Caught (Page 82)

On the other hand, Ariana Nasbro wasn’t a college kid playing a harmless prank. She had been a drunk driver, a repeat offender, who had killed her husband. Still, Wendy couldn’t help but wonder: If Dan Mercer were alive, would he forgive? Were the situations comparable? Did it matter if they were?

“I’m sorry, Pops,” she said. “I can’t forgive her.”

“I’m not asking you to. I respect that. And I want you to respect what I’m doing. Can you do that?”

She thought about it. “Yeah, I think I can.”

They sat in comfortable silence.

“I’m waiting,” Wendy said.

“For what?”

“For you to tell me about Charlie.”

“What about him?”

“Did you tell him why you came back?”

“Not my place,” Pops said. He rose and finished packing. An hour later, Pops left. Wendy and Charlie flipped on the television. Wendy sat there for a moment, the images flickering before her. Then she rose and went into the kitchen. When she came back, the envelope was in her hand. She handed it to Charlie.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“It’s a letter to you from Ariana Nasbro. Read it. If you want to talk about it, I’ll be upstairs.”

Wendy got ready for bed and left her door open. She waited. Eventually she heard Charlie making his way up the stairs. She braced herself. He poked his head in the doorway and said, “I’m heading to bed.”

“You okay?”

“Fine. I don’t want to talk about it right now, okay? I just want to think a little on my own.”

“Okay.”

“Good night, Mom.”

“Good night, Charlie.”

TWO DAYS LATER, right before Kasselton High School girls played Ridgewood for the county championship in lacrosse, a memorial service was held at midfield. A big sign that read HALEY MCWAID’S PARK was hoisted up on the scoreboard during a moment of silence.

Wendy was there. She watched at a distance. Ted and Marcia were there, of course. Their remaining children, Patricia and Ryan, stood with them. Wendy looked at them and felt her heart break all over again. Another sign was hoisted below Haley’s name. This one said NOT IN OUR HOUSE, and reminded parents not to host drinking parties. Marcia McWaid looked away as the sign went up. She scanned the crowd then, and her eyes landed on Wendy. She gave Wendy a small nod. Wendy nodded back. That was all.

When the game began, Wendy turned and walked away. Now-retired county investigator Frank Tremont was there too, way in the back, wearing the same rumpled suit he’d worn to the funeral. It had helped for him to know that Haley McWaid was dead before he ever got the case. But right now, it didn’t seem to help a lot.

Walker wore his full sheriff uniform for the ceremony, complete with gun and holster. He stood on the blacktop talking to Michele Feisler. Michele was covering the event for NTC. She moved away when she saw Wendy approach, leaving the two of them alone. Walker started shifting his feet nervously.

Walker said, “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Dan Mercer was innocent, you know.”

“I do.”

“So that means Ed Grayson murdered an innocent man.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just let him get away with that. He needs to be brought to justice too.”

“Even if he thought Mercer was a pedophile?”

“Even if.”

Walker said nothing.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I did,” Walker said. “And I will do my best.”

He didn’t add “but.” He didn’t have to. Wendy was doing all she could to rehabilitate Dan’s name, but nobody much cared. Dead is dead, after all. Wendy turned toward Michele Feisler. Michele had that pad out again, watching the crowd, jotting down notes like the last time they’d been together.

That reminded her of something.

“Hey,” Wendy said to her. “What was that thing about the timeline again?”

“You got the order wrong,” Michele said.

“Oh, right. Ed Grayson shot his brother-in-law Lemaine before Mercer.”

“Yes. I don’t think that changes anything, does it?”

Wendy thought about it, ran it through her head now that she had time.

Actually it changed everything.

She turned toward Walker and saw the gun in his holster. For a moment she just stared at it.

Walker saw what she was doing. “What’s wrong?”

“How many slugs did you find at the trailer park?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your crime-tech guys went through the park where Dan Mercer was shot, right?”

“Of course.”

“How many slugs did they find?”

“Just the one in that cinder block.”

“The one that made the hole in the trailer?”

“Yes. Why?”

Wendy started for her car.

Walker said, “Wait, what’s going on?”

She didn’t reply. She walked back to her car and looked it over. Nothing. Not a mark, not a scratch. Her hand fluttered up toward her mouth. She bit back the scream.

Wendy got in her car and drove to Ed Grayson’s house. She found him out back, pulling weeds. He was startled by her sudden approach.

“Wendy?”

“Whoever killed Dan,” she said, “shot at my car.”

“What?”

“You’re an expert shot. Everyone says so. I saw you aim at my car and fire several rounds. Yet there isn’t a mark on it. In fact, the only slug found in the whole park was the one that went through the wall—the first shot you took. The most obvious place.”

Ed Grayson looked up from the dirt. “What are you talking about?”

“How could an expert marksman miss Dan from such close range? How could he miss my car? How could he miss the damn ground? Answer: He couldn’t. It was all a ruse.”

“Wendy?”

“What?”

“Let it go.”

They just looked at each other for a moment.

“No way. Dan’s death is still on me.”

He said nothing.

“And it’s ironic when you think about it. When I first got to the trailer, Dan was all bruised from a beating. The cops thought Hester Crimstein had been so clever. She used my testimony to claim that you beat him up—that’s how the blood got in your car. What the cops didn’t realize was, she was telling the truth. You found Dan. You beat him up because you wanted him to confess. But he didn’t, did he?”