Me:
No. We’re leaving in about 20 minutes. Did Frank give you the merch box?
The marketing director at Barley Legal Brewery offered to send me some Barley Legal merchandise to use as inspiration for the app mockup I was creating. I would be billing the brewery hourly as a freelance software developer, creating a few drinking game apps. If they liked any of the mockups, we would then negotiate a price for developing and delivering the final product.
If I did a good job and worked my ass off, I could probably make enough in the next few weeks to support myself for the rest of the year. That would give me a nice cushion of time to find more freelance gigs.
Just thinking about this stuff made my stomach ache. I had worked to support myself through college, but I was painfully aware now that I had lived a charmed post-college life. The days of yoga class, coffeehouses, and planning my blissful future were gone.
Part of me was glad to have something to work for. Supporting myself made me feel stronger and more purposeful than I had in years. But I couldn’t deny the part of me that yearned to be taken care of. I just wanted to know that if I lost my grip, someone would be there to break my fall.
Dylan:
he said someone will bring it by in a couple of days. he’s swamped.
Me:
I thought you were going to bring it. I miss you.
Dylan:
I would bring it, but I promised avery we’d go to the gym after work every day this week.
Me:
The gym? Are you trying to bulk up?
Dylan:
are you saying I need to bulk up?
Me:
No! You’re perfect the way you are.
Dylan:
I’ll definitely see you next week. don’t think I forgot you’re turning 30.
Me:
Thanks for reminding me.
Dylan:
see you on the 11th!
When I pulled into the parking lot of The Rodeo in Hillsboro, I took one glance at the tinted storefront windows covered in garishly-colored signs, depicting guns and shooting targets, and the hairs on my arms stood at attention. Isaac was taking me target shooting today.
I had forced myself to watch him load up the trunk of my SUV with gun cases, ammunition, and protective gear. The whole twenty-five-minute ride to The Rodeo, his mouth kept moving as he spouted off gun etiquette and one safety rule after another. I tried to pay attention, but when he got to rule number twelve, I began to tune out his voice out of sheer self-preservation.
It was too much to remember.
Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.
Don’t point the gun at anything you’re not willing to destroy.
Always treat a gun as if it’s loaded, even when you’re certain it’s not.
Always know what’s behind your target.
Always be aware of your surroundings, especially if there are staff members walking around.
Observe the range facility rules, especially when it comes to check-in, cold and hot range rules, and changing targets.
And those were just the rules I could remember. This outing was beginning to seem like a worse idea than I’d anticipated. As I pulled into a parking space, I turned off the Tesla and stared at the dashboard in silence.
“Hey, like I said, if you’re feeling uncomfortable, we can turn around right now,” Isaac assured me, softening his voice to try to put me at ease.
But it wasn’t working.
“I’m not ready. I’m sorry you came all the way out here with me and now I’m chickening out. Maybe…” I glanced at the hopeful look in his eyes and quickly turned away. “Maybe if we just sit here and chat for a bit, I’ll work up the nerve to go inside. Is that okay?”
“Absolutely. You make the rules today.”
I let out a soft sigh as I turned in my seat to face him. “Okay, you told me before that you were a sniper in the Marines. Did you get any awards or medals for hitting targets?”
His smile waned. “Yeah, I’ve got some medals. Some I’m more proud of than others,” he replied. “The farthest target I ever hit was a touch shy of 3,300 meters.” Suddenly, as quickly as his smile had disappeared, it was back, along with a proud gleam in his hazel eyes. “At that distance, your heartbeat is enough to throw you off target, so I had to wear a heart rate monitor. Once I was in position, I closed my eyes and did deep breathing exercises to slow my heart rate. I got it down to forty-seven beats per minute, less than one beat per second. In that one second space between beats, I opened my eyes, aimed, and pulled the trigger. I set a record for the 148th.”
“The 148th?” I asked.
“The 148th Infantry Regiment.”
My stomach tensed at his reply. Isaac was a man who was trained to shoot to kill. I wondered if the man who murdered my son had also trained in the military. Did the country I love create the one man I loathed?
I took a deep breath to release some of the tension in my muscles. “Okay, I have a question I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time, but I’m afraid that you won’t want to answer, or that I may not want to know the answer.”
He narrowed his eyes as he silently contemplated my words. “I’m an open book,” he finally said. “Ask away.”
I cast my eyes downward, my gaze focused on the console between us. “What’s the one thing you did in the military that you’re most ashamed of?”
“Not speaking up,” he answered without hesitation.
I looked up at him and the way his pain distorted his handsome features made me sick to my stomach. “What do you mean?”
His jaw was set as he replied. “There’s a thing most soldiers will deny doing, because it’s a practice that’s supposedly been banned, but it still very much happens. It’s called… canoeing.” He looked me in the eye. “Don’t google it unless you want nightmares.” He waited until I nodded in agreement before he continued. “Anyway, it’s a way of completely assuring the enemy combatant you just neutralized is definitely not getting back up. And… I never did it myself, but some of the men I looked up to did. There’s something that breaks inside you when you see someone you admire doing something so completely… hideous. It’s… Well, I should have spoken up.”
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and mentally resolved to never Google the term “canoeing.” If it was the one thing he regretted most, and he had already admitted to me a few weeks ago how he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt when he killed an enemy combatant, then it must be pretty bad.
I suddenly realized the muscles in Isaac’s forearms were corded with tension as he clenched his fists. Was he about to have an episode?
Before I could stop myself, I reached forward and gently placed my hand on his fist. “Hey. Are you okay?”
He shook his head as he seemed to come out of a trance. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. How long was I gone?”
I put on my best reassuring smile. “Just a few seconds. You’re okay.”
He glanced at my hand on his. His fist slowly unfurled, then he took my hand in his, staring at it for a moment in wonderment.
“Your hands are soft,” he whispered.
I knew I should pull my hand away. I knew Isaac wanted more from me than I could give. And I was technically still a married woman.
But my body longed to be touched. My heart longed to be acknowledged.
I savored the sensation of his rough skin against mine, his thumb brushing gently over my knuckles. A sudden throbbing between my legs made me yank my hand back. I clutched it to my breast, breathless as my chest ached with guilt.
I quickly turned the car on. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to do this,” I said, looking over my shoulder before I pulled out of the parking space. “We should go home. Maybe… Maybe we can try it again another time.”
I didn’t look at Isaac the entire ride home. I couldn’t even bring myself to put on music. In between commands from my navigation system, the silence in t
he SUV was deafening. But neither of us made any attempt at small talk. Because we both knew that whatever just happened between us had changed everything.
We had crossed the threshold beyond idle chatter. Every word we spoke to each other now would have underlying subtext. And there was no turning back.
Chapter 13
Jack
Right after the murders, when the first thread was opened on the websleuths.com forum, I used to sometimes go two to three days without sleeping. Half of that time I was reading up on other unsolved cases in the Pacific Northwest, trying to hone in on similarities. The other half of my time was spent offering my keen eye and coding skills to help other families of missing and murdered individuals. I helped them get in touch with private investigators, even paid for PI services a few times. I registered domain names and built entire websites for them.
Part of me did it out of the kindness of my heart. But a larger part of me hoped that, if there was a God or an ordered universe, I was stacking my karma points. And maybe one day, I’d have enough good deeds under my belt to earn the answers I so desperately craved.
As I entered the 50s-style diner off State Street in Boise, I looked around for what I assumed would be a lonely, unshaven, out of shape man in his late fifties. To my left, I found no one sitting alone at the booths or chrome stools at the counter. Turning around, I spotted him right away.
The sandy-haired gentleman at the booth in the corner was neither out of shape nor unshaven. But the way he clutched his coffee mug in both hands, staring into the cup as if he were attempting to glean the meaning of life from its contents, definitely seemed to fit the description Sean had given me of a washed up former public defender.
As I approached the booth, the guy’s head snapped up to meet my gaze. He began to stand, but I waved off the gesture.
“Please sit,” I said, holding my hand out for a shake. “Jack Stratton.”
He took my hand and made no attempt at a firm grip as we shook. “Byron Huxley. Good to meet you,” he said in a voice that sounded younger than I anticipated.
I slid into the booth, glancing at the second glass of ice water on the Formica tabletop, which was obviously meant for me, but I didn’t partake. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me, Byron. As you know, I’ve been looking into my deceased mother-in-law’s background and I’m fairly certain your adopted son is her biological son.”
His mouth hung open for a moment, seemingly surprised by my attempt to skip past the niceties and get straight to the meat of the conversation. “I’m not sure that has been established, but I suppose that’s what we’re here to find out.”
Spoken like a true defense attorney.
I flashed him an easy smile and chuckled. “Right. I’m getting a little ahead of myself. But I’m on a bit of a time crunch, so you’ll have to—”
A young, dark-haired waiter arrived with a plastic smile and a notepad at the ready. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Are you ready to order now?”
The way his mouth hung open as he waited for our orders made me irrationally angry. I wanted to comment on how he had interrupted something important, but I had to keep reminding myself not to be Hurricane Jack, as Laurel often referred to me. Always leaving a path of destruction in the wake of my wrath. This kid wasn’t the source of my anger or my unquenchable thirst for justice.
Byron glanced at me then turned back to the waiter. “He hasn’t had a chance to look at the menu.”
“It’s fine,” I interjected before the waiter had the chance to leave. “I’ll have steak and eggs and a fruit plate. The steak medium and the eggs over easy, no potatoes or toast.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Coffee, black.”
I looked at Byron as I waited for him to spout off his order, but he seemed to be lost in thought.
“Sir?” the waiter prompted him.
Byron blinked a couple times and looked up. “Sorry. Yeah, I’ll have the oatmeal, no nuts, and a glass of soy milk. That’s all.”
I almost rolled my eyes. This guy was so fucking bland, from his unremarkable features and his tan windbreaker and khakis to his hunched shoulders and the way he chose the booth in the corner. This man was either completely beaten down by life or he was trying very hard not to be noticed. Considering the things Sean and I had dug up on him, it was probably the former and not the latter. This guy didn’t seem to catch many breaks in life.
Once the waiter brought my steaming mug of coffee, I was ready to get this conversation over with. “So, why don’t you tell me a little more about yourself and how you decided to adopt?”
Byron continued to stare into the abyss of his coffee cup as he spoke. “I’m sure you already have most of my background through public records.” He paused and let out a soft sigh. “I was finishing my law degree at Lewis & Clark when I met Dottie. She was a clerk for the City of Portland. We hit it off right away and a couple of years later, I was working as an assistant public defender with the Federal Public Defender’s Office, and Dottie and I were married.” He paused to take a sip of coffee, glancing up at me very briefly before he continued. “We started trying for a baby right away. We both grew up in big families. I had three sisters and she had two brothers and a sister. But after a few years of nothing happening, we finally went to see a fertility doctor and were told that we were both… challenged in that department.”
“How did Dottie take the news?” I asked, encouraging him to continue.
He shrugged. “We wondered if maybe it was just stress. So Dottie quit her job and started putting all her time and effort into adopting. Three years later, we adopted Brandon.”
“How did you meet Beth Keller?” I asked, eager to get to the specifics of the adoption.
This time he looked me in the eye, seeming a bit peeved now. “Through New Horizons.”
“I understand that,” I replied, keeping my cool. “What I’m asking is if you were formally introduced to her? Or did you never meet Beth during the adoption process? I’m trying to establish that we’re talking about the same Beth Keller. If you met her, can you tell me what she looked like?”
His frustration seemed to dissipate slightly at my clarification. “She was blonde, and pretty. I remember Dottie being a little jealous when we had dinner with her a few weeks before the birth.”
“Do you remember how old she was or if she discussed being married or having any other children?”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Is it true you didn’t go to the candlelight vigil on the anniversary of your son’s death?”
This time I lowered my gaze, staring in the abyss of my black coffee. I didn’t know if there was a way I could explain to this man — who’d lost his wife the way he lost her — why I didn’t go to the candlelight vigil. He wouldn’t understand how utterly hopeless I was feeling after one year of no leads on Junior’s case. He wouldn’t understand how futile it seemed to light a candle in the middle of such impenetrable darkness.
“It’s actually not quite that simple,” I replied as the waiter arrived with our food.
“Can I get you two anything else? More coffee? Water?”
We assured him we were all set, then I dug into my steak. The more answers I got surrounding the case, the more my appetite for food seemed to grow. I was beginning to understand why Laurel had trouble eating these last two years.
I hadn’t even realized I’d lost my appetite. I assumed that my ability to see food as fuel was a product of discipline. It was discipline, but it was also a lack of zeal. My hunger for food had been replaced by my hunger for justice. I couldn’t even imagine how much Laurel had to be suffering to be almost completely unable to eat.
“So, what made you decide to move to Boise?” I said as I cut a piece of steak.
Byron grabbed the salt shaker and shook some into his oatmeal. “Ironically, to get away from the crime in Portland. One of Dottie’s ex-coworkers was raped and Dottie was there with her at the hospital all night. When she got home later that
day, she insisted that she didn’t want to raise Brandon in Portland. Her family was in Idaho, so she began looking for open public defender positions in Boise, to be near her family.”
The burner phone in my pocket vibrated. As I slid it out and glanced at the screen, my heart nearly stopped.
Drea:
You really need to hurry up. She just called me to tell me that she almost went to a shooting range for target practice with him yesterday.
Me:
Why? Whose stupid idea was that?
Drea:
That’s beside the point. The point is she’s starting to feel very comfortable with him. You’re taking too long.
Me:
I’ve been in Idaho for nine days! It’s not like I’ve been gone a year, or even a month. I need you to do what I asked to buy me some time.
Drea:
I’ve done what you bloody asked! You need to hurry up. That is all I have to say.
“Sorry about that,” I said, slipping the phone back into my pocket. “You were talking about the move to Boise. How did that go?”
The moment he began to speak, I tuned him out. Drea’s words had punctured my faith in the plan.
…she’s starting to feel very comfortable with him… very comfortable with him.
What did that mean?
Just contemplating these words made my insides burn with rage. I tried to stave off the feelings of defeat by imagining the last time I had sex with Laurel. But the last time we slept together was the hate-fuck I wished I could forget. How did I fuck everything up so badly?
Drea was right. I had to hurry the fuck up or I was going to lose Laurel for good this time.