Page 35 of 4th Silence
“Gerry went in and out of the party a lot that night,” Alex offers. “That seemed to rile Dad up even more.”
Matt pulls a face. “Why did Gerry do that?”
“Don’t know. Drug deal? To get high? To pay his bookie? There were plenty there who might have fallen into that category.”
“Okay.” Charlie taps her pen on her notepad. “Maybe Gerry set up a meeting with whoever he owed money to. With so many people on the grounds, it would be easy to slip someone in for a clandestine meeting.”
Alex jerks his head. “That’s always been my theory.”
And, whoa. My spine stiffens. Did he just imply …
Before I can finish my thought, words tumble from my mouth. “You’re saying your cousin was killed because of her father’s debts? And it might’ve been his bookie or your dad who did it?”
11
Charlie
* * *
Alex’s fingers tap a steady rhythm on the armrest of the chair across from me, the only visible sign he’s nervous. His eyes move from Meg’s whiteboard to my notepad, then to the modern art canvas on the wall behind me—anywhere but directly at my face.
Patience isn’t my strong suit on a good day. Today, I’m anxious, working on an eight-hour sleep deficit, fighting a migraine, and my heart and head have been in a major collision since JJ chose his job over me. Go Team Charlie. Every step of this investigation has dug a hole I can’t seem to claw my way out of.
I’m not about to cut Alex any slack, though. He’s framing and reframing his answer—I see it behind his eyes. He doesn’t want to throw a family member under the bus, especially not his father. If I were in his shoes, I’d feel the same way. And while I’m no prosecutor, I’ve been on the receiving end of a cross-examination enough to know when to strike and when to wait.
Wait, I order myself. Do not show impatience.
That doesn’t mean I can’t try to get under his skin and see who he coughs up as a suspect. I slide some papers aside and find a class photo of Tiffany. Using one of the magnets on the board, I place it in the upper left corner to remind us of why we’re here. Who we’re doing this for.
Meg catches my eye as I return to my seat, approval flickering across her face.
The gamble pays off. “No way my dad killed her,” Alex finally says, his words confident.
“Despite what you’ve told us about his temper?” I maintain a neutral tone—a skill honed through years of FBI profiling and investigative work.
A shoulder lifts in a half-hearted shrug. “I won’t deny that when he’d been at the bottle, he threw things, punched walls, and screamed himself hoarse.” He meets my gaze, defiant through a veil of uncertainty. “But murder? Bashing in Tiffany’s skull? No way.”
Bashing in her skull. I note the distinction he’s making—violence against objects versus violence against people. Classic compartmentalization. As a forensic psychologist, I’ve seen this denial pattern countless times in families of offenders.
“You suggested it could have been an accident,” I press, crossing my legs and adjusting my skirt. Today, I’ve overcompensated for my heartbreak and exhaustion with my favorite Pucci jacquard knit pencil skirt and top. I look fantastic, even if I can barely walk.
“Look, I know how this sounds.” Alex rubs the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture. “Dad was an asshole, but if it had been an accident, he would have admitted to it.”
“Alex,” I say, purposely using his name to subtly put him on the spot. I shift my expression into what Meg calls my “therapist mask” —attentive but neutral—doodling on my notepad like this is nothing more than a casual conversation. “Speculations aside, what do you think happened to Tiffany?”
His face mirrors mine, his own skill with interrogating criminals giving nothing away. “Doesn’t matter what I think, and you know it.” His fingers interlace over his stomach, shielding his center. Classic. “You’re looking for something to back up what you’ve already decided.”
A flare of irritation hits, but I suppress it. I offer a small, professional smile. “I want your perspective, Alex. No judgments, no preconceptions. This isn’t about confirming what I think—it’s about understanding what might have happened from someone who knew Tiffany.” I point to her picture with my pen.
Alex rubs his hands over the chair arms. “My gut says it wasn’t premeditated. What could an eight-year-old have possibly done, seen, or overheard that would upset someone enough to kill her in the midst of a party?”
“Assuming we aren’t dealing with a child killer who purposely targeted her,” I say.
He doesn’t bite. He continues to speculate. “If we take Dad out of the equation, that leaves Gerry. As I mentioned, Gerry had an addiction to pills. He was a playboy. A total screw up.” Something about his delivery feels off. Rehearsed. As if he’s been turning these alternatives over in his mind for years. Probably has since the case has been reopened at least twice before now. Or maybe Mary fed him those exact lines through the course of his childhood. “Mom always said Gerry would end up dead or in prison. She hated him and that Dad let him hang around.”
Hate is a strong word. I casually add another tally mark to my mental Mary Did It column. “But Gerry was there for the entire party?”
“Yeah. The tension between him and Dad was putting a damper on things, and Mom forced them to take it downstairs. I remember how upset she was. She literally walked the two of them out of the parlor and down the steps.”
