Chapter Eight
Mira explained her absence from school during her off-period Monday by saying she had an appointment for a checkup.
No one wanted to hear details of her visit to her gynecologist, but news that she had a meeting with the sheriff would cause talk for days.
She had called the sheriff’s department Saturday morning to arrange to give the accusing notes to him, and learned he was away until Monday.
She had decided to wait. She wasn’t comfortable handing the notes over to just anyone, but trusted the sheriff to keep them confidential.
She was surprised that no one had commented on her closed-door session with Sheriff Walker and the CBI agent Friday afternoon, but it seems that in the rush to collect their belongings and leave school after the bomb threat, no one had noticed.
Principal Martin had apparently said nothing, either. For that, she was grateful.
“I brought some letters the sheriff wanted to see,” she told the woman at the reception desk at the sheriff’s department.
“Mira Veronica?” The woman sized up Mira from behind red-framed bifocals. “Sheriff Walker has been expecting you.”
The woman rose and ushered Mira through a locked door and down a short hallway to a door marked Sheriff Walker and knocked. “Come in,” Travis Walker said.
The woman opened the door. “Ms. Veronica is here.” She glanced at Mira with an unreadable expression—not exactly hostile, but not friendly, either—then left.
“Come in, Mira,” Travis said. He looked up from behind an almost spotless desk, empty except for a laptop, a neat stack of file folders and a photograph of a smiling woman with twin toddlers.
“I have the letters you wanted to see,” she said, as she perched on the edge of the chair across from him.
He took the sheets she offered and spread them on his desk in front of him. “Do they look like others people have received?” she asked.
“They appear similar.” His gaze met hers, his expression stern. “After speaking with you Friday, I did some research on David Ketchum’s case.”
“Is there any new information?” she asked. “Do they know who killed him?”
“No. When we spoke to you Friday, you failed to mention you were connected with George Suarez.”
For a split second, she couldn’t breathe. Her heart beat as hard as if she had run a race, but she couldn’t move. “I… I’m not connected with George,” she stammered. “He…he’s a terrible person.”
“You were living with him when David Ketchum disappeared.”
“Yes. But that was before…before I knew what he was really like.” She stared at her hands, knotted in her lap, unable to look the sheriff in the eye anymore.
Shame—the emotion she always associated with George—swamped her, along with all the old questions to which there were no answers.
How could she have been so blind? How could she have not seen what he was really like?
“When was the last time you spoke to Mr. Suarez?” Travis asked.
“The day he was arrested.” She would never forget watching the police officers handcuff her lover and lead him away, while another group of officers carted away their computers and a safe, which she later learned were full of horrible recordings of child pornography.
Thinking about it sickened her. “I didn’t know he was doing those awful things,” she protested.
“I never would have been with him if I had. I did everything I could to help the police with their investigation.” She had surrendered her own phone and computer and allowed investigators to comb through all her personal belongings.
The experience had been a nightmare she might not have survived if not for the support of family and friends who rallied around and believed her innocence. Her ignorance.
“After his arrest, Suarez was questioned about David Ketchum’s murder. But he had an alibi.”
She nodded, but couldn’t speak around the knot in her throat.
“You were his alibi,” Travis said.
She tried to clear her throat. “I told the truth,” she said. “Not because I wanted to protect George. I didn’t. He deserved every punishment for what he did. But I told the truth. He couldn’t have killed David because he was with me.”
“Did you leave Santa Fe because of George Suarez?” Travis asked.
“Partly.” She forced herself to lift her head and meet his gaze.
She shouldn’t act like a guilty person. She hadn’t done anything wrong.
Except falling for a pedophile who contributed to the exploitation of innocent children.
“I had family and friends who stood by me after George was arrested. The school district kept me in my job. I could have stayed in Santa Fe. But people would always remember what happened. And there were parents who I knew didn’t trust me with their children.
I thought it would be better to start over.
Then I received these letters…” She gestured toward the notes laid out on Travis’s desk and blinked back burning tears.
“Have you heard from George Suarez at all since his arrest?” Travis asked. “Has he tried to contact you?”
“Right after he was taken into custody he called a few times and left messages protesting his innocence and asking for my help.” She shook her head.
“I saw the videos the police seized. I mean, I saw the titles and the pictures on some of the covers. I saw a few files they showed me on his computer. Those weren’t things an innocent man would own.
” And she remembered signs she had previously ignored that all wasn’t right—how he would lock himself in his home office, sometimes for hours late at night.
He didn’t even like her going into his office and his computer was protected with multiple layers of passwords.
She had even joked to a friend that maybe George worked for the CIA, he was so security-conscious.
She had been so naive, truly blinded by love. Or what she thought was love.
“Do you think George Suarez could have sent these notes?” Travis asked.
“No! He’s in prison.”
Travis shook his head. “He was paroled in April. At this time, no one knows where he is. I’m wondering if he came to Eagle Mountain.”
“Isn’t he supposed to be supervised?” she asked, alarmed. “Like, register as a sex offender and check in with a parole officer?”
“He’s supposed to do those things, but he hasn’t. Have you seen anyone in town who might be him?”
“No.” The idea appalled her. She didn’t want George Suarez anywhere near her.
The sheriff said nothing. Did he think she was lying? “If I thought George had anything to do with these notes or Bryce’s kidnapping or David’s murder, I would tell you,” she said.
“Are you afraid of George Suarez?” Travis asked. “Did he ever threaten you?”
Was she physically afraid of George? “No,” she admitted.
“He was never violent or threatening.” He had been a very gentle man.
A kind and considerate boyfriend. Thoughtful and quiet, with good manners.
Which had made the extent of his crimes that much more shocking.
“I don’t think George is a violent person,” she said.
“For all his…perversions… I don’t think he would kill someone.
But I never thought he would be attracted to children that way, either.
” She had been closer to George than she had ever been to anyone and to discover she hadn’t known his true self at all had made her doubt everything.
Travis folded the letters and slipped them into a folder. “We’ll keep these with the other letters people have turned in,” he said. “Let us know if you receive any others.”
“Did you find out who called in that bomb threat?” she asked.
“No. We looked at security camera footage at the school and we didn’t see anyone acting suspiciously before the call came in. No visitors we couldn’t identify.”
She stood, anxious to be out of there. “I have to get back to school,” she said.
He rose also. “Thank you for coming in.”
He walked with her to the lobby, and watched as she left the building. The sheriff had a good reputation as a by-the-book lawman and a family man. He hadn’t accused her of a crime or said anything to make her think he didn’t believe her. She knew she hadn’t done anything wrong.
Then why did she feel so guilty?
“Thanks, Carter. That was a terrific tour.” The big man from Texas—six feet seven inches tall, not including the cowboy hat—pressed a twenty-dollar bill into Carter’s hand and grinned. “We all had a great time.”
“Thanks.” Carter slipped the tip into his pocket. “Come back anytime.”
“Hey, Carter!” The man’s oldest son, a freckle-faced ten-year-old, held up a hand and Carter gave him a high five.
“You were a great copilot, buddy,” Carter said.
The boy grinned, revealing braces threaded with purple rubber bands.
A middle-aged blonde approached and offered another twenty. “Thank you for the great tour,” she said. “We promise to give you a good review online.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” he said. Good reviews were good for business, Mom and Dalton said.
Everyone made their way to their cars. He collected empty water bottles and refolded blankets, then drove the Jeep around to the back.
It would be washed, checked and refueled before the next trip.
His father was in front of the garage, bent over the engine compartment of one of their older vehicles.
As Carter approached, he straightened and lowered the hood.
“I think I’ve figured out the problem,” Dad said. “I just need to order the part.”
“That’s great, Dad.” Carter wished he had his dad’s mechanical aptitude. He could change oil and do basic stuff, but the workings of engines were a mystery to him.
He returned the Jeep’s keys to the pegboard in the office. Dalton and Bethany were both huddled over the computer. “What’s up?” Carter asked.