Chapter Thirty-Two
THIRTY-TWO
Back inside his room in the basement, Finn sits on the edge of his bed, feeling numb.
He picks up the framed photo he keeps of Autumn and him from a few years ago.
It was taken in the early fall at the renaissance festival near Annapolis.
One of their friends had found a job helping sell artisanal glassware at a booth.
Autumn was grinning so wide, her eyes all but disappeared.
She was dressed as a maiden in a lace-up bustier and full skirt, a flowered garland gracing her head.
Finn had made a half-hearted effort by donning a tricorn hat, the kind Blackbeard might have worn.
He feels exhausted from hundreds of hours wondering what happened to Autumn, exhausted by his anger at the police department for not finding her killer, by the hurt he felt toward the neighborhood that seemed to treat Autumn’s death as an unpleasantness to be forgotten and not brought up in polite society.
He is limp and drained.
It came down to one person, as he knew it would, and yet now that he knows the identity of that person, he feels oddly empty.
Van Allard. A teenager, an entitled reckless teenager, spurned by a woman he should never have been sleeping with in the first place, acting out of impulsive testosterone-fueled rage.
A dumb, violent action that changed so many people’s lives.
And for what? To assuage his delicate ego? To obliterate the person who refused to love him? Whatever Van accomplished, he shattered Autumn’s life, and Finn’s life, in the process.
Now it’s Van’s turn to have his life shattered.
Detective Aziz answers on the first ring.
“I was actually going to call you in the next day or so,” Aziz says by way of greeting. “We’ve made some progress on the DNA match. Found some connections to the family tree.”
“Whoa. Like what?” Finn puts Aziz on speaker and holds the phone a few inches from his face.
“You know I can’t share the details. I just wanted to let you know we were making headway.”
“Thanks, I guess. I’m kind of making headway too. I have a theory about who killed Autumn and why.”
Aziz doesn’t respond right away. Finn gets up from the bed and starts pacing, nervous and excited, holding the phone aloft.
With his free hand, he tugs at the hem of his T-shirt, a leftover habit from before his top surgery, back when every movement felt like a threat to expose him.
He wants Aziz to take him seriously. Through the window near the ceiling, Finn watches a black squirrel pause, an acorn in its paws.
“Did you hear me?” Finn asks. “I said that I think I know who killed Autumn.”
“Why do you say that?” Aziz asks.
Finn recounts the morning’s events—visiting the office building, tracking down Tori Price, confronting her. He tells Aziz what Tori said about her affair with Van Allard, about Van’s anger when she tried to end it.
“Finn, what did we say about keeping a low profile?” Aziz sounds like he is speaking through clenched teeth. “You can’t be running around Bethesda interrogating people.”
“Technically, it was Chevy Chase.”
“Don’t get smart with me. At this point you might be compromising this investigation. You have to back off. Don’t try me. I will pull you in and charge you with tampering with an investigation.”
“Fine, but first listen. I think Van Allard may have shot Autumn, by accident. I think he might have gone there that night looking for Tori Price and seen Autumn in Tori’s robe … and…” His voice trails off.
“Finn, listen to me—”
“I’m backing off. I swear,” he interrupts, the speed of his pacing increasing. This isn’t going well. “I thought you’d want to know is all.”
Aziz sighs. “I appreciate that, but for the hundredth time—you have to let us do our jobs. Now tell me I don’t have to worry about you.”
“Whatever. It’s cool.”
“Don’t do anything stupid, Finn. Can you promise me that?”
“Fine. I promise,” he grumbles and presses the red End button.
His shoulders slump with disappointment.
A jay caws outside his window. He needs to get out of here, aboveground, breathe some fresh air.
Ellis told him she’d be working. He could walk over there now, grab a bite to eat.
He is starving, he realizes, and sitting in his basement apartment stewing over Autumn is making him depressed.
He shoves his phone into his back pocket and takes the stairs two at a time, entering the kitchen to see Paula carrying a bowl toward the back patio.
“Hungry? Join me in an early supper? Or is it a late lunch?”
He peers at the bowl she’s carrying.
“Either way, I made a watermelon-and-feta salad. With fresh mint from the garden.”
He is about to decline but then stops himself. The food looks delicious. He grabs a plate and follows her out to the back patio, into the afternoon humidity.
“No work today?” she asks as she doles out some of the salad onto his plate.
“I’m working Saturday instead. I had a thing this morning.”
“Lemonade?” she asks and then pours two tall glasses before he even responds. “Was your thing successful?”
He smiles. “You’re good, you know. At getting people to talk.”
“Thank you.” She unfolds a napkin and puts it in her lap. “It came in handy in my line of work. Bon appétit.”
“I tracked down Tori Price this morning and went to see her. Caren Costa and I did, actually.”
“Now that is interesting. What did she have to say?”
“You won’t believe it, but she was having an affair with Van Allard.”
“Not Eastbrook’s own golden boy! Scandalous.” Paula spears a watermelon chunk with her fork.
“It is, right? I mean, she’s a licensed therapist. He’s a teenager.”
“She’s practically twice his age. I bet Jo was furious when she found out.”
“Tori said she tried to break it off with him, and he became violent.”
Paula drops her fork with a clank. “How violent?”
Finn shrugs. “She strongly implied that he was the one who killed Autumn.”
“Well, well. And this little conversation, I presume, is why that detective was yelling at you?”
“You heard that, huh? Eavesdrop much?”
“That’s an ugly word. What did he want?”
“He wants me to stay out of it. Don’t interfere. That kind of thing.”
“What you call ‘that kind of thing’ sounds like good advice to me,” Paula says.
Finn tries not to roll his eyes.
“Fine,” Paula says. “What about Yumi—did she offer any insight? Did the lemon pound cake help? I thought it might put her at ease.”
“It did help, actually. Thanks. She filled in a few gaps.”
“Did she see anything the night that Autumn was shot?”
“She said she didn’t.”
“That’s disappointing. Did you tell her that you were trying to solve Autumn’s murder?”
“I did.”
“Hmm. Interesting.” Paula takes a long sip of her lemonade.
“What does ‘hmm, interesting’ mean?”
“Oh, nothing. Just that I find it strange that Yumi didn’t see anything that night.” Paula leans over and flicks a bug off Finn’s shoulder. “After all, she’s out there on that porch of hers practically twenty-four hours a day.”
“True.”
“And then, on the one evening when a terrible crime occurs in our little neighborhood, literally in her backyard…” Paula pauses and frowns. “All right, not literally, but you get my point—very nearby—she doesn’t see anything. Or so she claims.”
“What are you driving at?”
“Not driving at anything. I just find it odd, that’s all.”
“You think Yumi knows more than she’s saying. But why wouldn’t she tell me if she saw someone? Why would she protect a murderer?”
“Good questions, all.”
“You know, that’s an annoying habit of yours,” Finn says. “Stir up a lot of stuff and then sort of shrug and not say anything.”
“I can see how that might be frustrating.” Paula gives him a tiny smile.
“You remind me of a teacher who won’t tell the class the correct answer. Just tortures them.”
“I can assure you I don’t have any answers.”
Finn’s phone buzzes loudly on the table, and he grabs it. “It’s a text from Jo.”
We are heading out of town soon and wanted to talk to you about maybe house slash dog sitting while we’re gone? Are you free to stop by around six?
He rereads it to make sure he’s got it right. Jo wants to see him in person, in a few hours. His heart palpitates wildly. Could Jo know where he was this morning? Could Tori have told her about the visit? It can’t be a coincidence.
“What is it, Finn?” Paula asks. “Everything all right?”
“Jo wants me to stop by.” He looks up to see his landlady staring at him intently. “She’s going out of town and wants me to dog-sit Muffinhead.”
“I see. What are you going to do?”
He doesn’t answer Paula. Instead, he types back.
Works for me. See you then.
Finn puts the phone down and looks up at Paula. “I’m going, of course.”
“And your promise to that detective?”
“What?” He shrugs, hoping to seem more confident than he really feels. “I’m a dog walker.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You think it’s some kind of trap?”
“I think her asking you to come over the same day you met with Tori Price, the same day that you learn her son may very likely be Autumn’s killer, that means something.”
“If I can get something from Van’s room, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, something with his DNA on it, we can match it to the DNA profile the police have. Maybe it’ll clear him.”
She groans. “Not a good idea.”
Finn stands up. “You worry too much.”
“Finn, listen—”
Finn cuts her off. “Thanks for the late lunch or early supper or whatever.” He tucks his phone into his back pocket. “I promised a friend I would stop by and say hi at work.”
“Oh, Finn.” Paula looks up at him with gray-blue eyes, concern crinkling the corners. He looks away. He doesn’t want to see how much she cares.
“Fine, but if you insist on going, let’s at least have a plan. Right before you walk through the Allards’ front door, I want you to call me. I’ll keep my end on mute, but leave the phone on so I can hear everything. No one will know I’m listening. All right?”
“I guess.”
“I’m serious now,” she says, gathering his empty plate and stacking it atop her own. “If you hang up, if we get disconnected, if I hear anything I don’t like, I will pop in. You got it?”
“I got it.” He smiles. “It’s going to be okay. I’m not afraid.”
“Maybe you should be.”