THE NEXT MORNING, GARY WAS STARTLED AWAKE BY THE DOORBELL. HE lifted his head off his pillow. He peeked out the window that looked onto their lawn, and saw Detective Whitley outside the front door, alone, wearing a blazer over a light blue button-up shirt tucked into a pair of jeans.
Gary’s grogginess disappeared in a flash.
The doorbell rang again. Beside him, Beth rustled awake.
“I’ll get it, Beth. Go back to sleep,” Gary said.
He threw on a shirt and jeans as he walked toward the front door. He thought back to last night, to how he’d hurriedly, haphazardly framed Rod for the murder of Devon Peterson. Had he made a mistake when he planted the murder weapon next to Rod? Any oversight or error? He didn’t know. Everything was such a blur.
He opened the door just as Whitley rang the doorbell a third time.
“Hi, Gary,” he said. The same steady, librarian-like tone. “Sorry for bothering you this early, but I need to talk with you.”
“About what?”
“A few things,” Whitley said. “No need to go to the station, though. Can I come in?”
Gary held open the front door and Whitley entered the house. They walked into the living room and sat down—Gary on the couch, Whitley in the recliner across from him.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” Whitley said. “We received a phone call late last night about gunshots at the Alpine Development, on the edge of town. After investigating, we found a dead body on the premises. I’m sorry to tell you this: the body was your brother, Rod.”
Gary inhaled a sharp, sudden breath and brought a hand to his mouth. “Rod?”
“I’m sure this is difficult to hear,” Whitley said. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand. He’s gone? What happened?”
“Gunshot. We’re still sorting out the details, but foul play seems to have been involved. He was murdered.”
“My God.” Gary stood up from the couch and walked to the floor-length window on the edge of the room. He stared out at the backyard for a moment, looking, he hoped, like a stunned, speechless man in the early stages of grief.
“I’m sure you want to be alone now,” Whitley said. “But there are a few questions I need to ask you about Rod. It’d help us out in the investigation.”
Gary turned away from the window and sat back down on the couch. He nodded.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Whitley asked.
“Last night.”
“Where? What time?”
“We were at the store. He left around ten o’clock.”
“Did he leave in his car or on foot?”
“He drove.”
“Do you know where he went when he left?”
“I assumed he headed home.”
“He didn’t. We found his pickup parked a few hundred feet away from the Alpine Development, concealed by some trees. And his wife hasn’t seen him since yesterday.”
Sarah. In the frantic, madcap rush of the past twelve hours, Gary hadn’t even thought about Sarah. She must be devastated. . . . But there was no time to think about her now.
Focus.
“You didn’t talk with Rod after he left the store?” Whitley asked. “No text messages or anything like that?”
“No.”
Whitley began tapping the end of his pen on the table in a steady, slow rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Your brother has a bit of a history with the law, correct?”
“He’s been arrested a few times. But never anything too serious.”
“I read over his record. Some tickets for public intoxication, bar fights that got out of control, possession of marijuana. Was he ever involved in anything bigger than that?”
“Meaning?”
“Something more than a nickel-and-dime offense.”
“Not that I know of.”
“Heavy drug usage? Something more than weed?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
“Reason I ask is, there had to be a reason your brother was out at a place like the Alpine Development late at night. Maybe he was selling drugs, buying them?”
Whitley went silent for a moment. The only sound in the room was the tap, tap, tapping of the pen against the table.
“There’s more,” he said. “We found a gun on Rod. Have you ever known your brother to own a handgun?”
“A gun? No. Never.”
“We did a test on it. Ballistics confirmed that the gun was used in Devon Peterson’s murder. I’m sure you remember: he was the cop I questioned you about.”
“What does that mean?”
“It would appear Rod had something to do with the murder,” Whitley said.
“Rod? No. No way.” Gary slowly shook his head. His outward expression was one of confusion, total disbelief. But inside, he felt like a prisoner glimpsing sunlight for the first time in years.
“Best guess is that Rod was dealing drugs, mixed up with some bad people. Maybe he was using his product instead of selling it, suddenly finds himself owing them some serious money. Somehow, Devon Peterson enters into the equation. Maybe he discovered the drug ring and was shaking them down, taking a cut of their profits—I already mentioned he wasn’t a saint. Drug dealers don’t like giving up a portion of their profits, so they tell Rod his debt to them is taken care of if he kills Devon for them. He does it. Now Rod’s a loose end, so they kill him to keep their secret a secret.”
“I don’t believe it. Not at all.”
“I’m sure it’s tough to hear,” Whitley said. “But the evidence supports it. It tells us why we found that hat from your store at the scene of Devon’s death—Rod probably grabbed it before heading out. He probably deleted the security footage of him taking it. It also explains why your car was in the area after Devon’s death. You mentioned that you keep a set of spare keys at your business—he probably snagged those so he could take a car that wasn’t his.”
Whitley had made every connection Gary had hoped he would. The pieces snapped into place like a perfectly constructed jigsaw puzzle.
“Rod was wild, immature,” Gary said. “He wasn’t a hardened criminal. Are you sure about this?”
“Right now, everything points to a drug deal gone bad. We’ll keep looking into it, of course, see if we learn anything to the contrary.”
Whitley stopped tapping the end of his pen on the table. He stood up from his chair.
“I hate being the bearer of bad news,” he said. “I truly hate it. Hardest part of my job, telling people that a loved one has died. You have my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“Call me if you think of anything that might help us,” Whitley said, setting a business card on the table. “Times that Rod acted differently, someone suspicious your brother hung out with, anything at all.”
“I will,” Gary said.
They walked back across the living room—Whitley leading, Gary following behind. Gary felt like he was stepping on eggshells, aware that just one slipup or mistake would bring everything down.
Whitley reached the front door. Before opening it, he turned back to Gary.
“I’m sorry for the mix-up earlier, when I brought you down to the station,” he said. “I looked at the facts and made an educated guess. I took a shot, figured I’d put the screws to you, see if you were hiding anything. Sometimes it works out. Sometimes it doesn’t. But I truly feel bad about how I questioned you earlier and bothered your neighbors and friends. I’m more than happy to speak to any of them, let them know it was just a big misunderstanding.”
“Don’t worry about it. You were only doing your job,” Gary said. He just wanted the detective out of his house, out of his life.
“And I’m sorry about your brother. It looks like he was tangled up with some bad people, in way over his head. You have my word: we’ll do everything we can to solve his murder.”
“Thank you,” Gary said.
• • •
“WHO WAS AT THE DOOR?” BETH ASKED, APPEARING IN THE KITCHEN MOMENTS after Whitley left.
Gary hesitated. He knew the news about Rod would crush Beth. She’d always found Rod so charming and endearing, had grown so close to him over the years.
“Something happened last night, Beth,” Gary said. “Something awful.”
“What is it?”
They sat down at the kitchen table and he told her everything. Everything that he could, at least.
She listened to the whole story in stunned silence. When he finished, she finally spoke. “I don’t believe it.”
“I had the same reaction,” Gary said.
“There has to be a mistake. Murder? Rod? No way.”
“The police are sure of it. The evidence they have is rock solid.”
“I thought you and Rod were together last night.”
“He left the store around ten. He said he had something to do. But, God, I had no idea it was . . . something like this.”
Beth blinked and a tear fell down her cheek. She grabbed a Kleenex from a box on the table and dabbed at her eyes. “I’ve known Rod almost as long as I’ve known you,” she said. “I can’t believe this; I don’t believe this. Rod was wild, but he wouldn’t have been involved in something this horrible. He’s not a killer.”
“I’m still in shock,” Gary said. “I don’t know how he could’ve kept something like this from everyone.”
Lies. More lies. That’s all the entire interaction was: just a series of lies, one right after another, right to Beth’s face.
She stood up and threw her Kleenex into the small trash basket next to the counter. As she did, she winced and brought one hand to her forehead.
“Beth?” Gary said.
Her eyes remained closed, her hand resting against her temple. Gary’s stomach tensed up.
“Beth, are you all right?”
Just as he was about to rush over to her, Beth opened her eyes. “I’m fine,” she said.
“You’re sure?” Gary said. For an instant, he’d really thought she was going to collapse again.
“I’m fine. I just . . . I can’t believe this.”
“We’ll get through this, Beth. We’ll get through everything.”
He feared that, too, was another lie.
• • •
THEY CRIED SOME MORE, GRIEVED TOGETHER. AFTER AN HOUR, THEY GOT IN the car and drove a few miles in silence, pulling to a stop in front of the white two-story house Gary and Rod grew up in, the house Sarah and Rod were making their own.
He and Beth exited the car and walked up the small cement pathway. When they reached the front door, Gary rang the bell. The same familiar chime he’d heard countless times during childhood rang out.
A moment later, Sarah opened the door. Gary barely recognized her. Her bloodshot eyes were puffy and swollen, but the rest of her face was sunken, gaunt, stretched thin against her cheekbones and jaw. Her short black hair was uncombed. She wore baggy sweatpants and an oversized white T-shirt that limply hung over her body like a tent.
Sarah wordlessly motioned for them to step inside.
Beth hugged her, and both women began crying softly as they held each other. Next, Sarah hugged Gary. He felt her icy hands close around his back.
Sarah pulled away and looked at them both. Gary waited for her to speak, but no words came.
“We’ve called a few times,” Beth said. “Did you get our voice mails?”
“My phone’s off,” Sarah said. Her voice was raspy; each word had jagged edges. “I haven’t looked at it in hours. I don’t feel like talking to anyone.”
“We’re here. You’re not going through this alone.”
“Alone, surrounded by friends—it doesn’t matter.”
They walked into the living room and sat down, Sarah and Beth next to each other on a couch, Gary a few feet away. A box of Kleenex rested in the middle of the coffee table between them. At least twenty wadded-up used tissues were scattered around the box.
“How did you find out?” Sarah asked.
“The police,” Gary said. “A detective visited earlier. Whitley.”
“He came by here, too,” she said. “When a police detective woke me at six in the morning, I knew something was wrong. But this . . . I never imagined something like this.”
Sarah grabbed a Kleenex from the box and blew her nose. She crumpled the tissue and threw it back onto the table.
“The detective said he thought it was a drug deal gone wrong,” she said. “Did he tell you that?”
“Yeah,” Gary said. “He did.”
“There’s no way. I told the detective, there’s no way at all. Drugs? There has to be a mistake, right?”
“I don’t know,” Gary said. “This whole thing . . . It’s just awful.”
Beth put an arm around Sarah. She grabbed a Kleenex with her other hand and gave it to Sarah. Sarah didn’t do anything with it. She held it in her hand and stared off into space, despondent.
“Don’t hold back because of us,” Beth said. “We’ll be a shoulder to cry on.”
“I’ve been crying nonstop for the past three hours,” Sarah said. “I don’t have any tears left.” She stood up and walked across the room. She looked out a window into the small yard behind the house.
“The gun,” she said. “Did they tell you about that? The gun they found on Rod?”
Gary nodded.
“That just doesn’t make any sense. A gun? Rod? Have you ever known him to own a gun?”
“No,” Gary said.
Sarah walked back to the couch and sat down.
“Drugs?” she said. “A gun? Telling me Rod murdered someone? I mean, this has to be a mistake.”
“That’s what I said,” Beth said.
Sarah opened her mouth to say something, but closed it without uttering a word. She slowly, weakly shook her head. Her body collapsed forward and she covered her face in her hands.
She’d been wrong earlier—she wasn’t out of tears. Face buried in her hands, she sobbed hysterically.