Chapter Twenty-One
A local news truck is parked outside the police station.
I hurry up the granite steps and into the small municipal building.
Inside, a secretary stops pecking at her computer, her eyes wide, her ponytail swaying back and forth.
Behind her, Seton paces in the chief’s office.
She glances toward me, but it’s Gilcrest who approaches.
“Charlie Kilgore,” he says, taking my arm and steering me into a conference room where he’s set up camp.
He waves toward a chair. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“I don’t want anything to drink,” I say. “I want you to help me sort this out.”
Gilcrest rests a hip against the conference table and waits until I find myself sinking into the padded chair.
“Someone’s protecting my father,” I say.
Gilcrest opens a laptop and clicks a few buttons. “Do you mind if I record? I’ll send you the file when we’re done if you want to use any of the audio. And you should say that again: Someone’s protecting my father. It’s a great line.”
I parse through each of the conversations I’ve had since the fire, starting with Seton as we left the hospital yesterday, then Freya, Reid, and Gilcrest himself.
I come back to the threads of the story Freya unwound, and attempt to explain them now—the soccer game, and that Reid couldn’t have heard what Isaac Haviland said, and the tiny inconsistencies in the accounts of the murder—and I hear myself rambling, trying to fit the pieces together in a way Gilcrest will understand, in a way I’ll understand.
I take a deep breath. I pretend I’m narrating the story for a radio show, that I’m speaking directly to an audience of strangers. “When I saw my father, it wasn’t the first time I’d seen him.”
“You saw him at a soccer game when you were a kid, am I getting that right?” Gilcrest asks, and when I nod, he adds, “Say it out loud for the tape.”
“I saw my father at a soccer game,” I say.
“And Andrea Haviland was at the same soccer game?”
“I’m not sure. I can’t remember if she was there or if we met up with her later on. But if I recognized my father that day, then Mrs. Haviland would have, too. They’ve been friends their entire lives.”
Gilcrest makes a note. “But only if she was there. And last night, your father came to the Landing, which Andrea Haviland owns.”
Gilcrest is easing me into my story in the same way I would if I were interviewing him.
But he’s listening. And having him listen is helping me work through what I’ve learned.
“My father knew about the fire,” I say. “He mentioned it to me when we talked, and he said he was concerned about an old friend. He must have known Mrs. Haviland had been taken to the hospital.”
“So maybe he was there to check on her condition,” Gilcrest says.
A knock sounds, and Detective Stamoran opens the door. “Podcast,” he says, pointing at me with both index fingers.
“Let me get you up to speed,” Gilcrest says to the detective. “I’ll be back in a sec, Charlie. You sure you don’t want anything?”
“I’m good,” I say.
Gilcrest closes the door after himself, and I hear the detectives whispering on the other side. When they return, Gilcrest’s demeanor has changed. He moves deliberately, crossing the room and pulling up a video on his phone. “You should see this,” he says.
The video shows a view of the lake, with the edge of the dock at Burkehaven in the right-hand corner.
“My team found a camera Andrea Haviland missed with the sledgehammer,” Stamoran says.
“We don’t know Andrea destroyed those cameras,” Gilcrest says.
“Good point,” Stamoran says. “We don’t assume. Regardless, whoever took the cameras out missed one. These things only record when there’s movement. See that?”
I squint at the screen. Thick black smoke wafts across the water.
“That’s from the fire,” Gilcrest says. “And—”
“Wait for it—” Stamoran says.
Five seconds later, a boat speeds into the cove, with Andrea Haviland at the helm. She jumps onto the dock, barely pausing long enough to wrap a line around a piling before dashing out of the frame.
“The fire had already started when she arrived,” Stamoran says.
That’s why no arrest has been made.
“Maybe my father set the fire,” I say.
“Maybe your father set the fire,” Gilcrest says, mirroring my words as he leans back in his chair. “You did see him at the Landing, after all.”
“I talked to Paul Burke earlier,” Stamoran says.
“He was at the Landing last night, too. You’d think he’d have recognized an old friend hanging around, especially one who’s supposed to have been dead.
But he didn’t see your dad. You know who else knew Mark Kilgore back in the day?
” Stamoran jerks a thumb toward Gilcrest. “This one’s girlfriend, Freya Faith, and she was at the Landing, too. Have you asked her about seeing Mark?”
“Not yet,” Gilcrest says. “I’m in the doghouse with her, but we’ll catch up later.”
“That’s two people who should be able to corroborate your story, Charlie,” Stamoran says. “What do you think they’ll say if we ask them?”
I take in the conference room for what seems like the first time: me, squashed into a corner, readily allowing what’s been said to be recorded, the two detectives hammering me with questions.
I glance from Gilcrest to the laptop to the gray walls.
At least there isn’t a two-way mirror for someone to observe through. “You’re interrogating me,” I say.
“We’re having a conversation,” Gilcrest says.
“Nothing more. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.
” He pulls up something on his phone and reads for a moment.
“The night before the fire, you and your mother were home at Idlewood alone. Just the two of you. She told you she was driving to Finstock.”
“For a site visit,” I say. “She mentioned a lease.”
“When did she tell you that?”
“Right before we went to bed.”
“Did anyone else hear her?”
“It was the two of us.”
Gilcrest taps a note into his phone.
“You live in Somerville,” Stamoran says. “My daughter lives there. You’re about the same age. I’ll connect the two of you after this is over. It’s expensive there.”
“It’s expensive everywhere,” I say, my eyes moving between the two detectives.
“It’s nice when you don’t have to think about money,” Stamoran says.
I start to speak but can’t find any words. I’ve seen enough TV cop shows to know this conversation has taken a turn, and I’m a person of interest, if not a suspect.
“That tightness in your stomach,” Stamoran says. “It’ll go away when you tell us what happened. You’ll feel better. It’s like magic.”
I haven’t had a stomachache, not until this very moment. “I didn’t start the fire,” I say.
“It’s not the fire that concerns us, Charlie,” Gilcrest says.
Stamoran smiles. “Listen, Podcast. If you cooperate, we can go easy on you.”
“Where’s my mother?” I ask, as a feeling of dread descends on me.
Gilcrest stands and leans over the table, his voice low. “You tell us,” he says.
“Charlie,” Stamoran says, “your brother gave us a list of his current contracts. There’s nothing in Finstock. No projects. No leases. Nothing.”
“I want a lawyer,” I say, right as a commotion begins in the lobby.
“Ma’am, you can’t go in there,” the secretary says, but the door to the conference room slams open.
Freya Faith appears wearing a fitted gray suit and flats, her auburn hair swirling around her face as if she brought along a portable wind machine. She lifts her sunglasses to the top of her head, and I can almost hear the credits for Scene of the Crime begin to roll.
Beside her, Ginger stands at attention.
“Get out of here, Freya,” Gilcrest says. “This isn’t a TV show.”
Ginger trots toward Gilcrest, tail wagging. “Heel,” Freya says, and the dog stops. “Is Charlie under arrest?”
Gilcrest glances at Stamoran, who barely shakes his head.
“Not yet,” Gilcrest says.
“Get up, Harold,” Freya says to me. “And keep your mouth shut.”
I do what she tells me, following as she backs out of the room. In the lobby, the secretary stands at her desk, eyes wide. Behind her, Seton stares at her computer monitor. We all freeze in place, as though we don’t know our next move.
“I heard you sing last night,” the secretary finally says to Freya. “I love those old songs. And Scene of the Crime was a really good show. But not after you left. It went downhill fast.”
“Thanks,” Freya says, taking my arm.
“What do you think I did?” I ask no one in particular, though in my heart, I suppose I already know.
Freya turns on Gilcrest. “You’re such a possessive, controlling prick, Duncan.”
“Stamoran only confirmed everything now,” Gilcrest says. “I didn’t have a chance to tell Charlie what happened.”
“You had every chance,” Freya says.
Gilcrest faces me. “This morning, our team discovered an abandoned car in the woods a mile outside of town. An hour ago, they uncovered a body in the wreckage of the fire. It was buried under a wall we needed a backhoe to move. The ME made the identification while we were talking. I’m sorry to tell you this, Charlie, but it was your mother. She’s dead.”