Page 32 of It's One of Us
“I understand this might be awkward. I know that you’ve been talking with the homicide detectives—”
“I don’t know anything about the Cooke case.”
A small smile on her perfect rosebud lips. “Would you be more comfortable talking out here?” She gestures toward the two chairs across from their porch swing.
“I don’t have anything to add.”
“Mr. Bender, I think once you hear what I have to say, you’ll want to talk to me. I know that you’re tangentially tied to the Cooke case through a DNA match. I want to give you the opportunity to tell all of us how you feel about this.”
“How do you know that?” Park feels the rage begin to bubble, and steps outside, shutting the house door behind him. “You need to leave, right now. I’m not kidding. I have no comment about this.”
“Why don’t we sit down and talk this through?”
He is tempted. Set the record straight. He knows nothing about the case, nothing about the suspect—his supposed son. Nothing has been proven, nothing.
But just as he opens his mouth, he spies the van down the street, and the flash of what looks like a camera.
“Are you taping this?”
“It’s just my photojournalist,” Pearl says, smooth as silk. “For my safety. I can signal him, and he can come—”
“Your safety? What, do you think I’m going to hurt you? That because I’m the biological father of a suspect in a murder case, I’ll suddenly attack you? That I passed on some sort of murder gene to a stranger I don’t even know?”
Shut up, shut up, shut up.
Pearl, softer now, “Of course I don’t think that. But you raise so many interesting points. I’d love to talk to you further. Get your side of the story. Let me just get my photojournalist and you can go on the record and—”
Park steps inside and slams the door in Erica Pearl’s perfectly lovely face.
In the kitchen, Park is mildly alarmed to see his hands are shaking. His mind is racing, and he shuts his eyes and takes three deep breaths to calm himself.Fix this, Bender. Fix it now.
Part of him wants to talk to the reporter, to deny knowing anything about Beverly Cooke and his son, the suspect in her murder. But he’s not stupid. He’s seen enough true crime shows—Olivia is obsessed, he can’t avoid them—to know you never talk to the media. Never. Besides, the last time he talked to a reporter, at a vigil for Melanie, he’d gotten himself in seriously hot water. Granted, he was a kid, and the situation was fraught, but he’d handled it badly. A friend brought the reporter over and introduced Park as Melanie’s boyfriend. Candle wax spilling down his hand, burning the crap out of his thumb, Park was quick to point out they’d not only broken up, but he was the one who’d dumped Melanie, and it happened well before she went missing, and that unsolicited admission brought the police straight to his door. All he needed to say was they were no longer dating, that he was devastated and hoped she was found alive and unharmed, and instead, he’d painted a target on his back as an insensitive creep.
Never again. Erica Pearl can go to hell.
Despite the jitters in his hands and a griping in his belly, he gets a fresh cup of coffee and flees the oppressive emptiness of the house for his office. No matter what’s happening, before he does anything else, he needs to get some money flowing in, and he needs to do it quickly. He’s ahead of schedule on the latest manuscript. Maybe he can get a partial payment if he turns in the pages early.
He unlocks the shed and steps inside. The huge computer screen is dark, the desk littered with papers and research books and pages of the latest novel, detritus of the creative life.
Something, though, is off. The holder of his beloved Pilots is broken, the pens scattered on his desk. The filing cabinet stands open. Glass litters the floor, shards sparkling in the sun like a handful of diamonds dashed across the Batik rug. The desk drawer is ajar, and the key and combination to the safe are missing.
“Shit.” He goes first to the safe to see if it’s been opened, and sure enough, it has. The door has been pushed closed, but the lock hasn’t caught. The cash is gone. So are his contracts and annual income statements, birth certificate, passport, and the Glock. What else was in here yesterday? The tiny gold ingots are still in their envelope, but the Winterborn files, they’re missing. His backup thumb drive, too.
Who would want those files?
The shed is alarmed, but he disengaged it when he entered. Didn’t he? He always locks the shed at night and sets the alarm, but is it possible, with everything happening, he forgot?
He sets the mug down on the desk but misses the edge, and spills coffee all over the papers. Cursing, he tries to mop up the mess and only succeeds in making the brown liquid drip down the leg of his desk.
Good job, asshole. That’s twice this morning. And now you’ve probably destroyed evidence.
He takes a picture of the space with his phone, then backs out, closing the door with his elbow. Though what’s the point? He’s already touched the handle, already smudged whatever prints might have been left behind.
The sense of being watched creeps up his spine, and he whirls around to the woods, searching, searching, for whatever—whoever—is there, watching him.
He sees nothing, only the darkness peeking between the thick trees. But the birds have stopped chittering, and the forest is still. Waiting.
Shaking off the eerie feeling, he hurries back to the house. He needs to call the detectives.
