Page 61 of Defend Me

“Justice,” Stan snorts. “You’re all acting like you’re just waking up to the truth.”

“What truth?” I ask.

Stan levels me with a look. “Innocent people go to jail all the damn time.”

His words hit me like a sucker punch to the solar plexus, stealing the breath from my lungs. Because he’s right—I’ve just never looked the truth in the face before. I’ve always felt so confident in the righteousness of my career.

“And guilty people go free,” Von says. “I understand the flaws in the criminal justice system better than most.”

Stan raises an eyebrow and snorts. “You? I doubt it.”

Von takes the remark on the chin. “In the interest of keeping at least one innocent man out of jail, we really need that list.”

Stan glances at me. “I can print it out for you.”

“Thanks, Stan,” I say gratefully.

“Are there any cameras?” Von asks.

“I’ve got two outside and one on the range,” he says.

“How long do you keep the footage?” I ask.

“Bout a month. Then it gets taped over.”

My heart sinks. Even though I figured there was no footage after all these years, it’s just another roadblock.

“What are you all thinking anyway?” Stan asks.

No use in beating around the bush. “We think someone secreted my gun out of here,” I say. “Used it to kill Marion. Then replaced it before anyone knew otherwise.”

Stan stares at me in shock. “No way,” he says. “They’d need the keys to the front doorandthe code to the locker.”

“Not if they took it during normal business hours,” Von says.

“While I’m here? Not a chance.”

“Who else has the keys?” I ask.

“Just me,” Stan says sharply. He punches in six digits and the metal door clicks as it unlocks. I note that it’s pretty easy to see the numbers if you’re standing in the right place—the code is 658230. If I could see that, who knows who else might have noticed over time, with the right motivations. Stan pushes the door open, revealing racks of shotguns and rifles. There are drawers with handguns in them. He finds the right drawer andpulls out the case with my old training weapon. Opening it, I see the Glock nestled in foam, a full clip beside it.

“So if someone had taken this,” Von says, coming over to peer at it, “your prints would have been on all the bullets in that clip.”

“Yes,” I say.

She glances back toward the front doors. “Maybe someone didn’t even need a key or a code to get this gun. They just needed access. Mom was shot on a weekend. You weren’t training then, right?” she asks me.

“No,” I say.

“So someone could have come to the range on Saturday—say the end of the day, near closing time. They come into the locker under the pretense of returning the weapon they’d been using. They take Noah’s gun, shoot Mom Sunday morning, and return the gun before anyone could know it was missing,” Von says.

“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Stan says folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t let people just wander around this locker.”

“I’m certain you don’t, and I mean no disrespect,” Von says. “I think whoever this person was, they were smart, and they were trusted. This was never a random shooting. My mother was being stalked. Likely by someone close to her—maybe even close to my family.” For a moment, Von’s eyes grow cold. “This person fooled me too,” she says. Stan holds her gaze. The silence stretches taut and thin. Then he nods.

He closes up the locker and goes to the front desk to print out the list of people who could have had access to the locker. Though now that I know anyone could potentially have seen the code, the list doesn’t feel as useful.

Von glances at the printout. “Could we also have a list of everyone who was here that weekend my mother was killed?” Von asks.

---