Missing Pieces (23 page)

“Thank you,” Sarah said, slowly easing herself from the backseat. Her shoulder twinged painfully.

“Where are you headed?” the deputy asked. “I'll follow you and make sure you get to where you're going okay.”

“Thanks. I can't seem to contact my husband...” Sarah's shoulder throbbed and tears pricked at her eyes. Maybe she was hurt more than she thought. “I'm staying at Dean and Celia Quinlan's home.”

“I know just where that is. Go ahead and I'll follow you.” The deputy watched as Sarah got into her car and then pulled onto the road behind her.

When they arrived at the house, Sarah thanked the deputy and walked up the porch steps to the front door. She turned and waved to let him know that she would be okay. He lifted his hand in return and waited until she was safely inside and then rumbled away.

Sarah pushed open the front door and quietly shut it behind her. She followed the soft voices coming from the kitchen but stopped short, remaining unseen in the darkened hallway to listen.

“Is everything okay between you and Sarah?” Celia asked, her voice filled with concern. “She seems really uncomfortable being here.”

“She's had a lot come at her in the past few days,” Jack said, his voice laced with exhaustion. “I think she just wants to go home.”

“But you're the one whose aunt died,” Celia protested. “It's your sister who's in trouble. You're the one who has had to come home to the last place in the world you want to be.” Celia's voice sounded indistinct, loose.

Sarah felt white-hot anger rise in her chest. She couldn't believe that Jack and Celia were sitting in the kitchen talking about her. She waited for Jack to come to her defense. To say that of course Sarah was uncomfortable and tense staying in the home where his mother was murdered and his former girlfriend now lived. He remained silent.

“Do you remember the time when things were so bad at my house?” Celia asked. “We were, like, fourteen and my dad was out of control. I called you, crying, and you took your dad's truck without asking and picked me up.”

Jack gave a low chuckle. “Yeah, we only got as far as Storm Lake before the highway patrolman stopped us. Our parents were pissed.”

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened,” Celia asked, “if we would have kept on driving?”

Sarah stepped from the shadows of the hallway, not wanting to hear Jack's response, not wanting to hear him say that he wished things had turned out differently between him and Celia.

She found Jack and Celia sitting side by side at the kitchen table, heads close together, a bottle of vodka set on the table between them.

They both looked up, startled, when they heard her.

“Sarah,” Celia said a little too loudly, and Jack shushed her. “Sorry,” she giggled. “Sarah.” She lowered her voice. “Come join us. We're just having a drink to celebrate the end of this god-awful day.”

“No, thanks,” Sarah said, trying to make sense of the scene in front of her.

“Oh, come on,” Celia urged. “It's Grey Goose and cranberry juice, Jack's favorite.” She was right, Sarah thought, cringing. It was his favorite drink. “Remember back in high school,” Celia said, her face only inches from Jack's, her hand resting on his arm. “You would steal your dad's vodka and I would smuggle cranberry juice out of my house.”

“Just a second, Celia,” Jack said, standing and going to Sarah's side. “Sarah, are you okay?”

“Where's Dean?” Sarah asked. “Where's Hal?”

“Sarah,” Jack said again, studying her carefully. “What happened to your arm?”

“I was in a car accident,” Sarah said, her voice cracking. “I've been trying to reach you for almost an hour. You wouldn't answer your phone.”

Jack's hand flew to his back pocket and he pulled out his phone and looked at the display. “Jesus, I'm sorry. What happened? Are you okay?”

“Sit here,” Celia said, rising from her seat unsteadily and then sitting back down. “Are you hurt?”

Sarah ignored Celia and looked to Jack. “My shoulder hurts.”

“Can you lift it?” Jack asked.

Sarah slowly lifted her arm and nodded.

“Was it a deer?” Celia asked, her words slightly slurred. “Lots of deer running across the roads this time of year.”

“It wasn't a deer,” Sarah said sharply, looking at Celia. “Are you drunk?”

Celia choked back a laugh. “Maybe.” She pinched her thumb and index finger together. “Just a little bit, though.”

“What happened?” Jack asked.

“I was driving here from the church. A truck came flying up behind me and hit my bumper.” Sarah shivered at the memory of seeing the glaring headlights of the truck bearing down on her. “I went off the road and into a ditch. Ended up in a cornfield.”

Jack hurried into the living room and reappeared with a throw blanket and wrapped it gently around her shoulders. “Jesus. What happened to the other guy? Did he stop? How did you get home?”

Sarah shrugged the blanket away, irritated by Jack's ministrations. “He didn't stop. I called the sheriff's department. I could drive the car, but it's got a little damage.”

Jack tenderly brushed her hair behind her ears. “Don't worry about that right now. Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“I'm fine. Jack, I tried to get ahold of you for an hour and I find you sitting here drinking. We have to talk.” She glanced at Celia and stopped. Sarah knew how crazy she'd sound if she started talking about the case files, the photos and silver charms. “When did you get here? I mean, after the wake, did you come straight here?” Sarah asked. Could it have been Jack who had run her off the road? Had he discovered that she was digging into his past? He definitely had access to a truck.

“Yeah, we came right back to the house. Hal went right to bed and Dean's somewhere around here,” Jack explained.

“I swung by the store and picked up a few things,” Celia said, holding up the bottle of vodka as Jack handed Sarah his glass of Grey Goose and cranberry juice.

“Are you sure you're okay?” he asked. “Here, drink this.”

“Do you think that's a good idea?” Celia asked. “What if she has a head injury?”

“I don't have a head injury.” Sarah snatched the glass from Jack. She took one unsure sip and then drained the rest.

“Sarah, why don't you go on upstairs and rest and I'll clean up here,” Celia suggested.

“I'm fine,” Sarah said. “I don't want to interrupt your party.” She stressed the word
party
with disdain and instantly regretted it. She didn't want to give them the satisfaction.

“We were just going over the details of Julia's estate,” Jack murmured. “Nothing that can't wait until later.” Jack guided her, his hand on the small of her back, slowly and soundlessly up the steps.

Once in the bedroom she kicked off her high heels and Jack helped her out of her dress, a seam ripping as he lifted it over her head. Tenderly, he helped her put on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, pulled back the covers and led her to the bed.

From below, the sound of Celia's laugh floated through the house and then quieted as if she was trying to stifle her giggles. Sarah didn't think she was trying very hard. Jack shook his head good-naturedly. “She's had one too many, I think.”

“Jack, I need to talk to you. It's important.”

“Hold on.” Sarah watched as he left the bedroom and came back a few minutes later carrying a glass of water and a medicine bottle. “Here, take two of these.”

Sarah struggled to sit up. “What is it?”

“Hydrocodone. It was in Julia's medicine cabinet. It will help with the pain.” Sarah looked down at the pills. She knew she shouldn't take them. She had so much to think about, so many details to sift through, but the throbbing in her shoulder had intensified. Against her better judgment Sarah swallowed the pills.

“We really need to talk. There are some things I need to ask you about...”

“Don't worry about it tonight, Sar. Get some rest.” He kissed her softly on the forehead. “We'll talk tomorrow.” Sarah closed her eyes, willing sleep to wash over her. Jack sat next to her on the bed for several minutes, before quietly leaving the room.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow after the funeral, after the sheriff questioned her for the last time, she planned to leave Penny Gate. She should have never come here. It was poisonous. But now she didn't know if she could leave just yet. She had so many more questions. First chance she had, she would go to Sheriff Gilmore, confess that she'd heard the audiotapes, had looked at the crime-scene photos, the charms. Every bit of it.

The pills were slowly working their magic and the pain in Sarah's shoulder eased; her eyes grew heavy and the horrors of the day began to fade away. She lay awake for as long as she could, trying to make sense of it all, but drifted off to sleep, missing pieces of the strange puzzle hovering just beyond her reach.

18

THE FOLLOWING MORNING
brought a fine, cool mist, but the forecast called for a sunny afternoon; hopefully the rain would pass by the time they made their way to the cemetery for the interment. Sarah awoke from a dreamless sleep, her shoulder aching and her head heavy from the hydrocodone and vodka.

It was a lovely church, small but ornate with jewel-colored stained-glass windows that depicted mournful saints who looked down on walnut-stained pews.

Sarah found herself standing in front of Celia and the two regarded each other cautiously. Celia wore a simple black sheath dress and heels, and her mass of curly hair was tamed into artful waves that framed her pale face. Celia was the first to speak. “I'm sorry about last night,” she said, looking down at her shoes. “Yesterday was just awful and I had a little bit too much to drink. I was rude.”

“I think we're all feeling on edge,” Sarah said, though Celia's affection toward Jack the night before still irked her. “Let's just chalk it up to a bad day.”

“Thanks,” Celia said with relief.

Sarah pulled her phone from her purse to turn it off before she entered the nave and saw that she had a text from Gabe.
Call me!
it read. She knew she didn't have time to have a conversation with him before the funeral began and reluctantly began to shut her phone down when another text from Gabe appeared.
Emails are coming from Penny Gate!

Sarah's heart skipped a beat. The emails were coming from Penny Gate? Impossible, she thought.

“They're getting ready to start,” Jack said, and she startled. With fumbling fingers she shut down her phone.

The pews had filled quickly and the ushers had to set out some folding chairs along the side aisles for everyone to have a seat. “Julia would have been pleased,” Hal whispered as they took their places in the vestibule.

The town of Penny Gate had come out in full force to lay Julia to rest. The haunting violin music began as they started the long, solemn walk down the aisle behind the casket and pallbearers.

Sarah tried to wrap her head around Gabe's text. The emails were coming from Penny Gate. She had thought they were just the crazy ramblings of some fan of the Dear Astrid column. Everyday fodder for someone in her line of work.

But the origin of the messages changed everything. Surely it wasn't a coincidence that three emails from the same sender were coming from her husband's hometown, a place she just happened to be visiting. Out of the corner of her eyes she studied the crowd and recognized a few of the mourners. Sheriff Gilmore and several of the deputies, Amy's next-door neighbor. Margaret Dooley and her mother were there. Margaret gave her a small wave and an encouraging smile. As they stepped into the front pew Sarah felt her chest constrict. Any one of them could have sent her those emails. But who? And more important, why?

Sarah collected her thoughts. The emails were addressed to Astrid. Could the lunatic who sent those emails have known that Sarah was the real person behind the advice column's persona? Could they have been targeting her? But that was impossible. No one in Penny Gate knew that Sarah wrote for the column.

No one, that is, except Jack.

Sarah tried to catch her breath, but panic had filled her lungs. Was Jack sending her the emails? But why? It didn't make any sense.

Sarah robotically went through the motions of the mass. She stood when those around her stood and sat when those around her sat. She desperately wanted to excuse herself to the bathroom so she could look at the emails on her phone, but they were sitting in the front pew and she couldn't steal away without drawing curious stares. Her mind pirouetted uncontrollably, trying to remember exactly what the emails had said. Something about strawberries and blood pulsing and a yellow dress. Sarah thought back to the crime-scene photos. Immediately a close-up of Lydia's crushed skull, her mouth wide and gaping and the bloody cloth over her eyes filled Sarah's head. She tried to pull back on the image, tried to focus on the items in the photographs that weren't so prominent. The open freezer, a plastic package lying on the floor just beyond Lydia's reach. Strawberries? Possibly—there was so much blood congealing on the floor it was difficult to be sure. Sarah nearly gasped out loud and covered her mouth as if concealing a cough. Jack's mother, barefoot, lying on her back and wearing a cotton dress, butterscotch yellow beneath rivulets of blood.

Next to her Celia was weeping softly and clutching Dean's hand. Hal had his head down and his eyes shut as if in prayer. She looked over at Jack, his face inscrutable. Had he always been so difficult to read?

Think,
she told herself. Who else knew she was Astrid? Her mother and sister. Gabe, of course. A few others at the
Messenger
. Gabe's administrative assistant, Maura, who had worked there longer than most, someone in payroll most likely. Penny Gate was only a three-hour flight from Montana. Theoretically, someone from the newspaper could have driven flown here and sent the emails. She wanted to believe it was possible, but she knew that made absolutely no sense. No matter which way she played it out in her mind, there was only one explanation: it had to be Jack.

The priest's sonorous voice filled the church. “Julia Quinlan was born and raised in Penny Gate,” he said. “Julia lived a simple life. She cherished her church, her home, her son, her husband and gave much to those around her but asked for so little in return. She was the consummate farmer's wife.”

She glanced over at Jack, but he kept his head down, his eyes half-shut, immersed in all the memories that this town brought back to him. Sarah tried to refocus on the eulogy, but had difficulty concentrating on what the priest was saying.

It was the final song, “Amazing Grace,” that brought the congregation from tears to weeping. They processed out behind the casket, the air thick with the cloying scent of incense.

After Julia's burial they walked through the cemetery back to the church where the Women's Rosary Guild had prepared a feast.

Their plates were filled to capacity and they sat at the table reserved for family members. Sarah's mind swirled with questions. She was eager to step out and call Gabe to get more details about where the emails had come from. She wanted to dig back into the documents she had scanned onto the thumb drive to see how many more details from Lydia's murder matched the emails.

Sarah picked at her food, mindful of all the eyes watching them. Jack, for his part, managed to make small talk with everyone at the table, but Sarah could tell it wasn't easy for him. She wondered how many people gathered there knew that Julia's death was now officially a murder investigation and that a set of remains had been found on the Quinlan property. Probably everyone. Sarah knew how word traveled in small towns.

Sarah excused herself to use the restroom but instead stepped outside to get her bearings and call Gabe about the emails.

Her mind kept returning to Jack. If anything, he was more fanatical about their privacy than Sarah. He made sure their home phone number was unlisted; he periodically checked the girls' social-media accounts to make sure no crazies were in contact with them; he locked all of their personal information in a fireproof safe. He had a shotgun and a handgun that he kept locked safely away, though he hadn't hunted since he was a kid and Larkspur was a very safe, sleepy town. Jack was the one who wanted Sarah to give up her job writing as Dear Astrid after she had received frightening letters in the past.

Jack could have told his family she was Astrid, though Sarah would be surprised if he had done so. He had only seen them a handful of times over the years, talked to them sporadically. Jack didn't tell Amy anything personal about their life. It was as if their happiness, their success, made Amy even more sour about the difficulties she faced—the failed relationships, the substance abuse, her run-ins with the law. Amy would be the very last person he would tell that Sarah wrote the Dear Astrid column. If Jack told anyone it would have been his aunt Julia and she certainly hadn't told anyone.

Gabe picked up on the first ring. “Sarah, did you get my texts?” His voice was taut and anxious. “The emails that you wanted me to check on, they're coming from Penny Gate.”

“I got them. Julia's funeral was starting and I couldn't get away until now. Are you sure? Could it be a mistake?” she asked.

“It's no mistake. Those emails are coming from Penny Gate. According to our tech guy, at least one of them came from the public library server.”

“The library?” Sarah thought back to the other day when she had been at the library scanning the documents from the case file. Had the person who sent the emails been hiding behind the stacks, watching her every move? “How does he know it came from the library?”

“He tracked down the IP address, which is connected to a computer at the library in Penny Gate.”

“What about the other two emails? Where did they come from?” Sarah asked.

“Gary thinks that they most likely originated from a prepaid burner phone.”

Sarah shook her head warily. “This makes no sense at all, Gabe.”

“It doesn't matter if it makes sense, Sarah,” Gabe said impatiently. “It's too odd of a coincidence. I think you need to go to the police. Tonight. Now.”

“No one here knows I'm Astrid,” she managed to say. “No one except Jack.”

“Sarah, you know I'm no alarmist. We get bizarre emails at the paper all the time. But these I think you need to worry about. Whoever is sending you these messages knows exactly who you are and where you're at.”

She thought back to the night before and the watch left behind on her car. What did it mean? And the truck that ran her off the road. Now she was sure it wasn't someone who had too much to drink or an accident. Someone purposely sent her into that cornfield. Were they trying to kill her or just send her a message to stop digging into Lydia's death?

“Sarah, this isn't a game. You could really be in danger.”

“I'm beginning to think you're right.” Sarah told him about the body in the cistern and described finding the watch on her windshield.

“This is hitting too close to home. I think you need to get out of there.”

“Believe me, I can't wait to get out of this town,” Sarah assured him.

“Who do you think sent them?” Gabe asked.

“I really have no idea. The only clue we have is that it's someone from Penny Gate, and seeing as I know only a total of about five people from here, I guess it would have to be one of them. The easy answer would be Amy, Jack's sister.”

“You can't think of anyone else?” Gabe prodded.

“No,” Sarah said hesitantly.

“Seriously, Sarah, you need to go to the sheriff about this.”

“Don't worry, I'll talk to someone. I'll call you later,” she said before hanging up.

She made her way back into the church basement and from across the room Sarah could see Jack sitting at one of the long folding tables, her purse sitting on the chair next to him. She watched as he reached into her purse, rooted around, pulled out a package of tissues, then dug a little deeper. A quizzical expression appeared on his face as he looked down at the secondary items he retrieved from her purse. Sarah craned her neck to see what he was looking at but it was too small. She wove her way between tables and past townspeople who offered their condolences. Sarah paused to thank them but her eyes never left her husband's face. When she was just a few steps away she recognized what was in has hand: the watch that was left beneath her windshield wiper the night before.

Jack peered down at the watch face, his eyes narrowed, his forehead furrowed. He flipped it over, brought it close to his face and lowered it again.

“Jack?” Sarah asked.

He looked up at her, his eyes filled with tears. “Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice raspy.

“Why? What's wrong?”

“Where did you get this?” Jack said loudly. The chatter around them stopped and Sarah felt a roomful of eyes on them.

“It was on the windshield. Last night after the wake. Someone put it on my windshield.” She sat down next to Jack and gradually the murmurs of conversation resumed.

“This watch,” he said. His eyes were wide, his face ashen. “It belonged to my dad.”