All night and into Friday morning, Emilie’s mind was a cauldron of spinning thoughts. Nadine needed her help now, as did the other women represented by the files, but could she help anyone until she understood what had gone wrong with Kaylene? About four in the morning she sent an e-mail requesting an all-staff early meeting, but she couldn’t loosen the panic her fears wrapped around her heart.
She scanned headlines, but they were empty of any new information.
She still couldn’t believe Kaylene had shot her girls. But if she hadn’t, who did? As far as she knew, only family had been in the home, but just because the media hadn’t mentioned another presence didn’t mean there wasn’t one.
When she arrived at the office, she sent an e-mail to Taylor asking her to order the police report. After a time of staring at a file but not seeing the contents, she glanced at her watch and then gathered her notepad, pen, and phone. It was time to head to the conference room. Her fellow employees straggled in, curiosity or boredom on their faces as they took seats at the oval laminate table. Black-and-white photos of DC landmarks softened the beige walls and carpet. It would be nice to have more color to warm the room, but the reality was the work they did at the Haven wasn’t warm and fuzzy. It often had an edge of life and death and utter chaos.
Rhoda was the last to file in, a slightly impatient look on her face as she settled into her usual chair at the head of the table. “Looks like we’re here. Mind telling us why you asked for this meeting?”
Taylor shifted in her seat, her coral top and bright turquoise beads a nice contrast to Rhoda’s sterile suit. “I’m curious too.”
Emilie launched into her theory quickly, before her boss could grow more impatient. She glanced at the people filling the chairs at the table. Several worked as caseworkers, meaning they were responsible for helping a portfolio of clients receive the support they needed. A couple filled counseling or other specialized roles like her own.
Her gaze stopped when it landed on Shannon Riaz. “I can’t stop thinking about Kaylene Adams. I realized I didn’t know her as well as some of you may have. Shannon and any others who worked with her, I’d like your impressions of her and her story. Did she have friends she confi—”
Rhoda interrupted her. “Why are we spending time on a woman we can’t help when there are dozens in need of our assistance?”
“What if the story as we know it isn’t correct?” Emilie leaned forward. “The Kaylene I knew could not have done what the police say.”
Taylor nodded. “I agree. I can’t imagine her with a gun.”
“She could have had one.” This came from Shannon, the recent graduate who filled a social worker role and had been Kaylene’s caseworker. “She asked me how to get a permit and where to purchase one.”
Emilie’s heart sank. “Why would she ask you that?”
“She noticed the photo I have behind my desk.” Shannon shifted against the chair. “I was on my college rifle team, and she was interested.” She raised her hands defensively as Rhoda groaned. “What?”
“This is exactly the kind of information that cannot get out. We do not need anyone suggesting that we helped arm a murderer.” Rhoda looked at each person around the table with unflinching intensity. “I am absolutely serious about this. I see this information in the news, I find out who leaked it, and you will lose your job.”
Her gaze settled heavily on Emilie, as if she expected her to sprint to the Nation’s Post with an exclusive.
“Don’t worry, I’m not writing anything for anyone.” Emilie jotted a note. “Okay, so she asked about a gun. Did she actually buy one?”
“We need to end this discussion right here.” Rhoda leaned forward, palms pressed flat against the table. “Nothing good can come of this conversation.”
“I disagree. If we can figure out whether Kaylene owned a gun, we can determine whether it was used in the shooting.” Emilie kept pushing. “What if it wasn’t her gun? What if she was trapped?”
“Then she should have let us help her. The video certainly makes it look like she was the one using it. It absolutely cannot get out that we had anything to do with talking to Kaylene about a gun. Am I clear?” Rhoda made eye contact with each person at the table. “This is not a topic we should discuss with our women.”
Emilie watched the others nod, even if with reluctance.
“Emilie?” Rhoda focused completely on her, steel in her eyes. “Do I have your cooperation?”
Emilie swallowed hard, feeling all moisture drain from her mouth. “I need to think about this.”
“There’s nothing to think about. Either you’re working for the good of this agency or you’re not.”
Suddenly Taylor jerked as if she’d been jolted with electricity. She mouthed sorry, then pulled out her phone. “Emilie, we have a client emergency.”
Emilie jumped up and made her way out of the conference room with a quick thanks, Taylor close on her heels.
“Who is it?”
“No one. I knew you needed an out.”
Emilie stifled a smile as she hurried into her office. “You’d better create a real client emergency in case Rhoda fact-checks.” She sank into her leather office chair and jiggled her mouse to wake up her computer. “Have you ever seen her like that?”
“No, but her assistant said she’s been under intense pressure. It sounds like she’s had to do some fancy stepping to keep key donors from bailing.”
“I wonder why. No one has said Kaylene came here.”
Taylor shrugged. “Who knows?”
Maybe they would never understand. Much as she wanted to plead that everyone was wrong about Kaylene, Emilie couldn’t ignore the voice in her head saying that somehow she should have prevented both deaths.
Reid did an Internet search for all articles related to his sister’s death. Maybe a reporter had found someone to interview he hadn’t thought of yet.
Which wouldn’t be hard. He hadn’t stayed in touch with Kaylene, allowing space to grow between them. He’d been focused on college and then launching his career. Finance wasn’t one of those nine to five, walk-away-from-it jobs. At least not if you wanted to work for a top-notch firm, and he’d refused to settle for less.
What had that choice cost him?
He might never know, but he could do something now for Kinley. He could make sure she was safe, and maybe in doing that he could absolve his earlier selfishness.
The browser did its job too well, pulling up a long list of articles. So this was what it was like to be infamous. As he scanned the articles, he sensed a pattern to the reporting. There was the sensational element of the first days. Mother shoots her kids. Family in chaos. Scandal and abuse abound. Not the first time one of the couple had called the police or sought help.
Wait, they’d sought help? He reread the article slowly.
The reporter for this article had relied on innuendo, but had tracked down an unidentified source who suggested Kaylene had sought counseling and Robert had refused to participate. The source indicated it was a familiar story. Wife wants to save her marriage, work on serious issues, but receives no cooperation from husband.
Reid frowned. So how would that cause Kaylene to shoot her daughters? If Robert had been her problem, why wouldn’t she have shot him? Assuming, of course, that killing someone had ever been her intent—a leap of logic Reid still couldn’t make.
He felt his eyes cross as he read one more article. He stood and stretched, then went into his living room and sat at the baby grand. He closed his eyes and let his fingers move across the keys. The music poured from him. Fast, furious, forte.
It felt like a prayer. A demand asking God to intervene.
As tumultuous as his emotions were, he felt an odd settling peace as time slid by on a sea of notes that flowed without conscious thought. When he could keep his mind empty and open, he often heard God whisper.
Wasn’t that how the best prayers developed?
By opening one’s heart and mind to God, letting Him into the pain and the joy?
That was what he did in those moments at the piano.
The notes slowed as the air conditioner kicked on, sounding an accompanying hum. Reid swayed as the notes spilled from him.
Twenty minutes later the music eased to a fading note.
He opened his eyes. He hadn’t received any insights, but he felt solid, no longer subject to the day’s sucker punches and blows. As he went back to his tasks, he felt renewed hope that if he kept on the same path he would find truth. And if that truth were that Kaylene had shot and killed her daughters, then he would deal with it. Tragedies happened in a world broken with sin. But he also knew he didn’t feel released from his burden to investigate. He would pursue this further . . . after he got through the afternoon’s memorial service.