Page 37 of 4th Silence
“I put in a request for the footage from the security cameras, by the way,” Alex says, back to business. “It’s missing. I have an intern looking for it, but my guess is that it has been misplaced somewhere since it was last reviewed five years ago. Sorry.”
Another accident. It happens, but what are the odds?
As he pulls away from the building, Meg joins me. The sun is bright, reflecting off the piles of snow. “What do you think?”
“He never should have been allowed to work on this case.”
“Is the killer his dad or Mary?”
“I want to believe it’s her.”
“Me, too.”
Our father’s car stops at the curb. Mom’s imposing figure jumps out of the passenger side. Her raised voice suggests they’re arguing, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. She slams the door and stomps up the sidewalk in the same clothes and boots from yesterday.
“Oh, boy,” Meg says.
Mom enters our office like a tornado—a notebook clutched in one hand, her phone in the other, glasses perched precisely on the bridge of her nose. “Was that Alex Hartman?” she demands, not bothering with pleasantries.
This woman is one of the reasons I’m struggling to breathe this morning. “Hello to you, too, Mom.” I cross my arms over my chest, a futile shield against her intensity. “Glad you’re out of jail, but couldn’t you take a few minutes for a shower and change of clothes?”
She waves off my words, stomping down the hall to the meeting room. “What did he say? Is he weaseling into my investigation?”
Her investigation? Meg must see the steam coming out of my ears. She lays a hand on my arm. “I’ll bring her up to speed. Why don’t you get some fresh coffee?”
But my anger hits the boiling point. I need a target for it. I charge down the hall. “He voluntarily came in and answered our questions.” I stand at the head of the conference table, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of falling into our usual dynamic—her interrogating, me answering. “We have several new leads to follow, thanks to him. Him, Mother, not you.”
Mom’s mouth thins. “Sometimes you need to shake the tree to see what falls out.”
What the hell does that mean? Is that an excuse for what she’s done? “And sometimes you need to respect boundaries.” Meg and Matt sit stock still in their seats, both avoiding looking at either of us. “Your reckless behavior has cost me...” I pause, pulling back before I say something unforgivable. “Has cost us too much. If you want our help, back the hell off and let Meg, Matt, and me do our job.”
A hush falls. Time stretches out, charged with decades of similar standoffs. I can almost hear the unspoken reminders of all the times she put us first—of the journalism career she shelved for our sake.
“What did Alex say?” She emphasizes each word. Impatience radiates from her. “Did he give you anything useful? Anything I can follow up on?”
Part of me wants to shut her out completely—punishment for my ruined relationship. But the rational side of my brain knows her instincts might spot something we’ve missed.
And JJ’s decision to break up with me isn’t her fault. I’m projecting.
The truth that no one is to blame but me nearly crushes me.
“Charlie.” Mom’s eyes lock onto mine with the same penetrating stare that makes corrupt politicians and evasive police chiefs squirm. “This isn’t about me or my tactics right now. This is about finding the truth.”
I exhale slowly, regaining what composure I can. She’s right. We have competing theories and need to get focused. Tiffany was an innocent child, and nothing in my experience leads me to think this was a personal vendetta. No. It was unplanned. Accidental.
The chair squeals against the floor as I pull it out and sit. “Alex thinks his father might have been involved, but he’s conflicted about it. Phillip was a ‘mean drunk,’—his words—and his uncle Gerry, Tiffany’s father, was into illegal narcotics and gambling.” I give her the juicy bits to bring her up to speed, then finish with, “Alex stated there was a family feud that night, and we suspect it escalated over a drug buy or money issue. Gerry could have even had his bookie at the party and wanted Phillip to pay him off. Tiffany may have been accidentally killed trying to defend her dad from the bookie, drug dealer, Phillip, or even Mary. We’re not ruling out any of them as our killer.”
Mom frowns. “Accidentally killed? That’s absurd. Complete nonsense.”
“Why do you say that?”
She flips open her weathered notebook. “The autopsy report clearly states that Tiffany’s death was not accidental. The blow to her head was delivered with significant force, not consistent with someone stumbling into a fight.”
Meg shuffles through papers with purpose. She holds up one of them. “Mom’s right, the ME’s report states the injury was made deliberately and came from behind. The imprint matched the size and shape of a hammer but not any of the three found on the property. The ME refused to make a definitive call on what the murder weapon was.” She mimics someone swinging the tool. “If I were aiming at another adult, I might clip an average eight-year-old in the temple or graze the top of her head. To hit her at the base of her skull, I would have to swing upward, almost like golfing.”
Bashing in her skull. The words echo in my head. “Medical examiners can make mistakes.” I hate to throw shade at them, but I’ve been involved in a few cases where it’s happened. “Not often, but if Tiffany was shoved backward, she might have tripped and hit her head on a piece of furniture or something.”
Mom scribbles notes in such a demented scrawl, I’m surprised she can even read them. “Sounds like there were plenty of issues for Phillip and Gerry to fight about, and Mary escorting them to the basement implicates her. Why didn’t Alex tell the police this?”
