Chapter 12 #2
She doesn’t love to admit defeat in her own mind, but John will continue beating himself up over his perceived miss all week if she doesn’t at least try to soften the blow.
She can tell he feels a responsibility to make this all worth it, to make the answers come together for some grand moment of justice, but she just doesn’t know if that’s possible with Jeremy involved.
What she told John is true, though. She couldn’t take it anymore.
Jeremy’s words made her stomach churn and her head hurt; his manipulative charm gave her the kind of uncomfortable feeling that she just can’t place.
It’s like she almost feels a sense of shame, but there’s no perceivable reason for it.
Shame as a direct result of one’s actions is an awful feeling, but nothing can top shame that just appears unprovoked, untethered to anything one does or plans to do.
She just can’t shake it, that sick feeling like she is playing too close to a busy highway.
They walk out into the hallway, and the feeling stays with her like a parasite.
It clings to her, taking hold of what it needs to survive within her system.
Her fear feeds it, but it’s her grief that nourishes it, makes it thrive.
Her body and mind finally feel safe out here, away from him, so now all the responses that were suppressed inside that room are released.
Her head begins to pound, and her stomach feels like it has about a week’s worth of bad Chinese food fermenting inside it.
The hot, heavy air outside is a welcome change from the stale ozone inside the prison. She breathes it in now, letting it quiet the ache in her gut.
She decides to breach the question that’s been gnawing at her.
She simply can’t stand the idea that Jeremy and John know something she doesn’t, that he has a piece of information that was deemed too important to share with her.
“What did he mean when he asked if your little birds have heard from Trudeau? Is he talking about Hart?” She starts the question looking at him, but by the time it leaves her mouth, she can’t help but look down at the dusty ground.
When she looks up again, she can spot the panic in his face immediately. The subtle change in his expression makes her heart plummet.
“Yeah, I imagine he was talking about Hart.” He pauses, and Wren holds his stare. “Trudeau is, uh … he’s missing. He claimed he had some last-minute mission trip and absconded.”
Her mouth hangs open as her thoughts scatter like marbles. “You don’t know where he is?”
John shakes his head and takes out a cigarette, lighting it with a hand trembling so discreetly, no one else would probably detect it.
“And you didn’t tell me …” She doesn’t frame it as a question because she knows the answer.
He sighs, taking a long drag and holding it there for a second. “I just didn’t want to add to your plate without knowing all the facts. Hart told me the other day, and I have been working to confirm it.” He looks at her with wide, apologetic eyes. “I promise I was going to tell you.”
“Well, luckily Jeremy told me.”
Another sigh escapes. “I don’t know how he was able to hit on that one. I guess it’s that whole ‘broken clock is right twice a day’ idiom.”
“So you didn’t tell him?” she asks, knowing it’s probably an offensive question.
John gives her a stung look. “Muller, you can’t be serious.”
It’s her turn to sigh now. She pulls her hair into a bun and shakes her head. “I just felt like I was the only one missing a piece to the puzzle there for a second, and it wasn’t a good feeling.”
“He’s doing that on purpose. He’s getting information somehow, but it’s surely not from me.” He takes another drag, speaking as smoke billows from his mouth. “I’ll be dealing with a bullshit leg for the rest of my life thanks to that asshole. Trust me, I’m not gossiping with him anytime soon.”
She can sense his blooming irritation.
“We have to look into the guards, see if he’s bribing them,” John continues, then starts to mumble to himself. She notes that he’s seemed distracted a lot lately. Too many timelines and pieces of evidence are floating around in that head of his.
She rubs her face with both hands. “I appreciate that you were trying to shield me in there, I really do … but please don’t.”
“I never will again.” He gives her a gentle pat on the back before starting to walk in the direction of the car. “Because you’re a pain in the ass when you think you’ve lost control of a situation.”
She catches up to him, giving him a lighthearted shove.
“Watch it, or I’ll end up like those guards you manhandled on your way out last time,” he says. “Ever think of taking a kickboxing class or something?”
That elicits a smile. She watches as two birds frantically chase each other in the sky. They dip and dodge, every now and then colliding only to repel away from each other like magnets and repeat it all again. “I have to do something, I’ll give you that.”
By the time they arrive back at the car, she feels lightheaded. The rush of the day’s events suddenly crashes over her, mixing with the sickly brew of sticky heat and lingering prison air.
“You look a little pale, Muller. You sure you’re okay?” In an instant, any irritation on John’s face melts into concern. She’s tired of seeing this particular look on him, especially in response to her.
“Yeah, it’s mostly the fucking air in there.”
A genuine chuckle escapes his throat. “Wow, you know it’s bad when the morgue dweller thinks it smells.”
“You know, you didn’t tell me about Melissa’s diary either,” she says, suddenly feeling distant.
He looks stung. “Hey, no. I did tell you about the diary.”
“Not right away though,” she says. She realizes that she’s splitting hairs, but now she’s feeling right to be worried.
“Muller, I am not withholding anything from you. The diary is something I’m not even supposed to have. You and Will are the only other people who know about it.”
She nods, staying silent.
He bends slightly to force himself into her eyeline. “What’s going on? Because I will wear the dunce cap for not telling you about Trudeau sooner, but the diary seems out of scope here.”
She can tell he’s panicked, and she doesn’t blame him one bit.
She lets down her guard, sighing deeply and covering her face with her hands.
“I know, I’m sorry. I think I just feel unusually disconnected from everything, and I’m scared of—” She pauses, feeling a lump form in her throat but swallowing it down hard.
“You’re scared of losing more people you care about,” he finishes for her, then pulls her into a rare hug. “It’s normal. It’s okay. But you’re stuck with me, Muller.”
She can’t help but laugh, breathing in the strangely comforting scents of sandalwood and cigarette smoke topped with refreshing mint from the gum he just threw into his mouth. “I know,” she says into his shoulder before they break apart. “Thank you for reminding me.”
He smiles. “That fucker really tried all his tricks in there, huh?” he says, masterfully steering the conversation in another direction.
She forces a smile, shaking her head to clear the fog. “A guard is feeding him information. There is no doubt about that.”
“This is why you aren’t a detective.” He smirks.
“I doubt everything until it’s proven.” Before she can tell him that his monstrous little ego is showing, his phone rings.
He takes the call, stepping off to the side and quickly hanging up after only a few words.
She watches as his face changes from the strained grin into something more hopeful.
“So you asked me to do my thing with that juvenile record you found on Trudeau,” he says with a dramatic pause. The pride in his expression is clear, but he’s trying to play it cool.
Wren tries to temper her expectations. “I did.”
“Well, I happen to have a connection at the courthouse.” He slides his phone into his pocket, squinting at the midday sun.
“Turns out Trudeau and his family were visiting family friends in Colorado when he was like fourteen years old. Trudeau ended up violently strangling the daughter of the family friends.”
“Are you serious?” Wren can feel a lump forming in her throat as she imagines the hell that poor little girl must have gone through. “I saw the aggravated battery charge, but I couldn’t imagine what it could be. Maybe I didn’t want to.”
John sighs. “Yeah, it’s a rough case. Trudeau’s family settled out of court and tried to seal the records, but they were unsuccessful. He’s damn lucky they live in a state that treats juvenile offenses as an opportunity for rehabilitation and not a scarlet letter that follows you around.”
“Yeah, in Massachusetts, but that record is in Colorado.”
“Sure, but obviously very few people are searching his background this thoroughly. That record got buried, and his followers don’t want to find it anyways.”
Wren’s mind races. “Wow. Well, thanks for getting the dirt on that one. At the very least, I am even more convinced he’s a covert Jeremy Rose.”
“Oh, that’s not all I got out of that connection,” John says, the smile returning to his face.
“Well, come on.” She urges him to continue.
“They found me someone who can give us some more information,” he says quickly, watching her to gauge her reaction.
“What kind of someone?” she asks, barely hiding her excitement.
“Trudeau’s former psychologist from when he was a kid.”
“What? How is that even possible? Is it even ethically sound?” Wren’s head spins with questions, immediately doubting this gift that’s dropped into their laps.
He shrugs, ducking into the car. “Don’t know. Don’t care. Let’s see what he has to say.”
“So he’s not a psychologist anymore?” Wren asks, walking up the steps to Dr. Gabriel Price’s front porch. The house is a Victorian shotgun-style home with delicate gingerbread trim between the porch posts. Three Boston ferns hang between them. They look well cared for and lush.