Chained Guilt (Hidden Guilt (Detective Series) Book 1) (9 page)

Carter swallowed hard. He had no reason to think I would hesitate to kill him right there on the spot.

“Okay,  okay,” he sputtered. “I heard about what happened to Miranda, and I’m sorry, but I swear on my life I don’t know anything about it. I’m the mayor!  Why would I be involved in a murder?”

Had I mentioned murder?
I didn’t think so.

Just then, Carter’s wife walked down the stairs, tying a robe around her waist.

“John, what’s going on?” she asked, her voice shrill with panic.

“Nothing, Jill.” Carter choked out the words. “Go back upstairs. Now!” “Detective Porter!” Jill’s face blanched as she caught sight of me. “What are you doing here?”

“Go back upstairs, Mrs. Carter. This is between John and me.”

“I’m calling the police!” she shouted over her shoulder as she scurried back up the stairs.

I didn’t care. I’d probably lose my job, but I had to know. I refocused my attention on Carter, who stared at me with dismay.

“Where is she?” Spittle flew from my lips and landed on his cheek as I yelled.

“David, I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know anything about what happened to Miranda. Some of my people told me she’d been asking questions, but I haven’t done anything wrong.  I have no reason to want to kill her or anyone else.  I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a murderer.” 

He paused to catch his breath. His fear was real, and I had a feeling he was speaking the truth. My hold on him loosened, but only slightly.

“I know you’re hurting right now, which you have every right to be. On top of that, you hate me . . . which is okay, too. But please don’t hurt my wife.”

Carter displayed none of the outward signs of lying or deceit. I looked up to find Jill standing near the top of the stairs, eyes wide, one hand clasping the handrail so tightly her fingers turned white.  I snapped again, this time back to reality. I released Carter and headed toward the door.

“David?” Carter said, rubbing his throat. “I’m sorry about Miranda. Really.”

I walked through the foyer without a backward glance and slammed the door shut behind me. I didn’t worry about him telling anyone, though for some reason I doubted he would. Carter was guilty of many things, and keeping a low profile was high on his priority list.

I got in the car and drove, hoping to sort my thoughts. I had nowhere to go, no leads, nothing to go on. I knew John Carter was up to something. Maybe not murder, but something. Something big. If that weren’t the case, Miranda wouldn’t have been investigating him or his staff. Still, I had no proof. Not one shred of evidence.

13

I walked into the house and collapsed on the couch, exhausted beyond belief.  I stared at the ceiling for several moments, too tired to even attempt to choke back my emotions. Tears pooled in my eyes, and before I knew it, my shoulders were shaking with my pain. I was filled with fear, despair, and an overwhelming sense of uncertainty. Not knowing was the worst. Unfortunately, I could now relate to those who often asked me that all-consuming question: Why?

**

“Anything different, Dad?” I heard Hilary ask.

I cracked open my eyes and saw her staring down at me as I sprawled on the couch. I quickly sat up and rubbed my face.  

“Not much, Hilary. The investigators believe someone took her.” I decided it was time to be brutally honest. “It looks like she was moved. That could be good or bad. Maybe someone stopped to help her, and she’ll turn up at one of the hospitals.”

“Okay. Why were you sleeping on the couch?”

“Long story.”

She looked uncomfortable, nervous. “What’s wrong, Hilary? I mean, besides the obvious? Are you holding up okay?”

She nodded and then sat down next to me.

“I need you to know I don’t blame you, Dad,” she admitted. “You couldn’t have stopped this from happening, and I just said all that stuff without thinking.”

I wrapped my arms around my daughter, relief flooding through me.

“I know, honey. It’s okay.”

“I just miss her so much. I hope she’s okay . . . but deep down, I don’t think she is.”               She buried her face in her hands as she burst into tears.

“Don’t say that, Hilary,” I said, though I’d thought the same thing more than once. “We’re going to keep looking for her.”

“I’m just scared I’ll never see her again.”

As I sat helplessly listening to my daughter’s mournful weeping, my eyes filled with tears. I tightened my grasp around Hilary and held her close. 

After a time, her tears subsided. Hilary told me she’d spoken to both sets of her grandparents. I knew Miranda’s parents were on their way, but apparently mine were coming as well. She said she’d needed someone to talk to while I’d been out looking for Miranda, and I was glad her grandparents had been there for her in her time of need.

As Hilary and I talked, Karen came downstairs. One look at our faces and she knew her mother had not yet been found. I reached for her just as we heard a knock on the door.

As Karen crumpled into Hilary’s embrace, I rose from the couch and opened the door to find my parents standing on the porch, their faces awash with sympathy.

My parents were both hardworking, small town people who owned a modest cattle farm on the outskirts of Rosharon, where I grew up. My dad, Roger, had dropped out of school after eighth grade. He only knew one way to live—work hard or die trying. My mother, Sara, didn’t do much better in school, dropping out midway through her tenth grade year. Still, they managed to raise a family and make ends meet through grit and determination. I had grown up happy and loved which, in the end, was all that really mattered.

“David, how you holding up, son?” my mother asked. “I know that’s a stupid question.

She wrapped her arms around me, like she used to do when I was little. I appreciated the comfort. “I’m doing the best I can in the spot I’m in.”  I stepped back and gestured for them to come inside. “I’m more worried about the girls.”

Karen and Hilary hurried into the foyer to hug their grandparents. I realized my kids couldn’t be in better hands right now. I glanced at my dad.

“Since you guys are here, I’m going back out. I may head to the station or back out to the accident scene, but I can’t just sit here and do nothing.” 

Dad offered to go with me, and at first I declined. I wanted to be alone. I always worked better that way, although this case was certainly different. In the end, my dad came with me. As I backed down the driveway, I hated to see the faces of my daughters as they stared out the window at me, fear and confusion clouding what should have been youthful joy—or teenage indifference, in Hilary’s case. I’d take teenage angst any day over this. I could deal with my pain, but watching my children suffer was another matter.

My dad and I rode for several minutes with neither of us saying much. Finally, my dad broke the silence.

“David, what do you guys know?”

I sighed. “We don’t know much. It looks like she was dragged from her car. Not sure by whom or for what reason.” I glanced at my dad as I navigated the streets. “The girls don’t know any of this, so let’s keep it to ourselves, shall we?” Dad nodded and I continued. “Our best guess would be something went wrong, either with a kidnapping or a hit. We’re almost at twenty-four hours, and no Jane Does have shown up anywhere.”

I had resisted uttering the words, but I knew I couldn’t avoid them much longer.

“I don’t know if I can do it without her, Dad—the girls . . . life.”

“David, don’t give up. There’s a chance she’s still alive.”

I gripped the wheel hard, determined to keep my emotions in check. “I can’t help but think somehow I could have . . . should have stopped this from happening. This is not just a simple accident. I mean, I’m always out here trying to protect and save everyone else, but I couldn’t even protect my own wife.”

“David, whether this was an accident or not, there was nothing you could have done. No way you could have known this would happen or you would have stopped it.”

Growing up, I’d rarely shown much emotion. I was a quiet kid who kept everything bottled up inside. My dad was the same way. It was easier that way. But this pain . . . this was too much. It was as if a boulder rested where my heart had been. I ached inside—for me, my girls, and Miranda, wherever she was. I swiped away the lone tear that escaped down my cheek.

We approached the accident scene, and I was surprised to find no one there. Not one single squad car. No investigators, no patrol, no one. Even the crime scene tape was gone. My pulse raced with anger as I dug into my pockets and hurriedly dialed up my captain. At the same time, Dad got out of the car and walked toward the damaged railing where Miranda’s car had crashed. I followed as the captain answered my call.

“Captain, why isn’t anyone at the crime scene?” I demanded.

“David, the crime scene has been processed. We’ve combed every inch of it. We’re waiting on a few lab results, but that’s about it. We do have a dive team headed out to search the far side of the lake this morning.” He sighed, frustration and sadness in his voice. “You know there’s just not much else we can do, David. It’s a waiting game now.”

I didn’t respond but angrily disconnected. I knew he spoke the truth, but I didn’t want to hear the truth right now.  I walked over to my dad and looked over the railing with him.

“Is there any chance she could have been . . . she could be in there somewhere?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” I said. “We just don’t know. We’ve searched the shallows of the lake in the vicinity of the bridge here, but they’re sending the dive team over to search the far side in a little while.”

We spent nearly an hour looking, searching, hoping for anything.  Finally, Dad suggested we go back to the house to check on the girls. The look I gave him was angry and ugly. Desperate. I regretted it immediately and softened my stance, suggesting we look for a few more minutes. Something might have been missed by the other officers who’d already spent half the night and into the morning doing the same thing.

As my dad wandered back toward the car, I scanned the rocks below the bridge and, to my surprise, saw something glisten in the deepening sunlight. I climbed down the slope at one side of the bridge, knelt down, and pushed the rocks and dirt aside.  A ruby earring. Miranda’s birthstone. I recognized it as something she’d picked out a few years earlier as a birthday present. I looked up and realized I was about two feet from the edge of the railing.

I looked around some more, but saw no blood or other signs of her presence there.
Miranda, where are you?
 

I put the earring in my pocket. I would tell no one what I’d found. I didn’t have a good reason not to share the evidence, but this earring and where I’d found it—so close to the water—suggested. . . . I tried hard not to think it, but it was impossible. Something bad had happened here. The earring might be further confirmation, but it still provided no answers. Besides, I really didn’t want to part with it. Not right now.  It was clear, at least in my mind, that John Carter and his men were responsible for whatever had happened to Miranda, and the motive was her report. Somehow I had to prove that.

I climbed the slope to the pavement and headed for the car. Dad leaned against the back bumper, staring off into the distance.

“Let’s go, Dad. I think I’m done here.”

Dad told me he was sorry we hadn’t found anything and had reached a dead end. I nodded as I blinked back the warmth again flooding my eyes.  I felt so helpless. Hopeless. Finding the earring by the railing almost nailed the coffin shut. I knew it in my heart, but I wasn’t ready to give up.

“David, I hate to ask, but how long do you usually suggest families wait in situations like this? You know, before making arrangements and such? How long before your team updates you on what they think happened?”

I didn’t answer him right away. I just kept driving. When I pulled into the driveway, I spoke my only words of the trip back.

“We’ll wait a while. Give my guys time to come up with something more conclusive either way. Maybe we’ll get a break in the case or a tip or something. I know it doesn’t look good, but until there’s definitive proof . . .”

Dad reached over and laid his hand on my shoulder. No words were needed.

Hilary and Karen knelt on the couch, peering out the window as the car pulled in. They watched as the two of us got out and headed for the door. The pain on their faces hurt me to my bones.