Chapter Fifty-Five Judson
Chapter Fifty-Five
Judson
Raine was sleeping in the large four-poster bed when I left the bedroom. For all the time we’d spent together, I’d never slept in the main house. Slipping out made me feel like I’d broken a rule—like a teenager sneaking away before anyone noticed.
Last night had been amazing. Our bodies fell into sync immediately. Great sex should be straightforward. We were adults. Knew the score. But with Raine—complications were a given.
The drive home took a half hour. By the time I fell into bed, I should’ve fallen asleep. A few hours would dull the fatigue. But my eyes stayed open.
Sleeping with Raine had been a poor choice. I wasn’t a kid anymore. Neither was she. But it had also felt inevitable since the moment I’d seen her at the hospital.
After tossing and turning for an hour, I gave up. A shower washed away her scents, which I hated losing.
The water cooled, I stepped out, toweled off, and dressed. In the small kitchen, I set the coffeepot to brew.
In the den, surrounded by leather furniture, I moved to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. I scanned the lower shelves for my yearbook from senior year.
I flipped to the H section. Raine stared back from the page, younger but recognizable. Fuller cheeks. Guarded eyes. Blond hair trailed down her shoulders.
I turned pages—Gabe, Maria, Ken, and Amy.
Amy wasn’t in the portrait section, but I found a candid of her.
Standing behind Raine and Maria, her gaze locked on the duo.
She’d dyed her hair a softer blond. Odd that Amy had been at the game.
Wasn’t it her job to care for Mrs. Hale while Raine took a night off?
On the yearbook’s title page was the photography curator and president of the yearbook committee. A quick search of her, and I pulled up her married name: Jennifer Thompson Sawyer. Finding her phone number was easy.
I checked my watch. Seven a.m. Not too early to call. I dialed.
“Hello?” a woman asked.
“This is Agent Judson Blackwood with the Virginia State Police. I’m trying to reach Jennifer Thompson.”
“This is she. Is everything all right?”
The hitch of panic urged him to qualify quickly. “No issues. I’m looking into an old case. You oversaw photos for the Western High School yearbook.”
“Judson Blackwood the football player?”
“That’s me.”
“Wow, I wasn’t expecting this. Blast from the past.”
“Can you talk now?”
“Sure. Just slowing my racing heart. I have a teenager who just drove off to school. He’s a new driver. I thought for a moment this was about him.”
“No, ma’am. I’m sorry to upset you.” As her fast-paced words fired, memories of a thin, pale girl with wire-rimmed glasses rose to the front. She was always hiding her face behind a camera.
“No worries. What can I do for you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for pictures from our senior year of high school.”
“Why?”
“It’s related to a case.”
“That feels a little random.”
“Do you have pictures from those days? Ones that might not have made it into the yearbook.”
She chuckled. “I’m a pack rat. I have them all. Anyone in particular?”
“Amy Stocker is top of the list.”
“Ah, Ghost Girl.”
“Excuse me?”
“No one saw her much. We called her Ghost Girl. I heard she went back and got her GED.” Water turned on and off as if Jennifer was at a kitchen sink. “I can bring the pictures that didn’t make it in the yearbook to you.”
“I’m happy to come get them.”
“Okay. I’ll dig them out and have them for you in an hour.”
“You must be pretty organized.”
“I am. I leave for work at nine.”
“I can be there by eight.”
“Perfect.” She rattled off the address.
“While I still have you, I’m also searching for pictures of Maria Hale Cooper, Gabe Durant, Ken Watson, and Raine Hale.”
“I’ll pull them.”
“Great.”
After the call, my next task was to find Ken. Time for a threat assessment.
He wasn’t hard to find. We’re all creatures of habit, and Ken was no exception. He’d always liked a retro diner in Waynesboro. I found him there alone in the corner booth.
In front of him were coffee and a bagel. I came up behind him, and I slid into the seat across from him. “Ken.”
A flash of shock melted into a wide grin. “Judson. I was wondering when we’d catch up. I hear you’re busy with work these days. A triple-header.”
Thoughtless, but Ken had always laughed off tragedy. “People we both knew. Are you staying for the funeral?”
Ken sat back, turning his coffee mug a fraction. “I owe last respects to Maria and Gabe.”
“Not Amy Stocker?”
“No. I only knew of her in passing.”
I caught the waitress’s gaze and ordered a coffee. “Any thoughts or theories on who killed them?”
“Judson Blackwood is asking me for advice?”
“Why not?”
Ken sipped his coffee. “Love triangle. It’s very classic.”
“But all three are dead.”
He sat back. “One of the three killed the other two, and then killed him or herself. Last man out is generally the killer.”
“Gabe. Why would he kill his wife and lover and then himself? He loved Molly. He wouldn’t orphan her.”
Ken shrugged, almost amused by the comment. “Gabe didn’t always think long term. How many times did the guy shoot himself in the foot?”
The waitress brought me coffee. I thanked her, took a sip. “There must be a why?”
“Motivations are rarely complicated, Judson. Greed, lust, revenge. All basic.”
He wasn’t wrong. “Why did you come to town when you did?”
Ken held my gaze. “Can’t I come home?”
“Your parents are gone. You haven’t been back in years. And now you’re here.”
“I was worried about Raine. She’s had a rough couple of weeks.”
“When exactly did you arrive?”
His smile faded. “A few days ago. Like I said, worried about Raine.”
I’d seen the faint bruises shadowing her ribs last night. The idea that a former client would beat her so badly pissed me off. “She’s divorcing you.”
“I still care.” He sipped his coffee. “Pete Miller messed her up good. She should be back in Alexandria recovering, but she picked up and came here. Add in our divorce and selling our house . . . that’s a lot of trauma. And we both know her past. How fragile she could be.”
“She told you about the lost year?”
A smile tipped the edge of his lips. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”
“Did she tell you what happened?”
“She’s always been tight lipped about the details.”
“She seems steady to me.”
He shook his head. “She has her good days and bad.”
Ken’s talent for gaslighting was epic. “Tell me about the bad days.”
He drew in a breath. “Look, I’ll tell you, but don’t pass this around, okay?”
“Of course.”
“Her moods were part of the reason I started to spend more time at work. I often came home, and she’d have polished off a bottle or two of wine.”
“Stressful job, right?”
“She could work endlessly, almost obsessively, for months. And then she’d crash. She used up her vacation time to cover the downward spirals. She was either running a thousand miles an hour or at a dead stop. No in-between.”
I’d never sensed the volatility. “What were you doing in her house?”
Ken sipped his coffee. “I came by with bagels. As I stood at the front door, I heard a kid screaming. The door was unlocked. I rushed in. What would you have done?”
I’d have done the same—entered the residence and searched for a threat. “She’s about to be your ex-wife. Maybe call the cops?”
He smirked. “How long does it take the small sheriff’s department to get to Hale House? I was there, armed and ready to enter.” He tapped his stoneware cup with his ring finger. “I’m glad she’s not good at locking her doors.”
I’d seen Ken piledrive into a player’s back after the action had ended. The refs jumped all over him, but in the end, he’d had them all convinced the ball was active.
Everyone generally believed Ken.
But was he lying about Raine now?
The trick to a good lie was to weave it with truth. Ken was right. Raine had tried to kill herself. She’d had no reaction when her mother died. She’d walked away from an estate without looking back.
But in the time we were together, she’d been steady.
“Do you remember Amy?” I asked.
“Sure. Little Girl Lost. Ghost Girl. She was into some freaky shit.”
I’d heard rumors. “What do you know about Amy?”
“Dealt drugs. Hung with a rough crowd.”
“Who bought from her?”
“Gabe. Maria,” Ken said.
“And Raine?”
“She was clean then. It wasn’t until after we married that she started dabbling again.”
Ken wasn’t as slick as he used to be. Or maybe I’d interviewed enough liars to sense a spun narrative. He wasn’t describing the woman I’d made love to last night.
“Why do you think Raine helped Amy?” I asked.
“Like I said, Raine doesn’t always make the best decisions. Case in point: Molly. She’s not equipped to raise a child.”
“Why?”
“Never was mother material.”
“Why do you say that?”
“We talked about having a baby. Started trying. Nothing. Then I found out she’d never had her IUD pulled. She doesn’t want kids. And I don’t see her raising Molly.”