Chapter 29

Tara

 

 

I crept on the balls of my bare feet through the yard, shotgun pumped and shouldered, poised to blast away at the slightest movement in the billowing fog. It probably wasn’t the best idea to stalk an intruder, especially with my itchy trigger finger, on less than a half a dozen hours of sleep over the past couple days.

I reached the clearing where we had seen the figure. Whatever—whoever—had been here was now long gone. But the sensation that I was being watched lingered.

I headed back toward the house, shotgun still hoisted, gaze still darting in case someone jumped out at me. All I found was Jonah waiting on the porch.

“Did you see anyone?” he asked.

“No, maybe it was just a small tree that looked like a person.”

“Maybe, yeah, that’s probably all it was. Ten years of living ass-to-cheek with a bunch of criminals has a way of making a person paranoid.”

“And your next-door neighbor being murdered has the same effect,” I added.

The unmistakable crack of a twig stopped me short as I headed up the porch steps.

“Did you hear that?” I whispered to Jonah.

“I don’t think it’s our brains playing tricks, Tara,” he whispered back.

Pressing the shotgun stock against my shoulder, I slowly turned around, heading along the house toward the continued crackle of twigs snapping. Ducked down between two rose bushes was a figure hiding, but this time I wasn’t going to let him go.

“I got a gun aimed at your head, so you better start talking,” I ordered.

Two trembling hands lifted up in surrender, and by the time he was standing, I nearly fainted.

“Keanu?” I instantly lowered the gun, relieved I hadn’t shot my daughter’s boyfriend. Something like that could get me kicked off the PTA. “What are you doing prowling around here at night? I almost shot you!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Christie. I’ve been trying to get a hold of Nora. She’s not taking my calls and I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”

“So you thought sneaking over here at,” I had no idea what time it was, and I couldn’t even venture a guess at this point, “this hour was a good idea?”

Keanu fumbled for a reply, then settled for a series of ums and I don’t knows. Sweet kid, but sometimes dumb as nails.

“Go home, Keanu. And give Nora her space right now.”

Living only six houses down the road, Keanu ran home, leaving me with a feeling that I’d be getting a phone call from his mother later. By the time I returned to the porch, Jonah had retreated inside the house and I had almost forgotten about my conversation with him. His earlier promise preyed on my mind: I’ll tell you the truth, but you have to swear not to tell the cops about this.

I had no idea what he was about to tell me, but the reality was, either way, it wasn’t good. If Jonah had killed Benson, sure, my husband would be freed but my brother jailed—this time for life. If he hadn’t done it, God knows how long Chris would stay incarcerated…possibly forever, if he got convicted. Once Judge Valance got wind that Chris was Jonah’s brother-in-law, I wouldn’t be surprised if he reinstated a one-time death penalty just for Chris. Like I said, the situation was lose-lose.

Dashing through the yard had aggravated the cut on my foot. I grabbed the antibiotic ointment, dabbing it on my skin while Jonah paced across the kitchen tile, around the breakfast table, across the living room, weaving a path throughout the entire first floor.

“Jonah?” He looked up at the sound of his name. “Just tell me what happened. No more suspense, please.”

My need to know the truth met Jonah’s need to hide the truth with equal ferocity. Self-preservation made us wary of handing over things that made us vulnerable, things like…the truth.

“Tell me,” I demanded.

Leaning over the kitchen counter, Jonah placed his elbows on the gray granite and covered his face. “I did see Benson the night he was killed. Right before it happened.”

I was too shocked to speak, too confused to process it.

“But we only spoke for a couple minutes.”

And just like that the puzzle that I thought was so close to being whole was scattered.

“Why were you over there? What do you have to do with Benson?”

“You know when Nora took me to meet Ginger after I got here? Well, they had told me about him trying to put Ginger in assisted living, and Ginger was all worked up about losing her home. Chris knew about it too and mentioned going over there to “talk some sense”—his words, not mine—into Benson.”

That sounded like something Chris would say.

“But everyone was emotional about the whole thing and fighting about it, so I decided to talk to Benson myself as a neutral party. I wanted to hear his side of things, maybe smooth things over between everyone.”

“And did you—smooth things over with Benson?”

“Not really. He pretty much yelled at me and told me to get the hell off his property before I got a word in. I swear, he was alive when I got there, and he was alive when I left.”

The confession slid between my ribs like a blade. Jonah had just admitted to seeing Benson the day of his murder, but I was still hung up on the detail of Chris talking to Jonah. Behind my back. My husband knew Jonah had been released and kept it from me.

“Did Chris know you were in the basement this whole time?”

Jonah avoided my gaze, then said, “I don’t want to get him in trouble, but yes, he knew. He’s the one who picked me up and got me a cell phone.”

“That mother—I can’t believe he lied to me again.”

Jonah’s face skewed slightly as he said, “Is it really lying if you’re simply not divulging details, though?”

“Yes! That’s exactly what lying is—the opposite of honest!”

Chris had lied to me about the letter from Ginger. Lied about my brother getting out of rehab. And lied about having a handgun. What else was he lying about?

“I don’t understand why you all felt the need to keep all this from me. It hurts…really hurts.” Everything hurt, I realized, as I wrapped the bandage around my foot.

“Tara, you don’t always see yourself clearly.” Jonah tiptoed around the explanation that I was sure would offend me. “You tend to overreact to things. And get really worked up and stressed out to the point of making stupid decisions. I’m not judging you—clearly that trait runs in the family.”

“So you all thought I’d make things worse?”

“Well, you did, didn’t you, when you took that knife? We were just trying to deal with it without you adding more drama.”

Oh my friggin’ goodness. I was my drama-queen mother and I didn’t even know it.

“Am I as bad as Mom? Please don’t say I’m worse.”

“I think you need to consider stepping back from trying to deal with everything and solving everything and just…let go.”

My brother was right. I was tired of asking questions, moving in circles, overthinking suspects, pondering motives. And I would keep asking and moving and overthinking and pondering until I figured out how it all fit together…but I would never figure it out:

Ginger wanted free from under Benson’s thumb.

Sloane resented Benson for nearly bankrupting her business.

Chris disliked how he treated Ginger, his estranged mother.

Corbin Roth had the money and means to make Benson’s threats stop.

Vic Valance hated my family, maybe even enough to kill Benson over a lost poker match just to frame us.

All of them had a reason to want Benson gone. All of them had the means to do it. How much further could I dig in order to set everything right, when right no longer existed?

But I couldn’t make it my job to figure out anymore. I was only making things worse. I just had one question left, the only one that mattered, that could maybe save my husband and fix my friendship with Ginger. If Jonah didn’t have the answer, then I knew what I had to do.