Dead Air
Season 1, Episode 8

The End
Gwenda Bond

1.

No one recognizes me or stops me to say hello as I walk along the sidewalk on my way to talk with Officer Matthews about a certain sleazy, chain-smoking ex-detective. It’s a risk, but she’s my only source at the department—and what can happen in broad daylight in the police station? Ryan and I agreed it made the most sense as a next step.

Normally I wouldn’t even think about being recognized, but after the last episode of the podcast I feel visible at all times. Not that anyone necessarily knows what I look like, but still. I had to turn off notifications for my name and lock down all my personal accounts, just in case, because the news that the Order of St. Franklin faked Dick’s alibi basically broke the Internet. Or at least my murder-obsessed corner of it.

There’s still the question of why they needed to lie. Some people are certain Dick killed Peg or Dick and the Order did. For all we know he was out with his mistress. I believe he’s guilty, but the only things we can say for certain are that the Order agreed to cover for Dick and if they covered up for his dad, then his grandfather—and Len Brockman—must know the details of exactly what happened.

The photo of the dinner party guests showing up in the police files after I questioned Dick’s alibi in my podcast is now fishy as hell, and Brockman’s statements about the follow-up weren’t convincing. According to Ryan, it was his grandfather’s suggestion to keep Dick and Skyler away in Mexico for a few more days “until the attention blows over.”

We’re both in agreement that there’s no way Dick could mastermind a cover-up this complicated and long-running. Richard Carlisle is our man on that front. But we need to gather a little more information before we go traipsing in to see the family patriarch and demand our answers.

But if all goes to plan, that’s where we’re headed. While I’m at the police station, Ryan’s off on an assignment of his own, digging into the family business to see if his dad or grandfather have been paying Len Brockman, for what, and for how long. Ryan seems to be taking things well, though I can tell he’s hurting, but he insists he wants to see this through.

Meanwhile, my inbox overflows with gruesomely specific death threats, of course. I’m not sleeping so well. Despite increased media attention, the Eddyville police insist Brandon McDonal really did commit suicide. The Carlisle family attorney was finally forced to give a short, snippy quote to the local newspaper, saying that Dick Carlisle continues to grieve for his wife and any suggestion that he could be involved in her death is muckraking of the worst sort. In essence, they’re maintaining that it’s a closed case, so case closed.

You can imagine how that went over with Reddit. (FUKU: Bullshit! the husband did it!!!!!!)

Ryan wasn’t surprised to hear his grandfather had paid a visit to my mother, but he’s said nothing about me or the case to Ryan. Ryan’s just been cautioned to be careful who he associates with during this period of renewed attention. Funny, that. Given they don’t mind him hanging out with a secret society that keeps a book of secrets, aka mostly crimes, petty and otherwise.

Busting the alibi was enough for the podcast; I didn’t mention Brockman’s potential involvement. One, I don’t want him to know we’re onto him yet. And, two, to discuss the whole of why I find him so shady, I’d also have to discuss Delilah. She was sniffing around in the Order’s business, and it’s becoming pretty clear who’d have been on cleanup duty. But I’m not ready to air my growing suspicion about his connection to her death in public.

My mom has listened to every episode now, according to Dad, anyway—she’s still not quite talking to me. He threw in that my aunt has tuned in, too, which makes me feel like I must tread carefully where my cousin’s death is concerned. I know it’s a double standard to protect my family and no one else’s, but I have to. Mostly. Because if Len Brockman was involved in Delilah’s overdose, then what’s to keep him from coming after me?

I push open the glass door to enter the police station, a shockingly familiar action these days. Officer Matthews gets up as soon as she sees me. I called ahead to make sure she’d be around this morning.

“I reserved us a conference room,” she says. “Come on back.”

The lift of her eyebrows and the eagerness tells me she’s curious. I suspect she’s not going to appreciate my line of inquiry, however. The thin blue line they view as a barrier between order and chaos can form an impenetrable wall of protection for even the dirtiest of cops.

I’m giving Matthews the tiniest benefit of the doubt, but only because she’s the best resource I’ve got for this.

The room she leads me to has plain beige walls, ugly brown carpet, and a lingering odor of spilled coffee. She leaves the door open.

We sit down at the table and she assesses me. “So, Macy, how are you doing? I see some dark circles.”

She’s definitely in the right line of work. “I take it you’re caught up on the podcast.”

“And the local news.” Her expression is careful, neutral. “Well? How are you?”

“Good and bad,” I say. “I wish some things hadn’t happened.” I can’t just come out and tell her how guilty I still feel about Brandon’s death. “But we’re on the right track. Dick Carlisle’s alibi was trash, which means there was a reason to cover something up.”

“We are making some inquiries, but something allegedly written in a secret book is not hard evidence. Even if we can confirm the alibi was faked, we still need to determine the reason.” She purses her lips. “So far we haven’t even been able to confirm this ‘book of secrets’ exists.”

I almost remind her I have photos, but then understand it’d be easy to discount them. To claim I faked them. Her words make me think the cops aren’t looking too hard at my hard-won evidence.

“Lots of people are watching to see what you do,” is all I say.

She nods but doesn’t comment on that. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Officers walk past the conference room door, not sparing a look for who’s in here. But it makes me wonder if I should have tried to get her to meet me for coffee, in a neutral place. Too late for that.

I launch full speed ahead. “We found out something else that I didn’t include in the podcast yet, and that’s why I’m here. Why I needed to talk to you. There’s a connection between someone involved with the original investigation and my cousin. And the Order. And we may have confirmation soon that he’s financially connected to the Carlisles.”

“Who?”

Again, her expression gives me nothing to go on. It’s as bland as this conference room.

“Len Brockman, the lead—”

“The lead on the Graham-Carlisle murder,” she says, shaking her head. “I heard your interview with him. Are you sure this isn’t someone you want to believe bad things about because he was rude to you?”

I stiffen. I don’t like the implication, even though it’s a fair enough question. “I find it interesting you asked me that instead of about the connection we’ve turned up.”

Officer Matthews raises her hand. “Don’t go looking for conspiracy,” she says, “not with me.”

“Too late,” I say, and even I’m not sure whether it’s a joke or not. “Obviously there was a conspiracy to hide information about Dick Carlisle’s alibi.”

She sniffs. “And you think the police were involved.”

“How difficult would it have been to slip something new—like a doctored photo—into those files you gave me? To have police cars stake out my apartment to keep an eye on me?”

I let the statement sit there. The air feels heavy, and I wonder if it was a colossally stupid idea to come here. She is a cop, after all.

At last she leans forward, putting her elbows on the table.

“I don’t like your implication.” She shakes her head again. “Look, you can do some of this research on your own. The police department is better now, but there are always going to be bad apples. Sometimes rotten ones. There have been problems in the past.”

Her reaction could have been worse. I proceed, but with caution. “What kind of problems?”

“The usual. Police trying to serve themselves instead of the public. Some overuse of force, lost evidence, sloppy conduct . . .”

I’m almost encouraged. “What about Brockman?”

She sits back. “I never worked with him, but there are rumors. And he’s still friendly with some of the guys. I’d be extremely careful, Macy.”

“Is there anything I could request here? A record of the kind of problems you mentioned?”

“I’m not sure I’d suggest it if there was, and I don’t know. I doubt it.” She pauses. “You’d be safer searching old newspapers to see if there’s anything in the public record.”

I nod. “The librarians do love me.”

“I bet they do. Is that all?”

“For now.”

I stand to go, and she does the same. She opens the door for me, then hesitates. “Macy, it wasn’t your fault what happened with McDonal, and his death doesn’t prove his innocence. But be careful with Brockman—he’s a free man and he could make your life difficult, even if he isn’t involved the way you think.”

Another cop turns the hallway corner and I suddenly feel the need to get out of here. “You’re sweet to care,” I say as lightly as I can manage.

She gives me a half-smile. “I know.”

• • •

My next stop is to compare notes with Ryan. I text him to meet me at the library, figuring I can do some work on Brockman while I wait. Then I take up my regular station at one of the research computers with all the news databases in the Kentucky Room. The back issues are in here, too, if I need to pull a hard copy.

I get luckier on stories about alleged police corruption and tense moments in the city’s history than I do on anything specifically to do with Brockman. His name pops up a fair amount—but only in relation to the Graham murder and other cases. The only moderately interesting thing I find about him is a story in which he and a defense attorney got into a heated courtroom exchange that led to some salty comments from the judge. The attorney claimed Brockman had buried exculpatory evidence. The perp went to jail anyway.

But . . . I have to admit that aside from that one story, what I find in the public record indicates a slightly standoffish professional. It’s not like everything this guy has done has been terrible. There’s no flashing light saying CORRUPT.

Which is somehow comforting and troubling at the same time. I expected him to be grimy with dirt, rotten to the core. Instead, he’s smudged at best—unless Officer Matthews turns up something the police kept discreet. Maybe she wasn’t entirely wrong that my personal encounter with him is a big part of my evidence against him. Confirmation bias is something we talk about frequently in class. I make a mental note to be more aware of that going forward.

Hands drop onto each of my shoulders and give them a light knead that feels heavenly. I’m assuming it’s not the librarian, but I don’t even care; my neck muscles are so tight. After a second or two, I drop my head back and look up into Ryan’s blue eyes.

“Hey,” he says. “You looked tense. You know it’s bad for you to hunch over your keyboard.”

“Hey,” I say back. “Now shut up and keep rubbing my shoulders.”

I close my eyes and he does. Briefly. Things are good between us since the other night, despite how hard the new turn in the investigation has been for Ryan.

“Police corruption? Anything interesting?” he asks, obviously reading over my tight shoulders.

“Yes, but not interesting enough,” I say. “Brockman is publicly clean. What about you? Any luck?”

“I’m afraid so.” His voice is serious.

I sit up straight and then start to gather my things. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

The very nice librarian who runs the Kentucky Room is giving us the “don’t make me shoo you guys out” look and I nod to him.

“I’m starving,” he says, keeping his voice down. “And I bet you skipped lunch?”

“Is that why I feel vaguely murderous except when you’re rubbing my shoulders?” I grab my bag. “Yes, food would be good. Unless you’d rather talk in private.”

He shrugs. “Lexington Diner?”

“Ooh, cheese grits. Yes, please.”

Ryan slips my hand in his. “Although you may wish you could get a drink after you hear what I found out.”

“That bad?”

Ryan shrugs a shoulder. “Or good, I guess, for finding out the truth.”

“I know this isn’t easy for you.” I keep my voice down as I tug him to the elevator.

“But it’s important,” he says. He drops a soft kiss on the side of my lips.

He’s adorable. And hot. Adorably hot.

I am in deep. Over-my-head deep.

The diner is close enough to walk to, but I can’t wait until we get there. The second we’re outside, I say: “Okay, spill it.”

“I went to lunch at my grandfather’s house,” Ryan says as we start up the busy street. No one bats an eye at the two of us together. I am grateful Lexington isn’t that small a city. “He still takes care of most of the business, though that’s supposed to change soon. When I take it over . . . I already have a desk in the office there.”

“And you successfully snooped?”

“I successfully snooped.” He stops and pulls me into a small patch of green by the sidewalk and I see he’s still worried about whatever went down this morning. “But he caught me.”

I grab his arm. “Oh my god! What happened?”

Ryan says, “I think I covered. I was going through the ledger of payments—yes, he keeps an actual ledger—looking for Brockman’s name. And I found it.”

I can see from his grim expression that this news doesn’t exonerate his grandfather of any real connection with Brockman. “How much?”

“Several thousand, recurring. As far back as I looked.”

My heart thumps so hard in my chest, I feel embarrassed about it. “Did it say what for?”

“Security consulting.”

“That would cover a multitude of sins.”

Ryan nods in agreement. “So I’m taking a photo with my phone when Grandfather comes in and demands to know what I’m doing. I had to come up with something—so I told him that the security guy did me a solid at my induction and I just wanted to thank him, but I couldn’t quite remember his name. I knew I’d recognize it if I saw it. ‘Why not just ask me?’ he says, and I pretend and stammer and finally tell him that I didn’t want him to think I’m turning into Dad, that I hooked up with a caterer.”

I can’t keep from smiling. “Well, you did.”

“The best lies are close to the truth, right?” he says.

“And he bought it?” I can only imagine how tense Ryan must have been in that moment.

“Pretty sure he did. I got a lecture about not turning into my dad. And a weird comment about how he’s glad I’m moving on from ‘that other girl’ I’ve been bringing around.”

I wrinkle my nose.

“I know, sorry,” he says, like he’s the one who should apologize. “After all that I ask him, ‘So who is that guy? He works for us, right?’ And Grandfather says he’s the kind of person every business needs on the payroll, someone who is good at fixing whatever needs fixed and doing whatever needs done, quickly and quietly. I need to know this kind of thing since I’ll be taking over soon, et cetera.”

“Slick,” I say, blinking. “So Brockman’s definitely in this.”

“And my grandfather must have all our answers.” Ryan starts walking again.

Once we’re settled and we’ve ordered in the cute little diner, I reach out for his hands. “I can go to your grandfather alone. You don’t have to be part of it.”

He slides his hands into mine. “No, I . . .” he starts, then goes quiet. After a moment, he goes on. “When we first started this, I probably would have said yes. But I need to know. And I need to be willing to stand up to him. I don’t think he’ll lie to me.”

“But he would definitely try to lie to me.” Ryan’s honesty makes me feel the need to come just as clean with him. “So, there’s something else I’ve been thinking that I haven’t told you. About Delilah.”

“What is it?” Ryan asks, frowning.

“I told you she was looking into the Order before she died. There’s nothing in her notes about him but . . . what if Brockman had something to do with her death?”

“If he runs security . . . you think he caught her nosing around or something?” Ryan says.

“Maybe,” I say. “I interviewed an ex of Travis’s who has a drug habit, and she raised some good questions about the likelihood that Delilah would’ve been shooting up.”

“I’ve never seen anyone doing that, or heard about it, in our scene.”

“That’s what she said, basically.” I take Ryan’s hand again. “Before we talk to your grandfather, I want to interview the dealer Delilah got her stuff from. Or at least the person who’d have supplied the people she partied with—I’m guessing that’s who she got it from. The heroin that killed her was laced with fentanyl. I want to know if that means something to him—if it doesn’t, then I really think Brockman may be involved in more than just covering up your mother’s death.”

Ryan sits with it for a second. “Whatever you need,” he says.

Relief floods me. “Sloane got me an intro with him. Will you come with me?” What I’m really asking is: Will you help me find out what happened to my cousin?

“You couldn’t stop me if you wanted to.” Ryan shakes his head. “No way I’m letting you go talk to a heroin dealer on your own. Where does he live?”

I don’t say that I doubt either of us will be of much use if it goes south, but I’m glad of the company. “He’ll see us tomorrow at five thirty. His name is Max and he lives in a gated community.”

Ryan blinks and shakes his head again, releasing my hands as our food comes. “I’m learning so many things I never wanted to know.”

“Right?” I say.

 

 

 

2.

I have a shift at the bar I hope will end early, but I end up working until close and then past, helping clean up after an epic mess of an evening. The college crowd is spill-prone enough, but tonight was like a double-dog dare during a norovirus outbreak on a cruise ship. It takes three of us to put things to rights so that the first shift tomorrow isn’t starting a half hour behind.

“We’re saints,” I joke, saluting my coworkers as we part ways and get in our cars in the employee spots behind the Winner’s Circle. There’s a slight chill tonight, the bipolar Kentucky weather swinging back to flirt with frost when it should be definitively spring.

All night I’ve been puzzling over whether Brockman’s security is of the formal or informal variety—we know he works secret society functions, but what else does he do? Or “fix”? The way Ryan’s grandfather phrased his usefulness makes the hairs on my arms lift.

The city is quiet this late, and I’m one of just a few cars on the road at almost three in the morning. I can practically feel the cool welcome of the fresh bedsheets I put on this morning beckoning me home, and I have no doubt I’ll sleep like the dead tonight, even with all the Peg Graham murder suspects staring at me from the walls.

Flashing lights flare behind me—blue and red, red and blue—and sirens blare. I slow down and pull off to the side to let the police cars pass. There are two cruisers; you almost never see cops solo here. My reading in the newspaper that morning had informed me this is a semi-controversial practice of never having units respond alone. On the one hand, it’s a check against abuse and provides extra police witnesses. But the critics say it’s a potentially inefficient use of limited resources and often looks like an immediate over-escalation, which can lead to . . . an immediate over-escalation.

I’m startled to realize that while the red and blue flashing lights are gone, headlights are still on behind me. A police officer gets out of the closest cruiser and approaches my car door. His partner’s coming, too.

They’re pulling me over. How weird. But I decide not to panic. It’s not fair that it matters, but I’m a white girl in a Toyota, and while I may smell like stale beer, I can pass a Breathalyzer and go on my way. I wasn’t driving recklessly or doing anything except trying to get home to bed.

I put my hands on the steering wheel, the way I’ve always heard you’re supposed to.

The cop knocks on the window, and motions for me to lower it.

And that’s when I recognize him from the police car that’s been hanging out on my street.

The clipped hair, the strong jaw. He was behind the wheel and drove away fast when I approached.

Is this Brockman’s work? Matthews’s? The Order’s? Whatever the case, I can barely breathe.

The officer motions for me to lower the window again. Hands shaking, I crank it down.

“Um, yes, sir?”

Another officer is behind him now. They wear the same uniforms as Officer Matthews.

Then I see two more cops joining the party. Those two are circling my car, and one of them has a German shepherd.

“Was I doing something wrong?” I ask, placing my palms carefully back on the wheel. I know that I wasn’t and now I’ve given them an opening. My digital recorder is in my bag and my hands itch to grab it and turn it on.

“We received a report that you were driving erratically. That you maybe have drugs in your possession,” the officer at the window says, and then he adds, “Mackenzie Walker.”

My breath hitches. Everything about this is a threat.

“I wasn’t,” I protest, even though I know I should stay quiet.

I half register sweat running down my temple. I might as well be having an out-of-body experience. I don’t know how to handle this, how in the world to get out of this situation.

The cop must see my panic-sweat thoughts on my face. “Driving away or resisting us would be a mistake,” he says.

“Would it?” I ask without meaning to. Shut up, Macy. Shut. Up.

The dog lets out a yip and the officer raises an eyebrow. “That’s probable cause for a search right there.”

“I don’t have any drugs.” I pull on my inner Mackenzie. Yes, I’m afraid and he knows it, but I refuse to be reduced to begging. Not yet. I have nothing to lose except everything, so I may as well fight back. “Shouldn’t you be asking for my license and registration?”

“We already looked you up from your plates, Ms. Walker,” he says. “Step out of the vehicle.”

“I’m just going home from work,” I say. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“That’s not what we’ve heard,” he says. “Step out of the car.”

I reach over and grab the recorder, hoping I hit the right button to turn it on.

“What do you have there?” he asks.

“I have the right to record this stop,” I say, opening the door.

“Put that back on the seat, and step out of the vehicle.”

I could argue, but I don’t. Feeling completely powerless, I drop the recorder and step out into the cold air.

The other cops are observing all this. The one with the dog is standing at the back of the car. “Open the trunk,” he says.

Are they planning to plant drugs there and then have the dog find it? Leak it to the press and ruin my reputation in the process? I imagine my mom’s voice when I call from jail.

“Okay,” I say. But as I stand before the trunk, I pause. “Do I have the right to refuse this search?”

“You have the right to do what we say,” one of them says. “Now open the trunk.”

I want to scream or laugh or cry or run. Mostly run. “I want to call an attorney.”

“Settle down, Ms. Walker,” the lead officer says. “Just open the trunk.”

He sounds irritated. I wish I’d put my recorder in my pocket and turned it on when I pulled over.

My hands tremble as I fit the key in the trunk’s lock and it pops open. Inside there’s a pair of running shoes I’ve been looking for in my closet for weeks. A spare microphone for my digital recorder. A jack for changing tires.

One of the police officers shines his flashlight at me. When he removes the light, I see spots.

“Imagine if we find a little baggie of something hidden in here. We have instant tests now that allow us to determine if you’re in possession of drugs right on the spot. The thing is, they’re prone to throw up false positives. But that can take some time to clear up.”

What is he saying? That they could throw me in jail without even bothering to plant actual drugs? Just some substance that looks like drugs?

“What about dashboard cameras?” What is wrong with me? Why would I ask that?

The cop with the flashlight answers, “See how our flashing lights are off? That means the cameras are, too.”

Oh god.

Officer Strong Jaw studies me, and my eyes have recovered from the flashlight enough to focus on his badge. I memorize the number. In case it matters. In case I need to fight some phony charge.

Flashlight guy moves forward and flicks his light around the inside of the trunk.

“Looks like she’s clean,” he says, but not before shining that flashlight in my eyes again. “Tonight, at least.”

I blink and Officer Strong Jaw smiles at me, cold. “You can go on your way, just . . . be more careful, Mackenzie. Watch how you’re driving, especially this late at night. There’s a lot of trouble that finds people at this hour.”

I nod, unable to speak. I get in the car and take a few deep breaths before I realize they’re still back there, waiting for me to pull out. That they’re not leaving until I do.

I wonder if they’ll follow me all the way home.

My hands are still shaking.

I lock the doors, and then text Kara: You up? Unlock the door for me.

I don’t want it to take even ten more seconds than necessary to get inside my apartment.

Only after that do I put the car in gear. I hear the buzz of her reply and relief floods me at the reminder that the outside world exists. I continue to sweat, one eye on the lights in the mirror behind me, until the cops turn off and I’m alone on the road. When I get to the apartment complex, I run inside from the car.

Kara meets me, getting up off the couch. “Macy, what is it? You never want the door open.”

I peek out the blinds, but at least they aren’t parked on the street again. “I just got harassed by the cops. They threatened me.”

To my great relief, Kara doesn’t say, “I told you so.” She says, “Oh my god. This is getting way too intense.”

Part of me thinks she might be right.

“I’ll be okay,” I say, not convincing either of us, and go into my room.

I call up Facebook Live and start streaming video of myself. Dead Air’s first live show and my first time off the airwaves and in the spotlight. “This is Mackenzie, and it’s not the midnight hour; it’s way past it. I was just pulled over and harassed by four police officers and a drug dog. Is it because of the Order of St. Franklin? Because I busted Dick Carlisle’s alibi? Are the police mad I’m onto their cover-up? I don’t know, but it scared the shit out of me. Two cruisers pulled me over, turned their lights off afterward—which apparently kills their dash cams—and I don’t know what to think about it so I’m telling all of you . . . so someone knows.

“So you all know.” I recount what happened and then sign off, slightly calmer after having processed it. “This is your rattled correspondent, off tomorrow to keep checking out new leads. In the meantime, until the next episode, let’s do our best to keep breathing.”

I hit the button to end the feed and a dialogue pops up asking if I want to keep it. I do.

The only protection I have left is everyone knowing what happened. I’m running out of time to do anything the quiet way.

 

 

 

3.

Ryan volunteers to drive to the Island, one of the oldest and most pretentiously named gated communities in Lexington. It’s only an island if you consider New Circle Road a body of water, and it’s not far from campus. Mom and Dad used to take me there as a kid sometimes, when we rode bikes together. We took a special delight in pedaling past the guard shack and over the causeway, crossing the manmade lake surrounding the ooh-la-la big houses.

I can’t quite shake my fear from the night before. Obviously. I ask Ryan to pick me up because I’m a little afraid to get in my car. The Lexington Police Department popped up on my caller ID this morning and Officer Matthews left me a message to call her—I decided not to. I can’t trust anyone there right now, certainly not the last person I talked to about Brockman. After Brandon’s death, I’m being more careful. Instead, I put on more makeup than normal for some fake confidence; I’m determined to put on my best Mackenzie front.

Ryan says it wasn’t the Order who had the cops shake me down, at least as far as he can tell by putting out a few feelers to his buddies.

The GPS prompts us into the driveway of a red brick McMansion with picture windows. “Are you ready for this?” Ryan asks as he parks and turns off the truck.

I shift in my seat to face him. “Are you?”

“Not in the slightest.” He pauses. “I hate that I know people who do this stuff—I hate that your cousin got sucked into it.”

“I’m not sure how deep in she was,” I say. “It may have been a convenient way to get rid of her.”

Ryan doesn’t speak, but I can tell he has something he wants to say by the steady stare he gives me.

I glance over at the house to see the front door open and a well-dressed guy in his thirties standing there waiting for us.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Do you really want to know?” He’s hesitant.

“Have you met me?”

He considers, then says, “She was into it, Mace. At least a little.”

I remember my mom’s comment about her grades. And I want to ask him a million questions about what he saw Delilah doing and when and with who. But I let it go for now.

“Okay, good to know,” I say. “Well, not good, but you know what I mean.”

“I do.” He sounds apologetic. “I just thought you should have all the facts.”

“Let’s go get them. He’s waiting.”

Ryan follows my gaze to the door. “Wow, courteous. Or eager.”

We get out and walk up an impeccably maintained stone path in a yard like a lawn service ad. It’s one of those perfect green postage stamps, every blade the same length, no dandelions. I’ll never understand how they manage that. Growing up, our yard had fresh dandelions the next day, no matter how hard Dad fought them.

Max the friendly neighborhood drug dealer opens a glass outer door to meet us on the porch.

“Hello there,” he says, beaming at me. He’s got longish brown hair, and his eyes and skin are clear. Not using his own product, or not often, from what I can see.

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I am freaking out right now. The Mackenzie Walker! I’m a huge fan. I’ve been listening since your first broadcast.”

“Really?” I’m flattered, though I don’t want to be, and . . . also concerned about my fan base. Especially since I’m here to see if this guy sold my cousin the poison that killed her.

“I did a DJ stint at ‘the only alternative left,’ too,” he says. That’s how the radio station brands itself. “Still have it on at night a lot, so just happened to be listening that first night. I was in.”

“Oh. Well, um, thanks, I guess.”

“Sorry,” Max says, smoothly transitioning. “You’re not here for me to fanboy all over you. Come on in! Am I part of your investigation? Or this, I mean? Is this part of it?”

He sounds excited by the prospect.

Ryan has taken everything in without a word, but he’s obviously making mental notes all over the place. He stops for a second to look Max up and down as we go in.

“Do I know you?” Max asks him.

“No, you don’t,” Ryan says. “And you don’t need to.”

“Ooh, so you’re the muscle.” Max raises his eyebrows at me. “I was going to offer to smoke you guys out, but now I’m thinking maybe not?”

“No, thanks,” I say.

We enter a home that’s sickeningly nice and clearly expensive. The front room has the air of a formal parlor, and other than a faint smell of weed, I’d never peg this as a drug dealer’s home. Max leads us to a living room with comfy leather couches opposite a huge aquarium filled with enough coral and tropical fish that I have to remind myself I’m not here for a tour, in order to keep from asking about it.

Ryan puts his hand on my leg when we sit, then removes it, seeming to remember we’re here on official business.

“What can I do for the famous Mackenzie Walker?” Max asks, taking a spot in a chair beside the couch.

“We’re looking into a matter that’s tangential to the investigation.” I exchange a look with Ryan before focusing on Max. “I need to ask you to keep the topic of our visit quiet. It’s sensitive. Can you do that?”

Max shrugs. “You could say it’s my stock-in-trade.”

Fair enough.

“All right,” I say, “and just remember, I know about your business. I don’t intend to do anything with that information. But that could change.”

Ryan tenses beside me in a “don’t threaten the drug dealer” way, but I don’t care.

Max takes my meaning and nods. There’s a fresh respect there. “I see how it is . . . I don’t have all afternoon, so let’s get to it,” he says.

I briefly consider asking to record this, but I know I’ll never use the tape, given the topic. I wade right into the deep end. “You know I’ve met Sloane. She raised some questions for me about the death of Delilah Jones. I don’t know if you remember Delilah or even knew her, but—”

“Delilah,” he says. “Of course I remember her. I never forget a face. And she was memorable. I was really sad to hear about her.”

Yeah, I can tell how broken up you were by your absence at the funeral. “Were you surprised?”

“Yeah, I was. She was casual at best. She’d only tried H twice. The first time with her boyfriend.”

Ryan straightens. That surprises him. Like Sloane, he didn’t think Travis had ever used heroin.

“So she bought product from you?” I ask.

Max shakes his head. “No, I gave her some samples. Travis was a customer. I make it a habit to know what people are into, what they might get into. Business plan.”

I don’t say what I want to say. That she was my cousin and that his samples may have gotten her killed.

“What about a guy named Len Brockman?” Ryan cuts in. “Have you ever sold to him?”

Max shakes his head. “Don’t know him.”

“Travis and Delilah, as far as you know, did they shoot or snort?”

“Snort, as far as I know,” Max says. “But people get experimental, so who can say? Is that all?”

“I have one more question,” I say. “Do you ever sell people . . .” I stop and correct myself. “Sell or give people samples that aren’t clean? The heroin that killed Delilah wasn’t exactly pure. It had fentanyl in it.”

Max sits back, offended. “I’m an entrepreneur. I don’t kill my clientele.”

“But you’ve never accidentally sold anyone fentanyl-laced product?” I press.

“No, I haven’t,” he says. “I’m careful. I know my supplier.”

And I see no hint that he’s lying.

That’s all the questions I have. As far as I’m concerned, it’s more than likely that Brockman had a hand in Delilah’s death.

I want Max to know the real reason I’m here. I want him to know that Mackenzie Walker is no fan of his.

“You should know . . . Delilah was my cousin.”

His eyes widen. “Oh man, I didn’t know. I’m really sorry. Like I said, I was shocked.”

I start to say something else, but he holds up a hand.

“I know what’s next,” he says, “and believe me, I don’t sleep that well. You don’t have to lecture me. But I provide a service, and I’m a safe place for people to get it. People like Sloane, who maintain, are the bulk of my business. People who can afford to screw up and their parents will send them to rehab.” He gives Ryan an apologetic look. “Sorry if that hits close to home.”

“There’s a reason we don’t know each other,” Ryan says, and I am ninety-nine percent sure the room is edging close to violence. I don’t know how Max got into this line of work, but I can’t imagine he’d shy away from a punch, nice house or not.

“We’re done here,” I say. Then, to Max, “Thanks for your discretion, if not your contribution to society.”

“And thanks for yours.” Max is standoffish for a breath, and then he relaxes as he stands. “I really am a huge fan. This was a thrill.”

As we leave, I attempt to murder him with a look, but of course it doesn’t work.

Once we’re back in the truck Ryan confirms my feeling from inside the house.

“I really wanted to hit that guy,” Ryan says. “And I’m not someone who gets in fistfights.”

“Yeah, me too.” I gather my hands in my lap. The weeks and weeks since I began this journey, and everything I’ve learned, swirl around me. It’s time.

Ryan scoots over close enough to touch my cheek. This is something I could never have imagined when I started all this. That Ryan Graham-Carlisle would touch me so easily, so familiarly, and I’d be able to touch him back. I lean into his palm, taking comfort, then grip his hand in mine.

Ryan asks, “What do you want to do now? Confront Brockman? Go to the cops? Or stick with our plan?”

“This is about your mother’s death first. It’s all about who really killed Peg. Brockman had to be involved in the cover-up. But confronting him doesn’t make sense—especially over Delilah. The only chance we have there is if he goes down for Peg. Confronting him would be the most dangerous thing we could do. Think about what happened last night. I’m not sure I believe the cops will do anything if we go to them with this. We need enough to nail him. To go public.”

“Then it’s time to talk to my grandfather,” Ryan says. “I’ll make the call and set it up for tomorrow. I’ll make sure Dad’s not around. But you need to know . . . this is going to be the hardest interview you’ve ever done.”

Remembering my first encounter with Grandfather Carlisle, I don’t doubt it a bit. “I’ll be ready.”

 

 

 

4.

The next day, I dress like I’m preparing for battle—or, it occurs to me when I look in the mirror at the result, like I’m getting ready for church. The girl staring back is trying too hard. She’s wearing a job interview or Easter Sunday dress.

I don’t see Mackenzie. I don’t even see Macy.

Even though I’m overdue to leave for the farm, I change. I go with jeans, boots, and a T-shirt with a cardigan. And I feel like me.

I’m not trying to impress Richard Carlisle. I’m trying to crack open the book of secrets inside him.

• • •

No cops pull me over on the way to Heart Stone, but they may as well have. By the time I ring the doorbell, I’ve noted the sleek Mercedes parked in the driveway and my heart is racing like I’m surrounded. Richard Carlisle beat me here, on the dot at the appointed hour Ryan asked him to arrive.

No pregame, then. It’s straight to the main event.

Now I know how the thoroughbreds in their starting gates at the Derby must feel.

Ryan opens the door, and gives me a tight smile. “You’re late,” he says into my ear as he kisses my cheek. Then louder, “Come on in.”

“Sorry,” I say.

But he gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. We’re in this together.

He leads me past the stairwell to the upper floor and into a room I’ve never seen before. It’s obvious there’s not a lot of hanging out and family time that happens here. The brocade couches are stiff and formal. There’s an enormous flat-screen on the wall—off—and a bar in the corner and a table that’s been “styled” by a designer with some random art pieces and oversized museum books about horses.

I do see one thing that indicates the lives that have taken place here—a wedding photo of a smiling Peg Graham and Dick Carlisle. Oversized.

I take a seat where I can look at the photo if I need centering. I can’t help the pang of sadness when I wonder how different this place would look if Peg were still alive.

“Where is he?” I ask Ryan. “That’s his car, right?”

“You mean me, I presume,” Richard Carlisle says as he enters from the other hallway. He’s got that ornate walking stick with the horse’s head on it gripped in his palm.

I have a inclination to flinch as he approaches, like he’s going to give me the proverbial forty whacks with it. But I paste on a phony smile instead.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” he asks, though he doesn’t wait for my answer. His suit is obviously cut expressly for him, and probably costs a few months of my rent, if not a year. His beard is immaculate.

He sits down and casts a look that’s ice straight through—One gimlet-eye on the rocks, I think—at Ryan and me. “I believe I know what this is about.”

There’s a smug certainty to his declaration.

Which is the last thing I expect to hear, and I’m momentarily thrown. I’m at a complete loss for how to react. All my prep disappears. Ryan shoots me a look and apparently gathers as much, then takes the lead, though he seems lost, too.

“You do?” he asks.

“Well, my boy,” Richard says, fondly, “I may be old, but that also means I’ve experienced a lot of things before.” The fondness fades. “I thought from our conversation the other day that you were learning not to repeat the mistakes of the past. But you are your father’s son after all, I see.”

“He’s his mother’s son,” I cut in, “through and through.”

Richard Carlisle looks down his nose at me like I’m a bug in his iced tea.

He trains his steely gaze on Ryan. “This isn’t the caterer, is it? More’s the pity. I remember this one from the track now. What’s her name, again?”

The sheer obtuseness. He doesn’t realize. Even though he went to see my mother, he hasn’t put Macy and Mackenzie together yet. That’s why he never said anything to Ryan about me and the podcast.

I don’t know why I’m surprised.

“Macy,” I say. “Macy Walker. And I was the caterer. It’s kind of a funny story.”

Ryan lets out a surprised ha.

Grandfather Carlisle does look at me again, then. “Why must you be here for this?”

I can’t fathom what this guy’s up to. I feel like I’m playing chess with a Time Lord when I thought I’d be playing Yahtzee with a Minion. But I’m ready. You’ve worked for this. Don’t give up now.

“Why would I be anywhere else?” I ask.

“You’ll take care of it,” he says, sighing. “We’ll pay, of course. You can even have a tip for keeping your mouth shut. How much do you want?”

Ryan and I exchange openmouthed, questioning glances, and then I understand. My face flushes with heat.

“You think I’m pregnant?” The words burst out of me.

And Richard Carlisle is off his game for the first time. Probably in years.

His eyebrows lift. “You’re not?”

“We just started dating, Grandfather,” Ryan says. Then, “I thought this would be a hard conversation to have, but you just made it a whole lot easier. Macy?”

I face Richard Carlisle. “I go by Macy, but maybe I should introduce myself more formally.”

“Proceed, if you must,” he says, trying to recover his control. He laughs as if this is all some big lark.

“I’m Mackenzie Walker.” The laughter fades. “The host of Dead Air. I think you’ve heard of it?”

His eyes narrow.

“I see that you have.”

“What is the meaning of this?” He bangs the bottom of his walking stick on the floor and it’s all I can do not to jump. “Ryan, why would you invite this snake into our home?”

“It’s my home, Grandfather,” Ryan says, calm and collected. A Graham-Carlisle. “I can invite whomever I want.”

Richard’s jaw works.

“We’re here because I’ve discovered some things during my investigation,” I say. I think of Peg. Of Len Brockman at the Order of St. Franklin party. Of Delilah. Of the man across from me writing Brockman checks. “Things we think you can help explain.”

He shakes his head.

“Brandon McDonal’s family, were they paid off?”

“Charity,” he says. “They weren’t responsible for what happened. It was an act of kindness.”

I exchange a glance with Ryan. He’s not buying that one, either.

“And then Brandon ended up dead.”

“Because of you poking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Richard says.

And, yes—even prepared, even here and now, playing the hero, it stings.

Ryan interrupts. He’s had enough of the lies, and it is glorious to see. “That wasn’t her fault.”

For the first time, Grandfather Carlisle lets Ryan have the narrowed steely gaze I received earlier. I plow on. “The involvement of the Order of St. Franklin, a secret society you and your son belong to. They manufactured Dick’s alibi.”

He snorts. “Not so secret anymore, is it?”

“No,” I say, and smile, Mackenzie hitting her stride. “But the fact that Len Brockman works for it is. The same Len Brockman who presided over Peg’s case for the police. He must have known about how phony Dick’s alibi was for the night of the murder. Did Dick do it? Get mad at Peg and shoot her? And then you called Brockman to ‘fix it’ quickly and quietly, protect the all-important Carlisle name. So Brandon McDonal plays the fall guy, agrees to suicide to help his family, but he lives. No matter, he stays quiet. His family gets rich. It’s all fine until I start asking questions, and maybe he starts to reconsider the decision he made all those years ago.”

“This is very—” Richard starts.

I talk over him. “Someone else started looking into the Order, too, last year. Another journalism student. Brockman found out about it and took care of her with a fake overdose.”

“This is getting ludicrous,” Richard says, and . . . he sounds like he means it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

What if Delilah’s death was just an overdose? Am I wrong about that? Confirmation bias again? My heart cracks open, but I leave Delilah’s name out of this for now. “Don’t you? Brandon McDonal didn’t kill Peg Graham. But you know who did—and you helped cover it up. So who was it? Did I get it right? It was your son, Ryan’s dad!”

I cross my arms and wait.

Richard looks back and forth, between me and Ryan. He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

I did it. I broke him.

Ryan speaks up. “Tell us the truth, Grandfather. I deserve to know.”

“You’re right,” Richard says, at last, opening his eyes. There’s a sadness there, but he still looks calculating to me. “But not about who did it. Or why we had to make it go away.” He’s laser-focused on Ryan. “I never wanted you to have to know, my boy. I still don’t. Can’t we just leave this alone? It’ll be better for everyone.” He does include me in that, and it’s almost a plea. His voice breaks a little on his next word. “Everyone.”

“No,” Ryan says, so guarded I can’t read his emotions. “I want the truth.”

Grandfather Carlisle rises, waves a hand to settle us, and walks to the bar. He pours himself a generous bourbon, then adds more and takes a drink.

Ryan and I wait in silence. I wish could take part of the weight of what Ryan must feel in this moment. I wish I could give him a hug, but I stay where I am.

I still don’t trust Richard Carlisle.

He hesitates at the bar, then fills a second glass. He holds it in the same hand with his walking stick and passes it to Ryan on his way to retake his seat.

Ryan hesitates, but accepts it. He places it on the table in front of him.

“You’re going to need that directly,” Richard says as he eases back down. He shakes his head at Ryan, then me. “Last chance to let the past stay past,” he adds.

“I can’t,” Ryan says.

“And I know you can’t,” he says to me, with venom. “I suppose you’ll want the whole sordid tale.”

I nod.

“You’re going to be disappointed,” he says, with a grimace. “There’s nothing sordid about it. But fine. Who am I to deny my grandson anything his heart desires, even when it’s no good for him?”

Someone who’d be perfectly happy to do so, I think, but keep my mouth shut.

“You did hear a gunshot that night,” Richard says. “You were home, you and your mother. The nanny went out for a while, but we decided it was better if she said she was here the whole time. She hadn’t quite gotten her story down when she spoke to the police. Dick came home from an evening out. But he got home too late.”

Richard goes quiet, as if he’s told us everything. I can sense Ryan’s as confused as I am. “So,” I say, “what happened?”

“Peg always carried that silly little derringer with her when she was out on the farm—for snakes or emergencies, or in case she encountered the wrong person at the wrong time. Who knows why she did anything? It wasn’t a serious gun. It looked like a toy.”

My heart thuds as I take in what he’s saying. That Ryan was alone with his mother. That she had a gun that looked like a toy.

“No,” Ryan says.

Richard isn’t one for grace. “I told you to leave it alone.” He pauses, and I swear it’s for effect. If I had to place a bet, I’d put my money down that now he’s the one enjoying this. Punishing Ryan for questioning him, maybe. “It was you.”

I drag in a breath and put my hand on Ryan’s arm. He shrugs it off.

“You can’t be serious,” I say. “You want us to believe that three-year-old Ryan killed his mom, put a horseshoe in her hand, and then you felt the need to cover it up? It would obviously have been an accident.”

“I know you want a sexy story, don’t you?” Richard asks. He drags out the words. Yes, he’s definitely enjoying this. “But there isn’t one. You can’t understand, because you come from a different background. Ryan is a Carlisle. Dick needed an alibi because he was out with someone he shouldn’t have been. When he came home and found what had happened, he fell apart, as always. My one regret in life is that I didn’t manage to make my son strong. But he called me, at least. He left the horseshoe in her hand, her special keepsake from her favorite horse, because he was maudlin, out of control by the time I got here. Brockman was a friend. I made him an offer to protect my grandson’s future.”

“I killed my mom.” The words drag from Ryan’s throat, and the pain and shock in his voice is all too clear. “All this time. It was all for me. Because of me.”

I look at the wedding photo. Peg and Dick, smiling without a care in the world.

“I don’t regret it,” Richard says. “You should never have had to know. It was an accident.”

“But . . . you ruined another man’s life,” I say. “Brandon McDonal—”

“Was happy to sacrifice so his family could live well. His life was disposable, and he knew it. Ryan’s is not.”

Ryan isn’t saying anything now. He’s folding, his entire body tight, pulled in. “Ryan, I’m sorry. I . . .” I reach out to him, trying to take his hand.

He pulls away, then shakes his head as if to clear it of my voice. “Leave it,” he says.

Richard says, “Yes, I think that’s enough from you. Are you proud? Did you get the scoop? I assume you have enough decency not to want to ruin Ryan’s life over this. His future. His family name. His reputation.”

“I . . .” I don’t know what to do. Ryan won’t look at me. Richard won’t look anywhere else.

“You should get going,” Richard says. “This is a family matter. I’ll take care of Ryan, the way I always have.”

“Ryan?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer.

I know with the certainty of the sun rising in the east and setting in the west that he will never easily or familiarly touch my cheek again. We’re over. Richard Carlisle is right about one thing: This has all been a huge mistake.

Mine.

My theories, my rush to see a connection between Peg’s and Delilah’s deaths . . . When it was all to protect a three-year-old who accidentally shot his mother. A three-year-old who grew into a good person. Who I’ve been falling for. Who I’ve hurt in a way I can never take back.

“Please, Mackenzie,” Richard says, “don’t make me call security to show you out.”

What else can I do? I leave.

The last thing I see is Richard moving to sit beside Ryan, placing the glass of bourbon gently in his hand.

5.

I’m crying by the time I get behind the wheel of my car. Sobbing, actually.

What a mess I’ve made of everything—my life and Ryan’s. I wish I’d never mentioned my suspicions about Delilah to my mom. There’s a small blessing in the unlikeliness that she would have told my aunt. How can I look anyone in the eye after this? Including myself.

My fans . . . I feel sickened that I’m even thinking about them, but I am. I have to disappoint them, too.

I can’t go public with any of what I learned today. Richard Carlisle may be a monster in some ways, but I understand what he did. I understand why, and he’s right. I can’t hurt Ryan that way, drag all this out for everyone to gawk over and discuss. I’ve done enough harm.

Telling the truth won’t bring Brandon McDonal back. And it won’t get Ryan and me back together, either.

There’s no justice for Peg Graham, just a tragic end.

This is it. There’s only one thing left for me to do. I have to officially end the podcast.

Dead Air is over.

• • •

“My investigation is at an end. I—I’ve hurt the people closest to me by pursuing this, and I haven’t been completely honest with you, my listeners, either. I let personal feelings cloud my judgment at every turn. I need to go silent now. We need to let the Graham-Carlisle family have peace. They deserve peace.

“Most of all, Peg deserves to rest in peace.

“This is goodbye from Mackenzie Walker and Dead Air. Let’s all . . . just . . .

“Keep breathing.”