The Row Page 13

  I push aside the pain by pointing to a different note I have written down. “Okay, so this evidence could speak to his guilt because all of the victims of the East End Killer are blond, attractive women in their thirties.” This is a good place to start. It’s one piece of evidence for which I remember the reasoning of the prosecution at trial very clearly.

  Jordan switches gears, too, having no problem keeping up. He takes the notepad from my hand, frowning as he reads through it. “But it really means nothing, because thousands of men across Houston are attracted to women like this.”

  “It’s common for serial killers to have a person they fixate on and then for them to kill people who look similar. In this case, evidence suggests he has a carefully constructed f-façade.” I falter for only an instant and then push forward with the prosecution’s words that still haunt my nightmares sometimes. “An intricate smokescreen of a life that he cares greatly about protecting. He feels a great desire to kill his fixation, but it would threaten his lifestyle. So he replaces her and kills these victims to satisfy that urge.”

  I organize the papers in front of me into a pile and make sure no emotions show on my face. He looks sad, but the expression disappears the moment my eyes meet his and I’m grateful.

  “You’re talking about his wife,” Jordan says, carefully following my wording to leave any mention of my relationships with these people out of our conversation and again I’m filled with a brief rush of gratitude.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Jordan says simply. Hearing him truly defend my dad is so unexpected that my jaw falls slightly open. “The argument could just as easily be made that this victim profile makes him an unlikely suspect. He and his wife have a good relationship, a happy marriage. She hasn’t cheated—that anyone knows of. There has been no evidence of any reason he should have that kind of anger toward her.”

  He shrugs at the end and waits for me to refute him, but I’m too overwhelmed to speak or say anything. I’ve never, ever had anyone, besides Mama or someone who was being paid to do it, defend my father in front of me. It doesn’t matter that in the moment I know he doesn’t believe it. It doesn’t matter that I know he’s just meeting his end of our arrangement. All that matters is that he has a choice right here and right now and he is choosing to argue for my father’s innocence in order to help me.

  I scoot forward and quickly put my arms around his neck in a tight hug. Tears I don’t expect wet the shoulder of his shirt and I try to wipe them away before he notices. I whisper, “Thank you.”

  Jordan seems alarmed at first, then he leans forward and wraps both arms around me. I withdraw before I become too comfortable in that position and clear my throat, trying to carry on as though nothing strange has just happened.

  “Reason doesn’t apply here. Sociopaths don’t need reason,” I say, daring him to refute the statement that has kept me awake at night.

  “Yeah?” Jordan smiles, and doesn’t mention my more than slightly awkward and abrupt display of emotion. Instead, he plays right along with me. “Well, then prove to me that David Beckett is a sociopath.”

  I smile back, thinking for the first time that looking at all the facts presented in Daddy’s case ourselves might not be the worst idea I’ve ever had.

  19

  AFTER THE INITIAL FINDING of—and subsequent arguing over—the details of the case for the last two hours, Jordan and I have come to one conclusion. The relatively small amount of information in the papers isn’t of much use without specifics from the new case.

  Unfortunately, since that case is still open and active, there are even fewer details about it online than about the other murders.

  “The victim is—” I look down at my notes again—“Valynne Kemp. She’s blond, same age range as the others, and she was strangled like the first three.”

  “Does it say if she was beaten first?” Jordan asks.

  I shake my head, wishing I had that detail. “Not anywhere I read.”

  Jordan nods and then chimes in, “I found an article that quoted a source within the police department. He said that the bodies were posed in a similar fashion.”

  “All things that could’ve been copied,” I answer softly.

  “Or done the exact same way because it was the exact same killer,” Jordan says, refuting my argument without even raising his eyes from the paper.

  I scan my notebook one more time before dropping it back to the table. “I think that’s about everything the Internet will be giving us today.”

  Jordan sighs and sits back in his chair, stretching. “So what’s next?”

  I’m quiet for a moment, debating whether to ask the question I have on my mind before diving in. “I don’t suppose your dad would be open to answering questions you asked him about the new murder, would he?”

  Jordan stiffens and I regret asking almost instantly.

  “I’m sorry…”

  “No.” He shakes his head and gives me a sad smile. “You couldn’t know this. It makes sense for you to ask, but my father and I haven’t been speaking much lately.”

  “Oh.” Now I feel worse. I figure we really have no room for secrets anymore, so I don’t hesitate this time. “Why?”

  “A lot of reasons,” he begins, and when I wait in the quiet, he continues. “He doesn’t agree with my choices lately, I guess.”

  I groan. “Join the club.”

  “Yeah. First I quit football, then I stop hanging out with my friends.” He runs his fingertips across the table and looks so deep in thought that I wonder if he remembers he’s talking to me. “But I haven’t been around constantly to watch Matthew all the time either. So he thinks I’m doing something to rebel, like drugs or drinking—”

  “Or hanging out with the daughter of everyone’s favorite death row inmate?” I fill in with a rueful chuckle.

  He rewards me with a big grin. “Yeah, or that.”

  “That sucks. I really am sorry.”

  “Yeah.” Jordan shrugs. “I am too.”

  I try to think of a good backup option for getting information on the newest case, but my brain comes up empty.

  Fear churns like a spinning pit in my gut. I know that I want the truth, but until this moment, I never considered the possibility of never truly knowing.

  Daddy is Daddy. He’s loving and warm and stunningly smart. I’ve always wanted to be more like him. How can that man be guilty?

  But this isn’t just about who he was. It’s also about who he is. It’s part of who I’ve always been, part of who I am. If he was a murderer—still is a murderer—that would make me the daughter of an honest-to-God serial killer. If that’s who he is, then I’m the girl who has spent her life defending a monster. I hate the very idea of being that girl.

  But if I am, I refuse to be kept in the dark by his lies anymore.

  Opening my eyes, I see Jordan studying me, his features tight with worry. His warm earthy eyes meet mine, and I can see him bracing himself for my next move. Still, all I can think is to wonder what he sees when he looks at me.

  Does he see the daughter who believes in her father’s innocence against the odds?

  Or does he see the fool with the DNA of a killer, who believes a liar when everyone around her knows the truth?

  Whatever he sees, he’s here when he probably shouldn’t be. He keeps my secret even from his own father when, in truth, he owes me nothing. He helps me when anyone else would’ve ditched me after my drunken shenanigans in the park.

  I climb slowly to my feet, and Jordan does the same. Without meeting his eyes, I walk forward and reach both arms around his waist for a quick hug. “Thank you.”

  He wraps both arms around me. “This isn’t over yet, Riley. Don’t give up.”

  His words and closeness steal my breath away. I step back instantly because it’s clear from that one moment that he is worse than any drug. All my nerves fire off in response to the way he smells, the way he feels, the way he looks at me. When I’m not
furious with him, he creates his own brand of potent intoxication.

  He’s a drug I can’t become hooked on, because I know he’ll leave eventually.

  “Okay then.” I turn and close my laptop, then my notebook, and stack them up. “We’ll just get the information another way.”

  Jordan watches me, curious. “What do you have in mind?”

  “My father used to be a lawyer. I mentioned it before, but his former partner is a close family friend and he’s represented Daddy in all his trials. He knows this case better than anyone.” I twist my lips to the side, thinking for a minute. “Maybe he can help me.”

  “When are you going to contact him?”

  “I’ll go to his office Monday.” I stretch my arms up, trying to relax the tight muscles down my back. “I’m in kind of a time crunch here, and he should have all the case details with him if I meet him there.”

  He jumps in quickly. “I have to watch Matthew, but I should be done early, around eleven.”

  I freeze in my semi-stretching position. “Uh, I’m not sure if—”

  “Let me come.” Jordan’s eyes plead with me and I drop my arms to my sides, uncertain. “Maybe I can help somehow?”

  I consider his words. Bringing Jordan with me could have no effect, or it could knock Mr. Masters off his game a bit. It could also make him angry, and he might not tell me anything, but playing it safe isn’t getting me anywhere. It’s time to start pushing boundaries. “Fine. You can meet me Monday afternoon, then?”

  “Absolutely.” He beams down at me, looking a little too pleased with himself as he follows me to the front door, and then out to his black monster of a bike.

  I chuckle with a rueful grin. “See you then.”

  “Text me with where you want to meet up.” When I start back toward the house, he continues. “Oh, and Riley?”

  I pivot back to face him, waiting.

  His eyes flash a challenge at me from across his front yard. “This time, I drive.”

  * * *

  When I wake up the next morning, Mama is waiting for me on the couch, sipping a cup of coffee. I sigh, deciding to take the bull by the horns, and walk straight up to her.

  “I know we’re going to talk, but I have some questions for you, too,” I blurt out before she has a chance to speak. “And I’d like to be awake enough to formulate them, so I’m taking a shower first.”

  I phrase it like a statement, but we both know it’s more of a question, so I wait. She watches me for a full thirty seconds before inclining her head without a word.

  I grab some clothes, head straight for the bathroom, and proceed with the hottest shower I’ve ever taken. By the time I’m done and have brushed my teeth and hair and gotten dressed, not only am I fully awake, but I’ve got a list of questions for Mama that may make her wish she hadn’t given me the time to shower.

  My hair drips wet and cool on my neck and back as I enter the room. A fresh plate of toast and a cup of juice are in front of the spot on the couch beside her, so I walk over and sit down.

  “Thank you,” I say, and before she can get started, I keep going. “Daddy says he didn’t do it. He says he had finally given up and was just trying to give us a way to a fresh start.”

  Confusion crinkles her brow, and I can honestly say I know exactly how she feels. “He said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “You’re welcome. I thought you would want to know.” And I brace myself.

  She nods and takes a single deep breath before starting in. “Why did you go to Polunsky after I asked you not to?” Her voice is stern, but I see hurt behind her eyes.

  “You know why I went, and I told you I was still going to go,” I respond without emotion.

  “You’ve never blatantly disobeyed me before.” Her tone softens.

  “You’ve never told me not to go see Daddy when he’s only weeks from execution before,” I respond back, matching her tone. She’s silent, but when I glance over she’s frowning. I decide it’s my turn to start asking questions.

  “Why did you tell me not to go? Why now?” I watch her face closely, and what I see there surprises me more than anything else could—it’s fear, and then it’s gone.

  “I just think maybe this is a time to keep our distance.”

  I pounce. “Why? Right now, for the first time in years, we have hope. How could you turn on him so quickly? Why back away now?”

  “I haven’t turned on him, but he’s never told anyone that he’s guilty before,” Mama hisses before sitting up straight and looking abashed.

  “Of course he hasn’t. Doesn’t it make sense to you that he could’ve given up? That he was trying to do something unselfish and help us let him go?” I settle back farther into the couch cushions, like I can use them to fortify my defenses.

  “Now is quite the time for him to start being unselfish,” Mama growls out so soft it’s almost like she’s talking more to herself than to me.

  I gasp and my muscles stiffen.

  “What do you mean? You think Daddy is selfish?” I frown in confusion. Mama has never spoken about Daddy like this. “He does nothing but worry about us when he’s the one stuck in that awful place.”

  Now the anger grabs hold and I stand up, raising my voice to her. “I have literally never even heard him complain. How can you say these things? It hasn’t been long since you started choosing work over him, over me, over everything you’re supposed to lov—”

  Mama is on her feet before I’ve even finished my sentence. I hear the crack when her slap lands brutally hard against my left cheek before I feel the burning sting of it. I lift my hand gingerly to my face and back away slowly, gaping at her. I’m in shock, and in pain, and I’m even more confused than before. Not only has Mama never struck me, but she’s never reacted with violence. Ever.

  Her mouth hangs open as she watches me put several feet between us, then she looks down at her hand like it’s some foreign object she doesn’t recognize. She hides it behind her back and shakes her head wordlessly as she stares at me.

  My left eye is stinging badly enough now that it starts to water, but I won’t let her see that. I turn and stalk toward my room.

  She yells after me, “Riley, wait!”

  I slam and lock the door. I know Mama has the key, so I slide my chair over to block it, but there’s no need. I don’t even hear her moving outside for at least twenty minutes. My own fuming movements and the soft sobs I can’t quite silence completely are the only things that break the stillness.

  Picking up my phone, I consider texting Jordan, but don’t because I don’t know what to say. He might be handling it okay that my father is a monster, but what if he knew that my mother has this penchant for violence inside of her also?

  Who are my parents? Are they anything they’ve always raised me to believe?

  I hear a soft knock on my door and I freeze, holding my breath.

  “I’m so sorry, Riley.” Her voice sounds near tears. “I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry.”

  Something hardens inside me and I don’t answer. I just wait and listen.

  “I’m leaving an ice pack out here for you. You should put it on your cheek.” Her voice breaks with remorse on the last word and my heart aches to get up and open the door. She goes on before I have a chance. “I’m going to the store for a while. I’m sorry. Please know, Riley, that I’m not your enemy.”

  My head echoes with her words. Each painful throb in my face makes me wonder if they’re true. Who are my mom and dad? Do I really know anything about them? They lived entire lives before I came along. How can I really know them when so much of their past has nothing to do with me? Everything I’ve built my world around cracks inside me and begins to shatter, then I’m crying for an entirely different reason than the pain.

  I sit in the quiet and ask myself the one question I’ve been avoiding for most of my life.

  How can we really know anyone?

  20

>   BEFORE I EVEN GET IN MY CAR the next day, I’ve already texted Jordan, asking him to meet me at the park. I arrive first and find some semicool shade to sit in while I hide from the blistering afternoon sun. I probably shouldn’t have come early. A hot day can make you feel like a Sunday pot roast in under five minutes.

  Thankfully, Jordan pulls in on his motorcycle a few minutes before I’m expecting him. When he takes off his helmet, his black hair shines in the sunlight. I carefully adjust my large, dark sunglasses against my sore cheekbone and wipe some sweat off the back of my neck. Why must Jordan always show up looking so good?

  He crosses toward me. “You going to tell me how you plan to get answers at the law offices tonight? Or is it some kind of requirement that you keep me in the dark?”

  “Not a requirement, but more fun.” I climb to my feet, dusting off my faded blue jeans. “Seriously though, it’s just one more place where I’m hoping that asking questions might get me somewhere.”

  “Still cryptic, but fair enough.”

  Before I can take a breath, he’s stepped up beside me. Jordan digs in his pocket, pulling out a ring with a single key on it. I look up at him in confusion until he tucks my arm into his and walks me back to his motorcycle. Once we’re beside it, he holds out a helmet toward me. “Remember, I’m driving.”

  I laugh at him like he’s joking until I realize he’s not. “Oh, I’m sorry, I agreed because I thought you meant you wanted to drive my car.” I take one step back toward the safety of my nice, enclosed automobile.

  “Nope. We’re taking my bike and you’re going to love it.”

  “But I have the directions to the law offices.” I clamor for any excuse not to get on his deathmobile.

  He lowers his brows, clearly recognizing my excuse for the lame attempt that it is. “I do know my way around Houston, Riley. Louisiana Street isn’t exactly hard to find.”

  I try to think of another, more valid argument that doesn’t just make me sound scared—and come up empty. Many law firms in Houston are located on Louisiana Street. Daddy’s had been there since long before he went to jail. I haven’t been by the office in a while, but Jordan’s right, it isn’t difficult to get there.