Chapter 10
Kinsley Aspen
July
Kinsley stood on the front path of the Bell residence, taking in the modern structure that occupied a rather spacious parcel of land at the outskirts of Fallbrook.
The property wasn’t situated in a neighborhood.
Instead, it sat on its own generous lot, surrounded by enough acreage to offer a balance of distance.
Close enough to town for convenience, yet secluded enough to discourage casual visitors and prying eyes.
The kind of location that said the Bells valued their privacy, even if everything else about their lives suggested otherwise.
The home itself spanned what Kinsley estimated to be around five thousand square feet, showcasing a clean, angular design of glass and steel that stood in sharp contrast to the Victorian grandeur of the mansion the Bells had left behind.
Neat landscaping surrounded the foundation, adding to the contemporary appearance and hinting at the kind of lives lived within.
Tasteful, controlled, and maintained by someone who was paid to keep everything precisely where it belonged.
Kinsley had spent the previous afternoon in the captain’s office, laying out her preliminary findings from the tapes.
Thompson had listened with the particular stillness he reserved for situations that had the potential to become political headaches, his pen motionless on his notepad, his eyes fixed on hers without blinking.
When she’d finished, he’d leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a long moment before giving her the authorization to make contact with the Bell family.
He’d agreed to hold off on notifying the mayor until after this initial interview, though he’d made it clear that the window for that courtesy was narrow.
“Twenty-four hours, Aspen. After that, I have to make the call.”
So here she was, standing on Richard and Eden Bell’s front path at eight in the morning, her badge on her hip and a recorder full of their dead daughter’s secrets back at the station.
She continued forward until she was close enough to press the doorbell.
The muted chime echoed somewhere in the depths of the house, followed by footsteps approaching from within.
They were deliberate, unhurried, and heavy enough to indicate that it was Richard Bell who was making his way to the front entrance.
A man who didn’t rush for doorbells, even unexpected ones.
The door swung open, and his tall frame filled the entrance.
Wavy brown hair, cropped short in an expensive cut that was just long enough to suggest casual sophistication, framed a face that still carried the handsome features that had no doubt served him well throughout his career and his personal life.
He wore a pressed button-down shirt, untucked over dark trousers, the kind of outfit that looked effortless but probably wasn’t.
His gaze dropped immediately to her badge and the service weapon visible at her hip, and the polite expression he’d been preparing for a delivery driver recalibrated in an instant.
“Is my son alright?”
The question carried genuine concern. His gaze scanned the street behind her, perhaps expecting to see additional officers or flashing lights. It was the reaction of a parent whose mind went first to the worst possible scenario, and Kinsley filed the instinct away.
His first thought had been Joey, not himself.
“Mr. Bell, I’m Detective Kinsley Aspen with Fallbrook PD. I’m not here about Joey,” Kinsley reassured him. “Something has been brought to our attention, and I need to speak with you and your wife about your daughter, Iris.”
Something shifted in Richard’s expression.
The concern didn’t vanish so much as rearrange itself, settling into a different configuration that was harder to read.
It might have been curiosity, or it might have been the beginning of a careful defense assembling behind his eyes.
Whatever emotion he was working to contain, it was mingled with a wariness that tightened the corners of his mouth and stiffened his shoulders by a fraction.
After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped back from the door.
“Of course, Detective. Please come in.” Richard’s voice was tight. One misstep from her, and there was no doubt he’d have an attorney on the phone before Kinsley could finish her next sentence. “My wife is in the kitchen. We can speak there.”
The interior was filled with the clean scent of fresh linen blended with a light citrus aroma wafting from somewhere in the foyer, both welcoming and almost certainly curated from some hidden air freshener or diffuser tucked behind a piece of furniture.
Nothing in this house seemed to exist by accident.
“We downsized a couple of years ago,” Richard explained, perhaps sensing her assessment of the space. “Our previous home was excessive for just the two of us.”
Kinsley nodded but offered no comment. She’d heard the tapes. She knew what the word “excessive” meant in the context of the Bell family, and it had nothing to do with square footage.
They rounded the corner, and the kitchen came into view.
It was an abundance of stainless steel and white marble, every surface gleaming, every line precise and intentional.
Most interior designers held to the idea that the kitchen was the heart of a home.
If that were true here, this heart ran cold.
No warmth lingered in the air. No scent of baking or coffee or the residual evidence of a shared breakfast. Just clean, bright surfaces.
Eden Bell stood at a massive island, dressed in high-end workout clothes.
Her blonde hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, accentuating her angular features.
She was in the process of arranging fruit in a blender when she lifted her gaze at their approach.
Her hands stilled, and something passed across her face that was gone before Kinsley could name it.
“Eden, this is Detective Aspen,” Richard said, and his tone carried a subtle warning that Kinsley caught immediately. It wasn’t alarm, exactly. It was more like a signal, the verbal equivalent of a hand on someone’s arm before they said too much. “She’s here about Iris.”
Eden placed the strawberry she’d been holding into the blender with exaggerated care, as though the act required her full concentration. She then reached for a hand towel, wiping her fingers slowly.
“You mentioned something being brought to your attention,” Richard said, prodding the conversation forward as he gestured toward one of the sleek barstools positioned at the island. “Please, sit. I’m sure we can clear up whatever questions you might have quickly.”
Kinsley opted to take the seat, hoping her decision to accept the invitation would ease the mounting tension.
She noted how Richard positioned himself behind the barstool opposite hers.
Rather than sitting down and joining her at eye level, he remained standing, his hands resting on the back of the stool.
“I understand this must be unexpected—”
“It’s been over thirty years, Detective,” Richard said, cutting her off with a directness that wasn’t quite rude but came close. “We’ve made our peace as best we can. Our Iris is gone, and the man responsible is dead. What could possibly warrant revisiting any of this now?”
“That’s actually why I’m here,” Kinsley replied, keeping her voice measured and free of accusation. “Some new evidence has come to light that I’d like to discuss with you both.”
Eden’s fingers stilled on the towel, while Richard’s jawline appeared to harden until it matched the marble countertops. The triangle of tension between the three of them tightened, and Kinsley didn’t see any benefit in prolonging the buildup.
“A foreclosure crew discovered a tape recorder and several cassette tapes hidden in the attic of your former residence. Twenty-seven tapes, to be exact. Some labeled by date, others by location or name. All recordings made by Iris in the months leading up to her death.”
She paused to let the information land, observing both of them carefully.
Richard and Eden exchanged a long glance that spoke volumes, the kind of wordless communication that develops between two people who have spent decades managing the same set of secrets.
He cleared his throat, tapped the back of the stool with his fingers, and then dropped his arms to his sides.
“Iris was always recording things,” Richard said, meeting Kinsley’s gaze with an expression that landed somewhere closer to rehearsed. “It was no secret. One of her tapes was what helped secure Tatlock’s conviction.”
“One tape. Not multiples. And I’m aware of the evidence presented at trial—”
“Iris had some foolish notion of wanting to be an investigative journalist. A passing desire that teenagers get before reality sets in.” Richard waved his hand in a dismissive gesture that struck Kinsley as reflexive, as though he’d been minimizing his daughter’s ambitions for so long that it had become a default response.
“It was nothing more than a phase, and one that didn’t matter. ”
Eden remained silent, her gaze fixed on her husband with an intensity that Kinsley found difficult to interpret. The blender sat forgotten on the counter.
“I assume those tapes and the recorder are technically our property.” Richard hadn’t phrased it as a question.
It was a statement by a man who expected compliance because compliance was what he’d always received.
“Personal effects from our former home that should have been returned to us. I’d like to request they be given back to our family where they belong. ”
Kinsley studied him for a moment, letting the request sit in the air between them.
The ask itself wasn’t unreasonable on its face, but the speed with which he’d pivoted from “it was just a phase” to “give them back” was telling.
A man who genuinely believed the tapes were harmless recordings from a teenage hobby wouldn’t have the urgency to reclaim them.
Kinsley also found herself wondering about Eden, who had remained conspicuously quiet through the entire exchange.
Was she always this passive in conversations involving her daughter, deferring to Richard’s authority the way she apparently deferred in everything else?
Or was her silence specifically reserved for discussions about Iris’s death, a kind of practiced withdrawal that kept her safely behind whatever wall she’d built in the thirty years since she’d lost her child?
“I understand your position, Mr. Bell,” Kinsley responded, keeping her tone professional but firm.
“However, since Iris’s death was ruled a homicide, anything belonging to her at the time of her death is considered evidence in that case.
The recordings fall under that category, especially given their content. ”
The temperature in the kitchen seemed to drop several degrees. Richard’s practiced composure wavered for just a moment. He exchanged another glance with Eden, quicker this time, more urgent.
“My daughter’s case was closed three decades ago, Detective,” Richard said, and there was an edge in his voice now that hadn’t been present before.
It wasn’t anger, not exactly. “A jury found Grant Tatlock guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. He died in prison, serving time for what he did to our daughter. What possible purpose could keeping those tapes serve?”
“Because I’ve had the opportunity to listen to several of them,” Kinsley revealed, maintaining eye contact. “And based on what I’ve heard so far, I believe further investigation into the circumstances surrounding Iris’s death is warranted.”
The silence that followed was heavy enough to have a physical presence. Richard didn’t move. Eden didn’t blink. The refrigerator hummed in the background, and somewhere outside, a bird sang with cheerful indifference to the tension inside the kitchen.
“Are you saying that Grant didn’t kill our daughter?”
Eden had finally broken her silence, and her voice was thin but clear in the charged atmosphere. Kinsley noted her use of Tatlock’s first name. Not “Tatlock.” Not “that man” or “the boyfriend”.
Grant.
It was familiar, almost intimate, and it struck Kinsley as a peculiar choice for a woman discussing the person convicted of murdering her child. Most parents in that situation used language that created as much distance as possible between their family and the killer. Eden had done the opposite.
“Is that what you’re suggesting, Detective?
” Eden continued, and the question carried a complex mixture of emotions that Kinsley couldn’t fully decipher.
Fear was there, certainly. Skepticism, too.
But underneath both of those was something else, something that might have been relief or might have been dread, the two feelings so closely intertwined that separating them was impossible.
Kinsley considered her response carefully.
The direction of her investigation could pivot on what she said next, and more importantly, on how the Bells reacted to it.
Answering directly would give them information they could use to prepare, to coordinate, to call their attorney and close ranks.
Instead, she chose to shift the dynamic with a question of her own, one she’d been holding in reserve since she’d sat down at the island.
“Were the two of you aware that Iris was using the taped conversations as blackmail?”