Chapter 4 - Twelve Miles Away
Travis read Lorraine’s message three times.
Then he took my phone from my hand and called her.
I grabbed his wrist.
“No.”
His eyes flashed.
“She just accused my father of being involved in Aaron’s death.”
“Exactly.”
“And you want me to ignore that?”
“I want you to think.”
“I am thinking.”
“No, you’re reacting.”
He looked at me.
For a second, I saw how close he was to losing control.
Then he lowered the phone.
Zia was in the next room.
That mattered.
It always had to matter.
Travis walked to the kitchen window.
Snow had started falling.
Small dry flakes slid across the glass.
“What if she’s telling the truth?”
I hated the question.
“About Walter?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know.”
“You heard Aaron’s note.”
“If a man named Walter contacts you, listen to him.”
“That sounds like Aaron trusted him.”
“Eventually.”
Travis turned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means we don’t know when that note was written.”
We looked at the music box.
The little bluebird on the lid suddenly felt like evidence instead of a childhood keepsake.
Travis called Andrew.
He answered immediately.
We told him about Lorraine’s messages.
He was silent for several seconds.
“Do not call her back.”
“That was already the plan,” I said.
“Did Harold’s file contain anything about Walter’s car?”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“Can you check?”
“Yes.”
“And Andrew?”
“Yes?”
“Who told Lorraine we went to your office?”
He exhaled.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
The blood in my veins seemed to slow.
“We told nobody.”
“Neither did I.”
“Does your office have staff?”
“Not today.”
“Security cameras?”
“Yes.”
“Check them.”
Travis looked toward the front window.
“Could Lorraine have followed us?”
“Possible.”
I thought of the photograph of her outside my apartment years earlier.
Watching.
Waiting.
Apparently, surveillance was not new to her.
Elena came into the kitchen.
“Whatever is happening, Zia can feel it.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course she could.
Seven-year-olds often noticed what adults thought they hid.
“I’ll go sit with her.”
Zia was curled on the couch beneath a blanket.
A Christmas movie played.
She wasn’t watching.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Did I make Grandma leave her house?”
There it was.
The question I had been afraid she would ask.
I sat beside her.
“No.”
“But I gave her the box.”
“You gave her a message Dad had already written.”
“She screamed because of me.”
“No.”
I turned off the television.
“She screamed because she didn’t like a consequence.”
Zia frowned.
“What’s a consequence?”
“It’s what happens after a choice.”
“Like when I don’t put my bike away and it gets wet?”
“Exactly.”
She thought about that.
“Grandma didn’t put me away.”
My heart cracked.
“No.”
“She just didn’t want me there.”
“Zia.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, sweetheart.”
I touched her cheek.
“It isn’t.”
She looked at me.
“Dad says people can love you badly.”
I smiled sadly.
“He said that?”
“Last night.”
“That sounds like Dad.”
“Does Grandma love me badly?”
I could have lied.
Instead, I chose something softer and more honest.
“I think Grandma has not learned how to love you the way you deserve.”
“Will she learn?”
“I don’t know.”
Zia leaned against me.
“Can I decide later?”
“About seeing her?”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
“When I’m bigger?”
“Yes.”
“Even if Dad is sad?”
“Yes.”
That answer mattered.
Zia’s choice could not become another burden disguised as empowerment.
No seven-year-old should believe the emotional survival of adults depended on her forgiveness.
She closed her eyes.
“I want grilled cheese again.”
I laughed.
“You had grilled cheese two hours ago.”
“I know.”
“Excellent argument.”
When I returned to the kitchen, Travis was listening to a voicemail from Andrew.
He put it on speaker.
“I found something in Harold’s storage index.”
Andrew’s voice sounded strained.
“Walter’s Buick was impounded the morning Aaron died.”
Travis gripped the counter.
“Why?”
“Abandoned vehicle.”
“Where?”
“County Road 14.”
I knew the road.
Twelve miles from the crash site.
“What time?” I asked.
“Police logged it at 5:41 a.m.”
Aaron’s crash had been estimated between 4:50 and 5:10.
“Was Walter there?”
“No.”
“Then where was he?”
“I don’t know.”
Travis stared at the floor.
“Dad told us he was at home that night.”
Andrew continued.
“There is something else.”
Of course there was.
“The impound report says the driver’s-side airbag had deployed.”
My skin prickled.
“Was the car damaged?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Front-right collision damage.”
Travis looked at me.
Aaron’s crash involved a delivery truck.
At least that was the story.
“Could Walter’s car have hit Aaron?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it tested?”
“I haven’t found any record.”
“Why not?”
“Because nobody connected it to Aaron’s accident.”
Travis laughed once.
A terrible sound.
“Twelve miles away?”
“Different jurisdiction.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“It happens.”
“Not when somebody is dead.”
Andrew’s voice softened.
“I’m not defending it.”
He told us he had requested archived police records.
Then he added something I did not expect.
“My father had a handwritten note attached to the impound report.”
“What did it say?”
“Walter lied to police.”
Travis closed his eyes.
I reached for his hand.
He pulled away.
Not from me.
From everything.
“I need to know what my father did.”
“We will.”
“Maya, if he caused Aaron’s death—”
“We do not know that.”
“If he did, then you married into the family that killed your husband.”
His voice cracked on the final word.
I stepped closer.
“And if he tried to protect Aaron?”
Travis looked at me.
“Then why lie?”
“I don’t know.”
We spent the next several hours reviewing the USB drive.
Aaron had been methodical.
He documented dates.
License plates.
Payments.
Names.
One recurring name appeared beside Victor Hale.
Celia Grant.
I searched my memory.
Nothing.
Travis recognized it.
“She worked for Mom.”
“What?”
“House manager.”
“When?”
“When I was in college.”
We found photographs of Celia carrying boxes from Hawthorne House.
Another showed her meeting Victor.
An audio file contained Aaron asking someone about her.
A man answered.
“Grant keeps Lorraine’s schedule.”
Aaron said, “Then Lorraine knows.”
The man replied, “Maybe.”
Then the recording ended.
Everything Aaron saved seemed to point toward Lorraine.
Yet Walter’s voice insisted Victor controlled her.
Controlled her with a photograph.
The contradiction bothered me.
Around five, Andrew called again.
This time he had news.
“I found retired Sergeant Nolan Price.”
“Who is that?”
“He responded to Walter’s abandoned Buick.”
Travis sat down.
“And?”
“He remembers the car.”
“After six years?”
“He remembered because of the blood.”
I felt sick.
“What blood?”
“On the passenger seat.”
Travis’s face went blank.
“Whose?”
“They never tested it.”
“Why?”
“Walter claimed he had cut his hand earlier.”
“Walter was there?”
“No.”
“He called the station later.”
Andrew paused.
“He said the vehicle had been stolen.”
Travis stood.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Dad never reported a stolen car.”
“He did that morning.”
“Did police believe him?”
“Apparently enough to release it after the impound paperwork.”
“What about the crash damage?”
“Walter said whoever took the car must have hit something.”
Travis paced.
“This is insane.”
I asked the question he was avoiding.
“Where was Lorraine that night?”
Andrew did not answer immediately.
“According to Harold’s notes, she was at Hawthorne House.”
“With Walter?”
“That was her statement.”
“But Walter’s car was missing.”
“Yes.”
“And Walter lied about it.”
“Yes.”
I looked at Travis.
“Someone used his car.”
“Maybe Dad.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe Mom.”
“Maybe.”
That possibility sat between us.
Then Andrew said, “There’s one more thing.”
I almost laughed from exhaustion.
“What now?”
“Sergeant Price kept personal notebooks.”
“Why?”
“He was old-school.”
“He wrote details from unusual calls.”
“What detail?”
Andrew took a breath.
“He wrote that when Walter came to retrieve the Buick later that morning, there was a gold scarf in the back seat.”
Travis frowned.
“So?”
I knew.
I had seen Lorraine wear gold scarves in dozens of old family photographs.
At church.
At luncheons.
At Christmas.
Then Travis remembered too.
His face changed.
“Mom had a gold silk scarf Dad gave her.”
I swallowed.
“Could have been anybody’s.”
“Yes.”
“But it was in Walter’s damaged car.”
“Yes.”
“And blood was on the passenger seat.”
“Yes.”
We stared at each other.
At 5:52, our doorbell rang.
Travis checked the camera.
Lorraine stood on the porch.
No coat.
Snow collecting in her hair.
She held something in both hands.
A brown envelope.
Travis did not open the door.
He spoke through the camera.
“Leave.”
Lorraine looked directly into the lens.
“You need to see this.”
“No.”
“Maya needs to see it.”
I moved beside him.
“What is it?”
Lorraine’s voice came through the speaker.
“The photograph Victor used against me.”
Travis went still.
“I thought that photo was the reason you stole money.”
“That is not what happened.”
“Then explain it through the door.”
Lorraine looked over her shoulder.
She seemed frightened.
Actually frightened.
Then she held the envelope up.
“The photograph shows Walter standing beside Aaron’s car.”
My knees weakened.
“When?”
“The night he died.”
Travis unlocked the deadbolt before I could stop him.
The door opened.
Lorraine stepped inside.
She looked smaller without the dining room, the chandelier, and the audience.
Travis held out his hand.
“The photograph.”
She gave him the envelope.
Inside was a grainy image.
Night.
A gas station.
Aaron’s dark sedan near the pumps.
Walter standing beside the driver’s door.
And Lorraine several feet away.
I stared at her.
“You were there.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Aaron.”
“Yes.”
“You knew me.”
“No.”
“You were outside my apartment.”
“Yes.”
“You knew where my daughter lived.”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t tell me you didn’t know me.”
Her eyes filled.
“I knew Aaron had a wife and a little girl.”
I stepped toward her.
“Why were you watching us?”
“Because Victor told me to.”
My skin went cold.
“And you did what Victor told you?”
“He had my sister.”
The words made no sense.
“What?”
Lorraine’s mouth trembled.
“Victor Hale had been blackmailing me for eleven years.”
Travis stared at her.
“With what?”
Lorraine looked at the photograph in his hand.
“Not with what.”
She swallowed.
“With who.”
Then she said the name that turned the entire story inside out.
“Naomi Brooks was not a caseworker.”
May you like
Lorraine looked at Travis.
“She was my daughter.”
