Page 42 of Water's Edge

“Maybe Jim Truitt is the father,” I say.

We sit there silently. Ronnie downs the last of her Scotch like a pro. She flips from one screen to the next.

“What do you think, Ronnie?” I ask.

I let her give her thoughts on it. It was, after all, her eye that caught this.

“Jim Truitt is the father,” she says, holding out her empty glass. “I’ve earned another I think.”

Ronnie matches me drink for drink and neither of us is better for it. Mindy doesn’t finish her Scotch and switches back to wine. I switch to coffee. Ronnie, still drinking, wants to go somewhere to sing karaoke. That’s never going to happen.

Mindy leaves, and Ronnie and I sit there while I practically force-feed her coffee. She prattles on about how much fun karaoke would be and finally sobers up enough to drive, and I follow her home to make sure she gets in her door.

Twenty-One

Ronnie Marsh lives in an Airbnb rental called the Big Red Barn. It had actually been a barn at one time. The owner remodeled, put a small wooden footbridge over a narrow man-made stream, new tin roof and black barn hinges on the two sets of double doors at the front, and voilà: a city person’s dream of life in the country.

I coax her from her car, take her inside, and pour her into her bed.

While she’s asleep I take the opportunity to look around. I’m sure she would have given me the tour anyway.

The rooms aren’t deep but the bedroom and living room have a walk-out view of Port Townsend Bay along the ferry routes. There’s a huge garden tub in the bathroom and a kitchen area off to the side of the living room. A door from the bedroom leads to an outside deck, nicely decorated with Adirondack chairs, potted flowers, and a small charcoal grill. A dirt footpath looks as though it winds all the way down to the waterfront. I’m tempted to go down to the water.

I look out and a passing ferry stirs memories of my brother, Hayden. Our estrangement is never far from my mind. He’s in Afghanistan. I look across the bay at the lights and speak to him in my mind. I tell him all the things I wish I could say in person.

Come home.

Forgive me.

I love you.

I pull myself back. The lingering Scotch is talking. I take one last look around, draw in a deep, cleansing breath, let it out, and go back inside.

I shut and lock the door to the deck, then go through the place, making sure the doors and windows are locked. I remember Ronnie’s firearm. I return to the bedroom and unhitch her gun belt. She stirs but doesn’t wake. I put the gun belt and gun in her closet, where two more uniforms hang, neat, pressed, in lint-free dry cleaner bags. She has an impressive amount of nice clothes in her closet. A cache of designer purses are lined up on the top shelf above the clothes.

Satisfied that all is well in Ronnie Land, I drive home and park in my usual spot. I didn’t leave any lights on and I carefully feel my way to the front door, almost tripping once, and let myself in, then promptly trip on the uneven maple floor.

I go into my home office and sit at my desk. Thoughts of the case fly through my mind. Jim Truitt is a world-class creep. Bohleber is a world-class creep. In my book all are suspects. The idea that Truitt fathered a child with his daughter is repulsive but possible. It happens. It says everything about what kind of man he is—and to drive the point home, he not only abandoned her and his grandchild, child, whatever, but he paid a stranger to convince Leann to give up her baby. He didn’t even have the backbone to do it himself. He was a zealot, or maybe just pretending to be one as an excuse to himself for his deplorable behavior. He claimed to be connecting with another soul that gave him instructions. While I can’t be completely certain, his decision seemed to have ruined three lives and possibly cost his daughter hers.

What would it be like to have a sister-daughter?

Leann had to struggle with that.

And now she was dead.

Thinking of Jim Truitt connecting to his spirits takes me back to the ride to Marrowstone Island with Ronnie that morning. I was so focused on my dislike for the Bohlebers that I wanted them to be the prime suspects. Truitt said Steve was the father of Leann’s child. But the similarity between the man in the gold locket and Jim Truitt keeps nudging me in another direction. The worst. The babyishis. I didn’t see it immediately, but Ronnie did. I have to hand it to her.

I think about Marie Rader and the last time I saw her. She was the wife of Alex Rader, my biological father, which made Marie my stepmother – a disgusting thought. I committed parricide, the killing of parents. Technically it wasn’t, though. I killed my father, which was patricide, and my stepmother. That would be considered tyrannicide, the killing of a tyrant.

If only there were such a thing.

I had a session with Dr. Albright where I told her about how I killed Marie Rader.

I get up and find the tape of that session. I’ve listened to it once and marked it. I put it in the cassette player and hit “play.”

My gun is still in my hand as I listen.

I remember perfectly clearly being in her office. Dr. Albright is sitting there with her eyes softening. She sees the passion and confusion in my eyes.

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