Protector - Laurel Dewey [56]
“But cocaine is.”
Jane chuckled. “A by-the-book computer nerd turns into a cokehead overnight?”
“It’s not impossible.”
“No, it’s not. But the way everything is laying out around this strange scenario, it’s too convenient—too ‘Movie of the Week.’ Calculating outsider who hasn’t a blemish on his record, in the space of a month or two, decides to turn to cocaine to . . . what? To add excitement to his regimented life? And then, he screws up a huge score with his dealer inside his own house and he and his wife pay with their lives. Pure fiction! Boss, the missing chunks in this case are so big that trains could drive through them! No one point leads effortlessly to the other.” Jane approached Weyler, joining him on the landing near the front door. “Why does a careful, boring, financially secure computer geek who’s an outsider get slaughtered alongside his lovely wife? What is David’s dirty little secret?”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone’s got at least one dirty little secret. And those who say they don’t, have some of the best secrets. The Lawrences might have looked clean to their neighbors at block parties, but most people judge you by your outward appearance. And even then, people don’t really pay attention. The neighbors know that Patricia and Emily are away on an off-season, nine-day camping trip during school but no one asks ‘Why?’ It’s not about seeing the little things as much as it’s about feeling the little things. It’s listening to the spaces in between the words. It’s understanding what a lie sounds like. It’s taking a step back and watching. Let’s face it, boss, everyone is far too busy to sit back and watch! The Lawrences may look clean on paper, but it’s what they whisper to each other in bed. It’s what they scream at each other when their kid is at a friend’s house. It’s what they don’t write on the Christmas card letter. It’s the dark, rotten family secret that everybody has but no one talks about. Because, if anybody really knew your little secret, you’d be an outcast. And nobody wants to risk that. I don’t know what their secret was, but I know it wasn’t cocaine.” Jane casually turned her gaze to the rest of the room. “Well, you asked for my assessment and my assessment is . . .” Jane found her gut tightening. She tried to cover it up but the visceral response was overwhelming. She walked away from Weyler, trying to get centered. The more she looked around the room, the deeper her gut moved into it. Holding back was pointless because it only seemed to deepen her attachment. It was as though she could almost hear the walls talking, vibrating, whispering, longing to blare out what they saw. Suddenly, a splash of blood flashed in front of Jane’s vision. In less than a second, Emily’s face appeared through the disappearing crimson haze. Then, unexpectedly, Emily’s face warped into Amy Stover. Her pleading eyes beckoned Jane as her deafening scream pierced the room. Jane grasped her forehead to shut out the disturbing hallucination. Icy sweat beaded across her face and neck. She needed a drink and looked at her watch. It was 11:00 a.m. If she left the house now, she could be downing a bottle of Jack Daniels in less than twenty minutes. “My assessment is that we don’t have all the pieces,” Jane said urgently. “And the kid probably doesn’t either.” Weyler remained silent, staring intently at Jane. She avoided eye contact as she moved to the front door. Pursing her lips, Jane turned to him with an indignant air. “What?”
“Are you done bullshiting me?”
Jane anger peaked. “Look, what the fuck do you want me to tell you? You got no prints except for the occupants . . . no incriminating evidence . . . no witnesses.”
“We do have a witness.”
“We don’t!” Jane felt cornered. She started to open the front door when Weyler moved quickly and slammed it shut with the flat of his hand.
“What are you so damned afraid of?” Weyler yelled.
“The truth!”
“The truth is all I care