Fugitives of Love Page 15

  “Are you sure?”

  “Maybe he can help me remember things.”

  “Okay.” Brenna caressed Sinclair’s hair. “Tell me what you need right now.”

  Dark circles underlined Sinclair’s eyes. “Just be here.”

  Brenna wrapped her other arm around Sinclair and held her tight. She could do that.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The window shutters of the house were unhinged, and white paint, yellowed from age, peeled from them like wilted petals off a dying flower. The roof seemed to sag from years of neglect, and trash and old newspapers covered the front porch. The night-jasmine bushes, which Sinclair remembered smelling fragrant and sweet, had become brown clumps of lifeless stubble.

  Brenna slowed the car to a crawl and stopped at the front curb. Sinclair gripped Brenna’s thigh, appreciating the comforting hand that covered hers.

  The dwelling that provided a stage for the atrocities that robbed her of her childhood appeared to have fallen victim to the same abuse.

  The neighboring houses hadn’t been kept up much better; however, they felt alive with plants and toys and bicycles in the yard.

  “There’s a truck in the driveway,” Sinclair said.

  Brenna turned the ignition off. “Do you think it’s your stepbrother’s?”

  “There’s one way to find out.”

  Sinclair grew more anxious with each step she took up the broken cement walkway. Details of the house she had erased from her mind now brought back sharp, cutting memories.

  The metal mailbox still loosely hung beside the front door. Her stepfather had slammed her head against it the day she locked herself out of the house and he had to get off the couch to let her in. The second window on the left still had cardboard in it instead of glass. He had punched it out, shattering it in a fit of rage when she served dinner late, then repeatedly hit her, his cut hands spraying blood everywhere.

  She felt a hand on her back and realized she’d stopped walking. The horrible memories assailed her like gale winds heralding a storm.

  Her feet wouldn’t move as echoes of old yells, screams, and crying reverberated in her ears.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Dad, don’t! I’m sorry! Don’t!”

  The kitchen drywall cracked with the weight of her body being slammed against it. Glass broke from beer bottles thrown close to her head. Doors crashed closed, and framed pictures smashed into countless shards.

  “Sinclair, are you okay?”

  A bird warbled nearby. A car rumbled by on the street behind her.

  The echoes of violence stopped.

  She opened her hands and stretched her painfully tight fists. The tension left her shoulders as she willed them to relax and drop.

  She began to answer but the front door flew open.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Topher was so much taller than she thought he would be, his straight blond hair just as unkempt as she remembered. And his salutation hadn’t changed.

  Everything was both surreal and familiar.

  She glanced down at his hands, callused and scarred, with dark grease or oil imbedded in the lines and wrinkles of his skin. Those hands had hit her many times. Like smaller versions of her stepfather’s at the time, they could also deliver painful blows.

  “I said, what the hell are you doing here?”

  She shuddered once, then looked him directly in the eyes. “I’m going to talk to the police.”

  “What the hell for? You got away with it.”

  “It’s never left me, Topher.”

  “You think it’s never left you? I still live in the same damn house you killed him in.”

  She hadn’t expected a happy reunion, but hadn’t they at least been children surviving a nightmare together?

  “I just need some answers first.”

  “I suggest you turn tail and get the hell out of here while you still have your freedom.”

  “I don’t remember a lot and—”

  “Do you know what you’re doing? You’re flirting with prison by showing your face around here.”

  From behind her, Sinclair heard Brenna say, “Can’t you at least just listen to her?”

  He leaned toward her so quickly, Sinclair thought he would punch her. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Sinclair put her hands up. “Topher, I’m going to turn myself in soon and I just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

  He was still staring at Brenna, his eyes angry and threatening.

  “Topher…”

  “There ain’t nothing I can tell you that will help anything.”

  “How did I get the gun? I can’t remember.”

  “How should I know? It was where it always was, on his nightstand.”

  “Did you see it happen?”

  “I was out on the porch.”

  A female voice from inside the house called timidly, “Topher, who’s that?”

  “Keep your nose outta this,” he yelled.

  Brenna touched Sinclair’s arm. “I think we should go.”

  Topher sucked on his teeth. “There’s nothing here for you. Get the hell out of town.”

  Sinclair stepped backward until she felt Brenna’s hand on her shoulder. Topher glared at her like she was a vacuum salesman who had inconveniently interrupted his day, then turned his back on them and slammed the door.

  Brenna and Sinclair got back into the car and Brenna started the engine, saying, “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

  Movement in the house next door caught Sinclair’s attention. Drapery shifted and someone peered out. As they drove away, Sinclair watched the woman in the window as the woman watched her.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The morning came too quickly. A miserable gray drizzle had settled upon Little Creek, making the day glum and melancholy.

  Brenna had awoken with her arm around Sinclair. As she looked out the window, through the moiré pattern that the raindrops made, she pressed closer to Sinclair’s warm body. The cadence of her lover’s breathing told her she was awake, too.

  “Good morning.”

  Sinclair’s hair tickled her cheek. “Good morning.”

  “Did you sleep?”

  “A little.”

  A gust of wind rattled the window frame as if it were trying to get in. Brenna prayed that the clock would rotate backward, giving them more time before Sinclair turned herself in.

  They listened to the rain pick up, tapping more hurriedly against the glass. How miserably fitting, a storm was coming.

  Sinclair spoke quietly. “When will the lawyer arrive?”

  “Early this afternoon. Probably around one. She wants to meet you here and make a plan. Until then, we could stay here or go out and get something to eat.”

  “I want to go back.”

  “To your house?” Brenna feared the toll that another visit with Topher might take on Sinclair. He might call the police, and it wouldn’t be good if they came out to get her before Sinclair could turn herself in.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I need to talk to someone else.”

  *

  Sinclair knocked on the door of the house next to Topher’s. Someone shuffled around inside and, eventually, the door opened. A woman about Sinclair’s age stared at them. No one spoke for the longest time.

  Then the woman said, “Tamara.”

  Sinclair nodded slowly.

  The woman’s eyes opened wider and then darted quickly to the left. “There’s a café on West Main, just past School Street. Do you remember where that is?”

  Sinclair nodded again.

  “Meet me there in an hour.” The woman closed the door.

  Without saying anything else, Sinclair turned and walked to the car. Confused, Brenna followed.

  As they got in, Sinclair said, “Drive away.” She pointed straight ahead.

  “What’s going on? Why was she—”

  “She’s afraid.”


  “Of Topher?”

  Sinclair nodded once more.

  Forty-five minutes later, Brenna and Sinclair sat in the car in the parking lot of Bailey’s Café. The rain fell heavily now, a protective, watery veil that obliterated much of their view.

  Brenna broke the silence that had fallen inside the car. “She called you Tamara. Is that your real name?”

  “Yes. I changed it to protect my identity, for one thing.”

  “And the other?”

  Sinclair’s jaw tightened. “I grew to hate my name. I used to hear my stepfather yell it when he was looking for me. Most of the time he’d be drunk and call me with this sick, high voice.” She seemed to be looking beyond the rainy window, out to the past. “It always sounded like the keening of a crow being slaughtered.”

  Brenna couldn’t imagine what that must feel like. Such an awful childhood, and now Sinclair was suffering all over again by being back in the town she’d run away from so many years ago.

  She thought about their very new relationship. She felt more involved with Sinclair than anyone else ever.

  With her exes, it always took so little for Brenna to walk toward the door. Any excuse—a small lie, spending too much time on the computer, or constantly being late—would make her decide to break up and move on. She never wanted to dig in and commit to anyone. The slightest negative personality trait or behavior used to make her call it quits, but now Sinclair was about to turn herself in for murder, and Brenna’s heart ached at the possibility of losing her for good.

  Maybe she’d been looking for reasons to uncouple herself before. But now, while the elephant in the room begged her to flee, she couldn’t leave Sinclair’s side.

  Sinclair shifted in her seat. “When I saw Clara, I had a foggy memory.”

  “Clara, is she the neighbor?”

  “Yes. When I saw her looking out her window yesterday, I got some vague images, but they’re too fuzzy to make sense of.”

  “I so hope Clara can help.”

  Sinclair turned to her. “So do I.”

  After another half an hour, Sinclair said, “She’s not coming.”

  She looked so disappointed and exhausted, Brenna wished she could erase this whole nightmare from Sinclair’s past. Of course, that meant they would never have met, but Sinclair wouldn’t have had to endure the pain and extreme suffering. “I suppose not. But we’ll wait as long as you want.”

  The rain continued to pummel the car in a loud, persistent assault that added to the bleak mood.

  Sinclair gazed out through the rain a bit longer before saying, “Let’s just go back to the hotel.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  At one o’clock, Brenna opened the hotel room door to a dark-skinned, tastefully made-up woman dressed in a plain black suit and black high heels. She carried an umbrella and a small briefcase in one hand and reached out with the other.

  “Good to see you, Brenna.”

  “Thanks for coming.” Brenna led her in and introduced her to Sinclair before offering her a seat at a small table by the window.

  Sinclair joined her at the table and Brenna settled onto the bed.

  Marie Alvarez extracted a legal pad from her case and clicked her pen. “Brenna told me a bit about your situation but I’d like to hear it all from you, Sinclair.”

  As Sinclair described the night of the murder, Marie took notes in quick scribbles of her pen rather than long sentences. As the story progressed, Sinclair’s voice dropped and she appeared defeated and stressed.

  When she finished, Marie stopped writing and finally spoke. “As your lawyer, I must say this to you.” She emphasized her words by tapping her pen on the pad of paper. “You don’t have to turn yourself in. You do have the right to remain silent about this. You are taking a very weighty step in coming forward. Now, if you decide to go through with this, I will tell the police that I’m bringing in a person of interest in a cold case, but they won’t know your name. That way, you can back out if you choose.”

  “I want to do this.”

  “Very well. When we sit down with the case detective, I’ll let you know if you should refrain from divulging certain things. Without meaning to, you may say things that the police could misconstrue, so please be careful and allow me to interrupt if needed.”

  “Will they put her in jail right away?” Brenna said.

  “Probably, because of the severity of the crime.”

  “And then what?”

  Marie addressed Sinclair. “You will appear in front of a judge, hopefully within a day or two. Bail will be set. I’ll be there to argue for a bond reduction. I will argue that you turned yourself in, which might help. Is this your first offense?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll state that. Your statement alone is not enough. They will need to find corroborating evidence—fingerprints on the weapon, something like that. You’ll appear in front of a judge for a bail arraignment. The case will then likely go to trial. I’ll do everything I can to convince the prosecutor that by turning yourself in, you should receive some leniency, but you should still be prepared for at least a lengthy prison sentence if there’s evidence.”

  Sinclair somberly nodded.

  “I’d like you to arrange to stay here until we reach some kind of resolution. In other words, if the judge knows you’re not going to escape or even leave the area for a while, it will make things much better for you. Are you able to do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you’re not released on your own recognizance, the next step would be to pay the full bail amount, if it’s affordable or the judge orders a surety, which is a cash bond. If it’s not and the amount is too high, you could then go through a bail bondsman. There may be other bail restrictions but we won’t know until the judge decides.”

  “Okay,” Sinclair said, but Brenna wasn’t sure she was taking everything in. She moved from the bed and crouched next to Sinclair, holding her hand.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I know this sounds selfish, but I hate that we’ve come this far,” Brenna said, “just so I can lose you.”

  “But if I don’t do this, you’ve already lost me. If I stay in Pemaquid Point, I lose you for sure. We couldn’t have a life together with me hiding out forever. But if I turn myself in, I might be able to confront this and get past it all.”

  Hearing the formality of the lawyer’s words made a wall of fear suddenly crash down on Brenna. She wanted to tell Sinclair to forget it all and just go back to Pemaquid Point. “If you’d never met me, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now. I feel like I’ve brought you to the lion’s mouth.”

  Sinclair’s smile was strained. “I created the lion. You didn’t. I wondered if I’d have to do this one day, but I could never come up with a good-enough reason to. Now that I’ve met you, I have one.”

  “But it’s a catch-22.”

  They both understood the predicament well, and Brenna was simply hoping beyond hope. Sinclair appeared to understand that perfectly, but her response was braver than Brenna’s.

  “As slim as it is, it’s our only chance.”

  *

  Sinclair and Brenna followed Marie into the Little Creek Police Department. They were cold and damp from the rain that seemed unwilling to let up. The officer at the front desk told them to wait, which allowed Sinclair to realize that, ironically, she was waiting to award justice to the sadistic stepfather who, while under his roof, had robbed her of any of her own.

  Brenna pulled Sinclair aside. She reached into her pants’ pocket, drew something out, and put it in Sinclair’s hands.

  It was warm in her palm. She looked down and recognized the brown piece of sea glass she had given Brenna, out on the beach, the day after they met.

  Brenna said, “You’re going to feel tumbled about, but remember, you’re resilient and you’ll come out stronger.”

  She closed her hand over the glass, feeling the pow
er in that little piece of Brenna and her home.

  They were taken to an interview room where they waited a few minutes until a tall, gray-haired man in beige pants and a baby-blue shirt walked in. Other than the fact that a holster hung from his belt, he could have easily been an elderly schoolteacher or a seasoned insurance salesman. Right behind him was a younger man, quite a bit shorter than the first, but much more muscular. He reminded Sinclair of a fireplug.

  “I’m Detective Tally.” The first man shook the hand of each of them as they gave their names. “This is Detective Owens.” He motioned for them to sit at a small table. Marie and Sinclair sat across from the detective while Brenna took a seat in a chair in the corner, to Sinclair’s left.

  Marie spoke to Detective Tally first. “So you’re the cold-case detective?”

  “Cold-case detective? We’re all cold-case detectives, and hot-case detectives.” He nodded toward Detective Owens. “All two of us.” He shuffled through some papers in an old manila folder before looking up. “So you’re the Grady girl.”

  “Yes,” Sinclair said.

  “Before we go any further,” Marie said, “I’d like to point out that Miss Grady has come in on her own. She was a young girl then and she had been badly abused when this crime occurred.”

  “I agree that this is a very old case,” he said, “but it’s still murder.”

  “It’s her only offense,” Marie said with confidence and authority.

  “It may be, but it’s the highest level of offense.” He paged through the notes and handwritten forms, which looked a little yellowed from age. Sinclair looked away from the pictures of the crime scene. Tally closed the folder as if he knew the case all too well. “Why are you turning yourself in after all these years?”

  Sinclair looked at Brenna a moment. Her eyes, so full of compassion, calmed her. “I couldn’t keep hiding.”

  “Well, let’s go over what happened that night,” he said. He informed her of her Miranda rights, and in the next hour, she had told him everything she remembered. Marie only interrupted once, at the beginning, to remind Sinclair she had the right to remain silent.

  Detective Tally nodded a few times throughout but let her finish before saying, “I understand.”