of the bill, I feel my heart sinking. I’ve been praying Morgan held a piece of the puzzle, but she doesn’t. Though I might sense that Riley’s lie led to her death and that it’s related somehow to Mel’s murder, I have no proof whatsoever.