Missing Pieces

  The questions turned more serious, though Gilmore’s tone remained friendly.

  Gilmore: Jack, tell me about this morning.

  Jack: I got up, helped my dad, ate breakfast, got on the bus like usual.

  Gilmore: What time was that?

  Jack: What time I got on the bus?

  Gilmore: Yes, and the time you got up. First, what time did you get up this morning?

  Jack: Six thirty.

  Gilmore: Then what did you do?

  Jack: I helped my dad for a little bit. Fed the dogs.

  Gilmore: What did you and your dad talk about?

  Jack: Nothing really. Said good morning. He told me to feed the dogs.

  Gilmore: What else?

  Jack: Nothing. We didn’t talk. He went out into the fields.

  Gilmore: What time was that?

  Jack: I don’t know. Seven or seven fifteen?

  Gilmore: Which was it, seven or seven fifteen?

  Jack: I don’t know. I’m not sure. Probably seven. I was in a hurry. I still had to shower and eat. I thought I was going to miss the bus.

  Gilmore: What time did you get on the bus?

  Jack: Seven thirty.

  Gilmore: Seven thirty?

  Jack: Seven twenty-five. Seven twenty-five. The bus always comes then.

  Gilmore kept hammering Jack on the timeline. What time Jack arrived at school, what time he left, what time he arrived at home. He then spent several minutes asking Jack about his mother’s actions that morning. What they talked about, if his mother seemed worried or acted out of the ordinary. Sarah choked back tears when Gilmore asked Jack about the interaction he had with his mother just before he and Amy went outside to catch the bus.

  Jack: She said (Inaudible).

  Gilmore: What was that?

  Jack (crying): She said, “I love you, Jack, I love you, Amy. Be good.”

  Gilmore: Let’s take a break. (Inaudible.) It’s okay, Jack. It’s going to be okay.

  Sarah’s intense focus on the tape was suddenly disrupted by the low hisses of a pair of turkey vultures fighting over an animal carcass on the road ahead. Three more soared above, flying in slow, wobbly circles.

  Part of her wanted to shove the recorder and tapes back into the envelope and return them to Margaret. It seemed wrong, almost unholy, to be intruding on this very private moment in Jack’s life. But there was no turning back now. She had to hear the rest. She took a deep breath, settled back and slid the headphones over her ears.

  Gilmore: You said you got home from school at three o’clock?

  Jack: Yes, around three.

  Gilmore: Amy wasn’t on the bus?

  Jack: No, she had 4-H, I think.

  Gilmore: But the bus stops at your house at three?

  Jack: Not at my house. Near our house. Down the lane. On the highway. The bus picks up a bunch of kids there in the morning and drops us off after school. We walk the rest of the way home.

  Gilmore: What kids?

  Jack: Like Brad Dahl and Terry Oswald.

  Gilmore: That all? Anyone else?

  Jack: Amy and Mattie Yoder. Maybe more.

  Gilmore: Let me know if I got this down right, Jack. Brad Dahl, Terry Oswald, Amy and Mattie?

  Jack: Yeah, but not Amy. She’s at 4-H. (Inaudible, sound of crying.) Does Amy know? Where’s my dad?

  Gilmore: You said there might have been more?

  Jack: Younger kids. I don’t know all their names.

  Gilmore: The bus dropped you all off at three. At the bottom of your lane?

  Jack: Yes.

  Gilmore: I want you to think really hard before you answer my next question.

  Jack: Okay.

  Gilmore: What time did you get home today?

  Sarah’s stomach clenched and she leaned over so that her nose was nearly touching her knees. She could feel it coming. Jack was going to describe what he found when he came home that terrible day.

  Gilmore: What time?

  Jack: (Inaudible.) Two. I got home at two.

  Again, Jack’s voice broke and she heard the sound of sniffling.

  Gilmore: You called the police at 3:05, Jack. You got home at two. What were you doing between 2:00 and 3:05? No lying here, Jack. How did you get home?

  Jack: My cousin. I cut school. Dean picked me up. He brought me home in his dad’s truck.

  Gilmore: Then what?

  Jack: I went inside.

  Gilmore: By yourself?

  Jack: Yes. Dean left. I went inside. I ate a piece of cake, drank some milk.

  Gilmore: Then what, Jack. I don’t want you to leave one thing out.

  Jack: I had to pee, so I was going to go upstairs to the bathroom, but Grey was sitting by the cellar door.

  Gilmore: Grey is your dog?

  Jack: Yes. My mom always makes him go outside when no one is home, so I thought that was kinda weird. I tried to get him to go outside, but he wouldn’t get up. He just sat there by the door, shaking and whimpering.

  There was a long pause, just the soft whirring of the tape threading through the recorder. Gilmore was no longer pushing for Jack to answer; he was just waiting to see what Jack would say next. Sarah pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, mentally shouting at Jack to go back, to not open the basement door, but she knew he would. In a matter of seconds, fifteen-year-old Jack would speak the words he hadn’t been able to in the thirty years since.

  Jack: I opened the door. Grey ran down the steps. It was too dark to see, so I turned on the light. I called for her. I called, “Mom.” But she didn’t answer.

  Here Jack’s voice became strangled, difficult to understand.

  Jack: I went down the steps. (Inaudible.)

  Gilmore: I know this is hard, Jack, but it’s important that you tell me exactly what you saw.

  Jack: She was lying on the ground. On her back. (Sound of crying.) I kept saying, “Mom, Mom.” But she didn’t answer. (Inaudible.) I walked closer to her. A towel was over her eyes. There was blood and her head looked funny. I knew then. She was dead. (Sound of crying.)

  Gilmore: Almost done now, Jack. Almost done. That was at what time?

  Jack (shouting): I don’t know. I don’t know! My mom was fucking dead. I didn’t look at the clock! You... (Inaudible, sound of crying.)

  Gilmore: Dean let you off at your house at two. You ate a snack. How long did it take?

  Jack: I don’t know, five minutes, ten, maybe.

  Gilmore: You go downstairs at 2:10 and find your mother. Sound right?

  Jack: Yes.

  Gilmore: Jack, look at me. Look at me.

  Any fatherly tone that Gilmore had conveyed earlier had dissipated.

  Gilmore: You didn’t call the sheriff’s department for another fifty-five minutes. What were you doing?

  Jack: I don’t know.

  Gilmore: Jack.

  Jack (shouting): I don’t know!

  Gilmore: Did you try to revive your mother?

  Jack: No.

  Gilmore: Did you touch her?

  Jack: No!

  Gilmore: There was a bloody handprint on the cellar door. Was it yours? Did you touch her?

  Jack: I don’t remember.

  Gilmore: What are we going to find when we fingerprint you, Jack? Will your prints match the prints on the door?

  Jack: (Inaudible.)

  Gilmore: I can’t hear you, Jack.

  Jack (shouting): I don’t know! I don’t know! (Sound of crying.)

  Gilmore: What were you doing from 2:10 until you called the sheriff at 3:05?

  Jack: I threw up. I threw up. (Inaudible.) Okay? She was dead! I threw up and I locked myself in the bathroom. (Sound of crying.)
r />   Gilmore: (Inaudible.) Okay, Jack. We’re done for now. Shhh. It’s okay. We’re done. We’re done. (Sound of crying.)

  After a moment Sarah wiped her eyes and ejected the cassette from the player and tucked it in the file folder. Her eyes fell on the transcript that accompanied the tape and to a note scrawled in pen across the bottom of the first page. Reinterview Jack Tierney. Inconsistencies in story. Reports of frequent arguments with mother. Number-one suspect.

  11

  SARAH RIPPED THE headphones from her ears and tossed them on the passenger’s-side seat. Jack was considered a top suspect in the death of his mother? Why hadn’t he told her? Of course he would have some kind of excuse as to why he hadn’t mentioned it: the person who finds the body is always the first suspect, law enforcement always looks at the family first, the deputy didn’t like me.

  But Sarah couldn’t get past the fact that Jack had promised, had sworn, that there was nothing else Sarah needed to know about his past, that there was nothing more worth knowing. More lies and secrets.

  The notes scrawled at the bottom of the transcript said that there were inconsistencies in Jack’s statements, that there were reports of frequent arguments with his mother. What inconsistencies? What arguments? Didn’t every teenager have fights with their parents? God knew she did. What made Jack’s dustups with his mom worth noting in the file?

  Sarah flipped through the transcripts. There were pages of additional interviews with other family members, friends and townspeople. But this certainly wasn’t the bulk of the case file. Margaret must have been only able to get this section for her. Sarah needed to see the rest.

  She felt something shift in her mind, in her heart. When she first began to learn of Jack’s secrets, she thought they were the closely guarded memories of a traumatized boy who found them too painful or embarrassing to share with even his wife.

  But now, Sarah wasn’t so sure. The sheer energy that Jack must have expended to keep the secrets hidden and the lies straight in his mind for so many years must have been exhausting. There had to be more that Jack wasn’t telling her. Don’t ask the questions if you don’t want the answers. This was something that her editor, Gabe, had told her over and over again during her early years at the Messenger. If she didn’t want to ask the hard questions, if she didn’t want to know the truth, she had no business in being a journalist.

  But the stakes were so much higher if she dared to ask the questions that she couldn’t quite let take shape. This was her marriage. This was her husband, the father of her daughters. Did she really want to keep asking the hard questions?

  She stepped from the car. A westerly wind swept across the countryside, kicking up dust from the gravel road and covering her clothing with a thin, powdery layer. Three fork-tailed, cobalt-blue barn swallows dipped and swooped playfully in the hay field. Yes, a quiet voice echoed through her head. She needed to know. Had to know.

  * * *

  She sent a quick text message to Margaret that innocently read, Thanks for the recipe. Would love some more. Can we meet? Jack had sent her texts of his own asking her if she had talked to Amy and for her to please call him.

  Amy. Being so immersed in the tape recordings, she almost forgot about Amy sitting at the sheriff’s department, probably already charged with first-degree murder.

  Almost grudgingly she called Jack. He was a liar and possibly worse. She didn’t want to talk with him, didn’t want to put on the supportive-wife face because his aunt had died and his sister was in trouble, but she knew she would. It might be the only way she would get the answers she was searching for.

  “Sarah,” Jack said the moment he answered. “Are you okay? Where are you? We thought you were going to meet us for lunch.” He sounded genuinely concerned about her. Was it authentic, she wondered, or was he just that good of a liar?

  “I’m fine, but Amy isn’t,” Sarah said in a rush. “Jack, Sheriff Gilmore is going to arrest her if he hasn’t already. You need to get her...”

  “Whoa, slow down.” Jack stopped her. “Where are you? Come back to Dean’s and we’ll talk.”

  She didn’t want to go back to Dean and Celia’s house. She didn’t want to see Jack. She was sick of his dysfunctional—and dysfunctional was a kind description—family. She wanted to finish listening to the audiotapes of Gilmore’s interviews with the witnesses, and she wanted to connect with Margaret so she could read the rest of the case file. Jack had had his chance, had his opportunity to come clean with her, to tell her the full truth, and he hadn’t. He had traded twenty years of marriage for lies.

  “Jack, trust me on this. The sheriff has most likely arrested Amy. If there’s any part of you that thinks she wasn’t the one who killed Julia, you need to get an attorney over there right away.”

  Jack was quiet on the other end of the line. “You think she did it?” Sarah asked incredulously. “Really?”

  “No. I don’t know,” he amended softly. “I hope not, but I don’t think I really know Amy as well as I thought I did.”

  “About as well as I thought I knew you,” Sarah shot back. “Forget it. I’ll get her a lawyer if you won’t.”

  Sarah disconnected. She wasn’t even sure as to how to go about finding an attorney for Amy. Hell, she wasn’t convinced that Amy wasn’t guilty. All the evidence seemed to be pointing toward her; even the presence of poison. Amy was the one who had spent the night in Julia’s hospital room, who was most likely to have the time to poison her.

  She pulled out her phone again and did a quick search of Penny Gate attorneys. Only two names popped up. Arthur Newberry and Dallas Hogan. She settled on Arthur Newberry—at least his name sounded like he was older than twenty-five. She called his office and left a message explaining who she was, why she needed his services and to please return her call as soon as possible. In frustration she tossed the phone back into the car and began to walk down the gravel road, her argument with Jack replaying over and over in her mind.

  She heard the rumble of tires from behind her and a cloud of dust rose from the road. Sarah shielded her eyes from the sun to get a better look and realized that she had walked more than a football field away from her car. A large truck emerged from the dust and slowed as it approached.

  A wave of uneasiness swept over her. She was all alone, miles from town. The haunting words from the audiotape were still fresh in her mind. She had left her keys and phone in the car.

  Two men dressed in camouflage and wearing bright orange vests looked at her from the driver’s-side window. “Everything okay here?” the driver asked, his eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, one arm hanging casually outside the window, close enough to grab Sarah if he wanted to. Sarah took a step back from truck and started slowly moving toward her own car.

  “Yep, I’m fine,” Sarah said, trying to keep her voice light and easy, all the while measuring the distance to her car. Could she outrun them if she had to, or was she better off running into the cornfield and trying to lose them in there?

  “We thought you might have had some car trouble,” the other man said, revealing a mouth filled with tobacco-stained teeth. “Not many people come out this way. You could have been broken down here and no one could find you for days.” Sarah glanced around. He was right. No homes were in sight, no other cars had passed by. Did she hear a taunting, leering tone in his voice? Or was she just spooked after listening to the tapes?

  “I’m fine. Just taking a walk.” Sarah struggled to maintain eye contact. She didn’t want them to know she was afraid.

  “All right, then,” the driver said, slapping the side of his truck with the palm of his hand. “You take care.”

  Sarah didn’t pause to watch the truck drive away but started walking swiftly back to her own car. Seconds later, she heard the crunch of tires on gravel. She glanced over her shoulder to find the truck following slowly behind her.
She quickened her pace and the truck sped up. Sarah sprinted the last twenty yards, flung open the car door and slammed it shut. Once inside she rolled up the windows, locked the doors and grabbed her phone. Slowly the truck rolled by and through the windshield Sarah could see the men having a good laugh over her distress before speeding away. It’s this place, Sarah thought to herself. Everything about Penny Gate was off.

  Breathing heavily, Sarah caught sight of a red-faced, copper-feathered pheasant striding through the cornfield next to her and shook her head. The men were just out bird hunting. Of course they were driving around the off-the-beaten-path gravel roads where the pheasants would be more plentiful. They were jerks, but most likely perfectly harmless; she was the one who was trying to conceal her whereabouts and what she was doing.

  Once she caught her breath, she checked her phone in case she’d missed a call from the attorney or Margaret. She saw that Jack had tried to call her twice. She wasn’t ready to talk to him just yet.

  Sarah checked her emails and sighed at the sheer volume that she eventually would need to get caught up on. As she expected, she had dozens. Most were Dear Astrid letters, a few from friends back in Larkspur and one from Gabe, her editor at the newspaper.

  Nothing that a Dear Astrid reader could throw at her seemed more bizarre than what she was living herself. She would have to go back to Dean and Celia’s at some point. She wondered if the search at Hal’s home was complete and if the forensic team had found anything.

  Another message from Seller85 jumped out at her and she clicked on it expecting more nonsense.

  Dear Astrid,

  One blind mouse.

  Blood, crimson and hot

  Pulsing, pouring

  Through my fingers.

  See how they run?

  Though Sarah was no stranger to receiving creepy messages and letters, the earlier emails were seemingly innocuous. But this one...this one felt a bit different, probably because it was the third email from the same sender in just a few days, she told herself. Trying to push the messages from her mind, she went on to scan through the other Dear Astrid emails. To think that so many people looked to her for support and advice when sometimes she felt as though she had no answers and in fact could use some advice herself. Sarah didn’t have the energy to focus on the problems of others when she had such difficult ones of her own. She had plenty of Dear Astrid responses reserved for situations just like this one when she wasn’t able to stay on schedule, but she hated getting behind in her work.