Page 27 of Inside Silence
I chuckle self-deprecatingly.
“I still don’t know why you left in the first place,” she interrupts for the first time.
There it is, the million-dollar question. The one I’ve been agonizing over how to respond to. The truth comes with consequences, and I’m afraid the answer will only create pain of a different kind for Savannah. But she deserves to know the reason I so abruptly turned my back on her.
“Remember my uncle Cam? I was working for him.” At her affirmative nod I continue, “At the time we did quite a bit of custom cabinetry in that newer subdivision up on Forest Hill Drive. Apparently, some jewelry and money had gone missing from a few of the homes we worked on. Long story short, my uncle was in the hole with his bookie and couldn’t bring in the money he needed to pay the man and his goons off fast enough.”
Her eyebrows have drawn together in a deep frown, as she leans forward, listening intently.
“Despite his confession and his promise to return and repay everything he took; eyes were on me as his accomplice. I’d had no idea, and Cam vehemently denied my involvement. Still, I was given an ultimatum; leave town immediately, cut all ties, and Cam would be able to keep his business. The alternative was I’d be going down for the thefts along with my uncle, dragging everyone I cared about down with me.”
Her narrow face has paled, making the odd freckle stand out on her skin.
“Who?” she asks, her voice croaking. “Who told you that?”
Fuck.
This is the part I wanted to avoid.
But before I have a chance to answer her question, she is on her feet and moving for the door.
“Never mind. I can guess.”
Chapter 9
Savvy
* * *
Another sleepless night.
For once I’m grateful for the black sludge Brenda brews daily, the brand-new machine sadly hasn’t improved the quality of the coffee. It packs exactly the punch I need this morning because my head is all over the place.
What I found out last night was a shock to the system. It rattled me, changed my perspective on so many things I’d held on to as fact. It had been painful but simple; Nate was an asshole who abandoned me and I was the victim. After some time, I even convinced myself it was for the better, that I’d dodged a bullet. But as it turned out, it wasn’t that simple, was it?
Oddly enough, I don’t doubt the truth of what Nathan shared. In hindsight, it makes way more sense than what I chose to believe for so many years. It also explains Jeff Sanchuk’s violent response to seeing Nate.
I bolted last night, determined to confront him, but he wasn’t home. The rundown bungalow in an older section of town stayed dark, even after I spent a good amount of time ringing the bell and banging on the door. An elderly neighbor stepped out on her porch and informed me he’d left a few hours earlier on his motorcycle. I had no idea he rode a bike, but it explained why his truck was still parked in the driveway.
All that unresolved anger turned into frustration and between that and this damn case, I couldn’t get my head to stop spinning all night.
“Hey, Brenda,” I call out when she passes by my open door. “KC in yet?”
She stops and peers in.
“He’s come and gone. Off to check out the lodge and the two campgrounds up near Thunder Peak.”
I guess that means still no sign of the silver Lexus.
“Let him know I want to see him when he comes in, please?”
She gives me a thumbs-up before continuing on her way.
It would really be helpful if the Coeur d’Alene PD could spare an officer to follow up on David Trotter for me, because I’m afraid even if the man was here at some point, why would he be hanging around and risk being found? No, I would head home, get into my regular routine as quickly as possible. That is, if I had just violently murdered someone.
Still, the unanswered messages Jeremy left for this David bother me in that scenario. If he were home, wouldn’t he respond to those? Act like he’s devastated by the loss of a friend?
The longer I sit with this, the more I wonder if Trotter makes sense as the killer. Even if he turns out to be Franklin Wyatt’s secret lover, he doesn’t necessarily fit the picture of our killer. Like the medical examiner indicated, the attack appears to have been too controlled, too precise, to suggest the kind of passionate rage you’d expect from a lover.
