Chapter Six
Emmy sat at her desk trying to tune out the gratingly loud tick of the second hand on her father’s ancient wall clock.
She had rushed through a lukewarm shower and changed into a fresh uniform so she would look presentable by the time the Clayville mayor and the chief of police showed up for an unscheduled meeting in the middle of an active murder investigation, but neither had appeared yet and neither had returned Emmy’s texts asking for an ETA.
They would’ve never ignored a direct question from her father.
Then again, her father had seemed to have an extra gear he could shift into when a case approached the twelve-hour mark.
By contrast, Emmy felt achy and exhausted.
There wasn’t enough coffee to chase away her headache.
Her vision doubled on the list of names Cole had gotten from Talia Wilkinson’s social media apps.
Mandy’s friendship group had been extensive, but her core circle seemed to consist of Talia Wilkinson and Skylar Guthrie.
Between Discord and Snap, they checked in with each other multiple times a day.
Emmy had already called the Guthries, who’d informed her she would have to wait until after church tomorrow morning to speak with Skylar.
She’d tried to push, but they had pushed back harder.
It didn’t help that Pam Guthrie, the mother, was a lawyer.
She knew that Emmy couldn’t force the girl to talk.
She looked back at her laptop. Emmy had been doomscrolling Mandy’s social media.
She’d paused a video of Mandy, Talia and Skylar from last year.
The three girls had been rafting down the Flint.
They were all dressed in two-piece bathing suits, big sun-glasses and floppy hats.
Mandy had chosen aespa’s “Supernova” for the background music and double-timed the video to match the frenetic energy of the song.
They looked so much older than they really were.
It was only when you slowed down the video that you saw the awkward angles of their elbows, the newness of figuring out what to do with their long legs.
Emmy couldn’t help but think about the unknown older man seeing this video and targeting Mandy, who was the conventionally pretty of the group.
Sandy-blond hair down past her shoulders.
Heart-shaped face. Rosebud lips. Curvy figure.
Emmy closed the video. Clenched her hands to rid herself of the memory of Mandy’s rib cracking during CPR.
Her phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a long text from Dr. Layla Paulson.
For once, Emmy read some good news. Mandy was finally out of surgery.
The neurosurgeon had managed to stop the bleeding in her brain.
An orthopedic surgeon had used titanium plates and screws to repair a shattered right femur and broken wrist sustained during the fall from the ceiling.
The next twenty-four hours would be critical.
The neurosurgeon wanted to talk to Emmy. Layla had sent his number.
Emmy was about to call the man when another call came in from Sherry Robertson. She got up and closed the door for privacy before she answered.
“Tell me you found something.”
“Allison had two fake Georgia driver’s licenses in her back pocket.
One for her, one for Mandy, under the names Sally Anne Cooper and Ashley Renee Cooper.
I ran them through all the databases, but nothing was flagged.
I’ll text you photos. They look legit as hell.
Allison might’ve pulled some strings at the DMV to get them. ”
Emmy recorded the names in her notebook. “What’s the date of issue?”
“Two months ago.”
Emmy put down her pen. Two months ago seemed to be a marker of something big in Allison’s life. A decision made. A newly discovered way out. “Anything else?”
“We haven’t found the fourth bullet yet, but Mandy was definitely shot in Allison’s bedroom.
The fifth shell casing is still unaccounted for.
” Sherry paused. She was clearly going through a list. “Electronics are gonna take weeks. Treasury will take its time on the three hundred grand in the attic. The downstairs has been processed, so you can at least go through the paperwork on the dining-room table. We’ve still got another full day ahead of us before we finish upstairs. How’s Mandy doing?”
“She’s alive.” Emmy sat down at her desk, wincing from the pain in her tailbone. “I know it’s late, but I need to ask you to do something for me. You personally.”
“All right.”
Emmy glanced out at the squad to make sure no one was listening. “Could you go to the trauma center and process Mandy?”
“You mean a rape kit?”
Emmy heard the alarm in Sherry’s voice. “No, I mean check for defensive wounds, scrape under her fingernails for DNA, look for bruises, that sort of thing.”
“You think Mandy confronted the shooter?”
Emmy didn’t think the girl had been given the chance, but she knew that Sherry would document any bruises on Mandy’s back or find signs of past abuse, which would lend support to Drake Saddler’s story about Allison confronting Woody.
She told Sherry, “I know it’s a big ask. If you want me to send someone else—”
“She’s Allison’s baby,” Sherry said. “I need to swing by the house and feed my dog, but I’ll take care of it after.”
“Thank you.”
Emmy ended the call, then tapped open the text from Sherry.
She was right about the fake driver’s licenses.
They looked genuine, right down to the Real ID star in the upper right-hand corner.
Sherry had black lighted the images to show that nothing had been tampered with.
Emmy looked at the matching issue dates on both IDs.
Two months ago. Right around the last time that Allison had reached out to Emmy.
She pulled up her voicemails. Flipped through the endless list of names until she found Allison’s.
She recognized the date and vividly recalled the circumstances surrounding the 4:31 a.m. call.
Emmy had been in the emergency department of the same trauma center where Mandy was currently fighting for her life.
She had sent Allison’s call to voicemail because she was afraid if she opened her mouth, she would start sobbing.
An Alzheimer’s diagnosis came with endless cruelties, but nothing prepared you for the unbearable torture of night terrors.
Emmy, Tommy, Gerald, Cole—none of them had experienced more than a few hours of uninterrupted sleep during the last two years of Myrna’s life.
Even on peaceful nights, Emmy hadn’t been able to close her eyes for fear of waking to her mother’s terrified wails.
On the morning that Allison had reached out, Myrna had punched her fist through a window because she’d thought that a demon was on the other side.
Blood had sprayed everywhere. The glass had sliced a tendon in her finger.
Emmy had been waiting to talk to the hand surgeon when Allison’s name had shown up on the Caller ID.
It wasn’t just a fear of losing her cool that had kept Emmy from answering.
She hadn’t had the patience to listen yet again to Allison defending Bill, saying he was a good man with a bad temper, that she loved him, that she knew she needed to leave him, that she was going to leave him, that she promised she would go first thing in the morning, that she meant it this time.
Now, Emmy tapped the voicemail. Put the phone to her ear. The sound of Allison’s almost manic tone sent a jolt into her brain—
“Hey, you. I’m sorry it’s so early. I’m hoping you’re asleep right now.
I’m leaving this message so that I won’t back out.
I want you to know I’ve got a plan. Don’t worry.
I’m being careful. I just need a little help.
That’s all. Just a little help. You were always so good at figuring things out.
Your mama raised a smart girl. Call me back. Bye.”
Emmy returned the phone to her desk. Guilt tightened the vise around her chest again. She should’ve called Allison back immediately, but she had needed a few days to recover from the ordeal with Myrna, to brace herself for yet another conversation with Allison where she invariably backed out.
But now, Emmy could only wonder what would’ve happened if she’d answered the phone at the hospital. If she’d called back the very next morning instead of days later. If she’d helped Allison go to a motel or even offered her and Mandy the pull-out couch.
A plan—that’s what women in abusive relationships were told to have.
Don’t just walk out the door. Prepare yourself ahead of time.
Gather emergency cash, clothing, important phone numbers and documents, and hide them in a safe place.
Practice your escape. Rehearse your plan so you know what you’re going to do if your abuser tries to stop you with his fists.
Was leaving Bill the plan that Allison had been talking about?
Or was it a different plan, one that involved obtaining fake IDs and hiding $300,000 in her attic?
A plan that had her packing up her bags in the middle of a Saturday morning.
A plan that had put her daughter in the hospital and gotten Allison murdered.
A plan that might have worked out if Emmy had only called her back sooner.
Emmy could tell herself that her own life had been in freefall when she’d postponed returning the call.
That it was reasonable to prioritize her own family.
That Allison had always backed out. That Emmy wasn’t Allison’s only friend.
But the fact of the matter was that Emmy had been Allison’s friend.
Even without that, Emmy had a duty of care as a law enforcement officer to help an abused woman.