EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE (18 page)

There was a full moon above, and thousands of crickets were busy chirping their tunes. The air was cool and damp, and Griffin ran his hands over his arms to warm them.

A man in a tan uniform got out of the patrol car and spit a mouthful of what Griffin assumed was chewing tobacco onto the street. He walked slowly up the drive to where Griffin was standing. “Mr. Wells?”

Griffin nodded to the man with shaggy hair and a gray mustache the size of a small animal.

“I’m Sheriff Tyler,” he said, smoothing a finger along one side of the mustache, as if Griffin didn’t know. He wasn’t the man who had arrested him thirteen years ago, but Griffin knew who he was just the same. You couldn’t live in a small town and not know who the law enforcement was. “Can I ask where you were just now?”

“You can certainly ask.” But Griffin had no intention of telling him. It was none of his damn business. He hadn’t committed any crimes tonight, or for that matter, thirteen years ago either.

The man narrowed his eyes and gave him an impatient look. “Okay, I’m asking.”

“I was hungry. Buster and I went out to get some ice cream.” At the sound of his name, Buster came to stand alongside his master and wagged his tail.

The sheriff shifted his weight to the opposite leg and reached in his shirt pocket for a roll of breath mints. “There’s nothing open this time of night.” He tore back the foil wrap and popped a mint into his mouth.

“You’re right. That’s what we found out. Right, Buster?” Buster raised his front paws and leaned them on Griffin’s legs. Griffin reached down to pet the dog on the head. “Good boy.”

Sheriff Tyler stuck the mints back in his pocket. “I got a call from Hollin Pierce a little while ago.”

Alarm buzzed through ever fiber of Griffin. He zoomed in on the sheriff. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“She thought she saw someone earlier, down by the lake.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. She was planning to sleep out in the guesthouse, but I talked her into going inside the main house for the night. Seems her sister isn’t home, so Hollin is sleeping in Rachel’s bed for the time being.”

Relief washed through him. “Well, thanks for letting me know,” he said, and started to turn toward the house.

“Mr. Wells,” Sheriff Tyler said, stopping him in his tracks. “Do you smoke?”

Griffin studied the man for a moment, trying to read his mind. “No.”

The sheriff nodded while staring at Griffin’s T-shirt pocket. “Well, sorry to have bothered you.” He pivoted around and headed toward his car.

Griffin released a long, pent-up breath while fingering the pack of Camels pressed against his chest. Guilt and remorse roiled through him as he walked up the drive and let himself into his house. He hadn’t meant to spook her. He’d only wanted to make sure she was okay.

After he’d hung up from Hollin earlier, he’d taken a shower. Then he and Buster had driven to the other side of the lake. He’d parked down the street from the Pierce-MacDougal house and walked down the path to the lake, where he’d had a clear view of the guesthouse. He’d stayed long enough to smoke a cigarette. When he realized he had nothing to worry about, he and Buster had taken a drive through town before coming home.

He assumed Hollin would be fast asleep by now, and he didn’t want to spook her anymore this evening by calling her. In the morning, he’d explain everything. He couldn’t wait to see the relief on her face.

Griffin called Buster to follow him down the hall to the bedroom. He was dead tired and hoped he’d be able to catch a few hours of sleep.

He had no idea of the turn of events that would take place the next day as he crawled into bed.

Hollin continued to wave good-bye to Chelsea until the school bus disappeared around the bend. She was about to go back inside the house when Sheriff Tyler pulled into the drive.

He got out of his car and ambled up the front walk. He gave her a curt nod. “Mornin’, Miss Pierce.”

“Good morning.” Hollin stood on the front porch, shielding her eyes from the bright sunshine.

The sheriff looked serious, as if he’d just lost his best friend. The first time she’d met him was when she’d gone to his office several weeks ago to tell him Griffin was innocent. He’d practically laughed in her face. But last night he’d come immediately after she called him and couldn’t have been more congenial.

He’d searched the area down by the boathouse, but by then whoever had been out there had already disappeared. Sheriff Tyler had suggested she sleep in Rachel’s room, and it hadn’t taken much arm twisting to convince her.

She’d thought she had nothing to be concerned about. One night in the guesthouse certainly wasn’t something she should be afraid of. As a teenager she’d slept there plenty of times. But after seeing the man down by the lake, she’d practically fallen apart.

“Did you talk to Neil Thorpe?” she asked. He was the first person who came to mind last night when the sheriff asked if she’d seen anyone lurking around lately.

“No, I haven’t had a chance to talk with him yet.” He stared down at his shoes for a moment, then looked up. There were three guys on the roof, pounding away. He finally met her gaze again. And Hollin didn’t like the look on his face. “Can we go inside and talk?”

She led him to the library and flipped on the light even though there was plenty of sunshine coming through the blinds. He made himself comfortable in one of the wingback chairs, but Hollin remained standing. “What is it? What did you find last night?”

“Nothing but a few cigarette butts.” He rubbed his forefinger and thumb over his mustache. After a moment, he lowered his hand to his lap and zoomed in on her again. “Miss Pierce. Hollin,” he said. “I’m afraid I have some very bad news. Maybe your mother should hear this. Is she awake?”

Hollin felt cold and icy suddenly. Fighting off a shiver, she said, “My mother is with her private nurse. She’s not feeling well this morning. Sheriff, can you please tell me what it is you don’t want to tell me?” She spoke with quiet determination.

“It’s your sister. Rachel,” he said, as if he needed to clarify.

Hollin released a breath. “Where is she? What did she do?”

It was the length of time it took him to answer, not his words, that made Hollin realize it was too late.

“She’s dead.”

#

The sheriff’s words echoed throughout the room long after he’d left. Hollin was paralyzed. She could barely comprehend what had just happened. And she couldn’t accept it. Rachel couldn’t be dead.

She ignored the tears streaming down her face. What did it matter? All she could think of was poor little Chelsea. How was she going to be able to explain to a six-year-old that her mother was gone?

When Hollin’s father had died, Hollin was only two. Young enough to be spared the grief and heartache. Too young to understand. But at six, a child may never get over something like this.

Pushing off the sofa, she stood on shaky legs and made her way to the stairs. First she had to tell her mother, then she had to call Brad. Hollin closed her eyes and prayed for strength.

She desperately needed Griffin now. The feel of his strong arms wrapped around her, his warm breath against her face and cheek. But she couldn’t put her family through more than they had to bear at the moment. Griffin would have to wait.

#

Hollin had never seen Brad this way. He seemed more upset by Rachel’s death than when his father had died several weeks ago. He sat, shoulders hunched, and leaning on the edge of Sheriff Tyler’s desk, his face buried in his hands. He was the one who had volunteered to identify their sister’s body. He’d cried afterward, and Hollin felt guilty for not having the guts to do it herself.

Her own misery was like a steel beam pressing into her chest and lungs, making it hard for her to breathe, let alone talk. But she had to gain control. She needed to be strong. For her mother, and Chelsea. “Brad,” she said, touching his shoulder and arm. “Look at me.”

Brad shook his head, refusing her request. “I should have talked to her. I should have done something. She’s dead because of me.”

“This isn’t your fault.” Hollin looked across the desk at Sheriff Tyler, asking silently for his help. The sheriff had insisted the two of them come in to answer some questions in order to help with the investigation. Although no one had answered any of Brad’s and her questions as of yet.

“Why do you think what happened to Rachel is your fault?” the sheriff asked.

Brad shook his head again, his shoulders slumping in defeat. After a few moments, he raised his head, staring past Hollin. His blue eyes were rimmed in red and filled with unshed tears. “A few weeks ago, Hollin asked me to talk to Rachel. But I didn’t. Rachel never listened to me. I thought it would be a waste of time.”

“What were you supposed to talk to her about?”

Finally meeting Hollin’s gaze, Brad raised a brow, as if asking permission to talk about their sister.

“It’s okay,” Hollin said. “I don’t think we’ll be much help if we try to sugarcoat things.” She glanced at the open door of the small, cramped office, thought about shutting it, then changed her mind. In a small town, everyone knew everyone else’s business anyway. And right now, she didn’t care about Rachel’s reputation. She just wanted to find out what happened.

Brad blew out a breath and wiped at his eyes. “You’re right.” He angled his head to face the sheriff. “Rachel has always been . . .” He paused, as if searching for the right word. “She liked to have a good time. She slept around a lot. Ignored her daughter. Stayed out most nights. She drank. I think she was an alcoholic.” He shook his head before going on. “Hollin had hoped she would change somehow. She asked me to talk with her, and I didn’t.”

Hollin averted her gaze in shame. Hearing Brad talk about Rachel like that, even though what he said was true, hurt more than she’d imagined it could. She was assaulted by a terrible sense of bitterness. Angry with Rachel for the person she’d become, angry because she was dead. Angry with herself because she hadn’t tried harder to change her sister, and get her some help. She was so lonely with those thoughts, it was like acute physical pain bearing down on her.

She still couldn’t accept it. And Sheriff Tyler hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with information. All he’d said was Rachel was found in a room at the Peacock Motel by a maid that morning.

She focused on the sheriff. “Why can’t you tell us how she died? Please. We need to know.”

Brad reached for her hand and squeezed it tightly. “Hollin’s right. How can we help if you keep all the details from us?”

“I’ve told you as much as we know. The exact cause of death will be determined after the autopsy tomorrow.”

Hollin felt herself shrivel, and forced all thoughts of Rachel being sliced open from her mind. Her throat ached as she tried to speak. “But you think she was murdered, don’t you? That’s what you’re holding back.”

“I never said that.” He quickly shifted his gaze to focus on his messy desk. Picking up a pen, he held it above a notepad. “I’ll need the names of anyone Rachel has been . . . close to recently.”

“Randy Swartz,” she spat out quickly. He was the first person who came to mind. “He and Rachel had an argument a few weeks ago, right outside the Peacock Motel. I saw them with my own eyes. And Rachel told me she’d slept with him.”

Sheriff Tyler scribbled the name down. Hollin remembered the last time she’d seen Randy, the day she and Chelsea had gotten Buster. She recalled the insinuating things he’d said, and the way his gaze had crawled up and down her. She shivered with indignation.

“Are you okay?” Brad asked, dropping her hand to swing his arm over her shoulder.

She nodded, knowing she had to hold herself together.

“Anyone else?” the sheriff asked.

“A man named Travis Bowman. He seemed sort of strange, although he was pretty protective of Rachel.”

“You let me be the judge of that.” The sheriff added Travis’s name to the paper. “Anyone else you can think of?”

Hollin tried to think, concentrate. “No,” she said, “no one else.”

“What about Griffin Wells?” the man asked.

Stunned, she asked, “What
about
him?”

“I happen to know for a fact he doesn’t have an alibi for last night.”

She sat forward on her chair, shrugging Brad’s arm from her shoulder. “What are you talking about? Why would Griffin need an alibi? He didn’t do anything. He didn’t kill Rachel.” She’d called Griffin before calling the sheriff last night to report a prowler, but when he didn’t pick up she’d assumed he was asleep. “He was home, all night.”

“I’m afraid that’s not true. I stopped by his place around two this morning, and he was just pulling in. Claimed he was out looking for somewhere to buy ice cream.”

Brad sat up at attention. “What are you talking about?”

“Hollin called me shortly after midnight last night. Said she saw a prowler down by the boathouse. I checked it out, but whoever was there was gone by the time I got there.”

“You think it could have been Wells?” Without waiting for the sheriff to answer, he swore aloud.

“It wasn’t him.” Hollin implored both Brad and the sheriff with a look. “I talked to him earlier in the evening.”

The sheriff set his pen aside, rubbed at his mustache. “What did the two of you talk about?”

I had phone sex with him, and it was fantastic.
“Business,” she said, the idea quickly popping into her head.

“Did he know you intended to spend the night in the guesthouse alone?”

“No,” she lied again. “It wasn’t Griffin out there. I would have known. I would have recognized him.”

“How would you have known? It was dark. You told me yourself you couldn’t see who it was, but that you thought the person was smoking.” He paused a moment, and stared at her as if he didn’t believe her. “Hollin, those cigarettes I found down by the boathouse last night were Camels. Know anyone who smokes that brand?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head in denial, yet clearly remembering the last time she’d been with Griffin.

I don’t smoke, but rarely. There’s a pack of stale Camels in the nightstand drawer and another in the glove box of my truck, just in case I get the urge.

“Did you know Mr. Wells smokes Camels? He had a pack in his shirt pocket last night.”

Brad swore again. His jaw tightened and his face turned red in anger. Beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead. “The bastard raped Hollin, and now he’s murdered Rachel! I’ll kill him. I’ll kill that bastard!” He kicked the metal desk in front of him.

“It wasn’t Griffin,” Hollin said defensively. “And I told you, he wasn’t the one who raped me.”

Sheriff Tyler stood, looming across the desk. “Mr. MacDougal, you need to calm down. I can’t have you walking around town making threats like that.” His nostrils flared. “Do you understand me?”

Brad clenched his fists and glared up at the man. “Yes.”

The sheriff puffed out his chest, showing Brad who was in charge before taking his seat again.

“We’re bringing Wells in for questioning. My deputy should have picked him up by now. And I’m betting this guy isn’t as innocent as you think he is.”

“He only smokes occasionally,” Hollin said in Griffin’s defense. She looked first at the sheriff then at Brad. “It wasn’t him. I know it wasn’t.” She tried to swallow but couldn’t. She felt the screams of frustration at the back of her throat, pushing forward. Weighing the sheriff’s words, she told herself he was only doing his job. But why question Griffin? Why not Randy Swartz?

She began to grow warm and uncomfortable. It was the first she’d noticed the lack of windows in the office, and she needed air. The stifling smell of tobacco and stale fast food was starting to nauseate her. “I can’t breathe,” she managed to choke out, holding her hand to her throat. Slowly, she rose, then walked out of the room.

Sheriff Tyler and Brad both followed.

“Hollin?” Brad’s face was etched with concern as he came to stand beside her.

“There’s a ladies room, down the hall and on your right,” the sheriff said.

Hollin started toward the hall but stopped when she heard the door to the building open. The place grew quiet. She pivoted around and saw a man in uniform leading Griffin to the opposite end of the building. Seeing her, Griffin stopped, too, locking gazes with her. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His eyes said everything.

#

There were no cameras in the corners, and no two-way mirrors, that Griffin could see, anyway. It was just a four-by-four, hot, stuffy, windowless room with gray walls in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint.

Sheriff Tyler and his deputy sat across the scarred wood table from Griffin. Both had their hands folded on the table in front of them. Both wore the same expressions. Poker faces, as if they’d practiced the look in the mirror dozens of times. A tape recorder sat on the table between them, making a tinny sound as the ribbon slowly spun on the reel.

Deputy Heywood, the man who had picked him up at GW Construction looked barely old enough to vote. He was skinny, about five-eight, had curly blond hair and acne. He’d acted uneasy with the task of asking Griffin to come in for questioning and had apologized several times. But now, under the scrutiny of his boss, he behaved quite differently.

“Did anyone see you last night? Anyone who can give you an alibi?” the kid asked sternly.

“No. I already told you that ten minutes ago.”

“Oh, right,” he said and glanced at the sheriff for confirmation.

Sheriff Tyler shot his deputy a look that said “Shut up, and let me do the talking.”

The kid shut up.

“Mr. Wells.” The sheriff unfolded his hands and pushed his chair back a few inches. Deputy Heywood did the same. “You told me last night that you didn’t smoke.”