The Drowning Child

51

Ren woke up at six a.m. the next morning, on her back, sweating, her hands in fists, her jaw clenched.

One week... nothing.

Fuck this shit.

She got up.

I need to get rid of this energy or I will beat someone.

She packed her overnight bag for Denver, then changed into shorts, a tank, and sneakers, put her hair up in a ponytail and went to the third-floor gym.

This is not a gym; it’s a supply room.

An empty one, at least.

She got on the only treadmill there and started jogging. She speeded it up after five minutes.

Run, bitch, run.

Fuck John Veir, the fucking liar.

Why were you at Lister Creek? What have you done?

She pictured grabbing him by the throat, slamming him up against a wall, and asking him.

Stop.

What is wrong with me?

Where are you, Caleb Veir?

She pushed the speed button three times and ran faster. She upped the speed again. She took deep, rhythmic breaths, could feel it beginning to calm her. She started to go back over everything, all the conversations, the files she had read, who she had believed, who she didn’t, why she didn’t. She got flashes of all the images that came with the case over the previous week.

What the fuck is going on?

When she got into Tate PD, she checked her email – there was one from Emma Ridley from the Innocence Project with the Anthony Boyd Lorden file. Ren read through the original autopsy report, then the second report, including the forensic anthropologist’s views on it being a possible accident.

I’m buying this. I wonder why Alice Veir isn’t.

There was also a police sketch in the file: the flawed eyewitness testimony that Alice Veir had mentioned, but that wasn’t featured in the television show. The face looked familiar: a little like Lorden, but not a lot. Not enough that it should have been taken as seriously as it was. The eyewitness claimed he saw a man pulled in at the side of the road not too far from where the remains were ultimately found... at the time Lorden claimed he was at home with his parents.

Hold on... the TV show. The lawyers. They were all introduced as going to be speaking at ‘next month’s International Innocence Program Conference in Portland’. That means it was on this month.

Ren grabbed her laptop and googled it.

Holy shit: day three of the conference was last Monday, the day Caleb went missing.

Ren clicked on the conference program. One speaker’s name popped out at her: Alice Veir. And a second: Paula Leon, a lawyer from Maine.

Ren called the team over. ‘I’ve found a link between Alice Veir and Paula Leon, the lawyer whose rental car was seen at Lister Creek rest area at the same time as John Veir’s.’ She pointed to the screen.

‘This video is of Leon – she spoke at two p.m., exactly when her car was at Lister Creek rest area. So, someone else was driving her car. And the chances of that being anyone other than Alice Veir are pretty slim.’

Everybody was silent, processing what she was saying.

‘Alice Veir borrowed Leon’s car to go meet her brother,’ said Ren. ‘John Veir was the one who called Alice that morning, told her he’d killed Caleb, asked her to drive down and meet him there, so she could take the body, get rid of it.’

Gary looked at Ren.

Unreadable.

‘Why else would he be meeting her that afternoon, around that time, and lie about it?’ said Ren.

‘Do you really think she’s going to go along with that?’ said Gary. ‘A woman like her? A high-profile lawyer with a strong sense of justice?’

‘Yes!’ said Ren. ‘If she had no choice.’

‘Of course she’d have a choice,’ said Gary. ‘Seriously – would your brother cover up for you like that?’

They locked eyes when they realized what he’d said.

Yes, my brother has covered for me. He’s covered for all of us.

But not quite like this. Not fucking quite.

Gary turned to Paul Louderback. ‘If your sister called you, and said she’d killed your nephew, would you cover for her?’

‘Depends on which nephew,’ said Paul.

Everyone laughed.

I’m right. I know I am.

‘We need to bring John Veir in,’ said Ren.

‘We need to wait until we have more on Lister Creek,’ said Gary. ‘It may not have been Alice Veir driving, there could be another reason why John Veir stopped there. This could be nothing to do with Caleb.’

Don’t be so fucking measured.

‘He could have been getting rid of something in the garbage,’ said Ruddock. ‘We’ll check which landfill site their garbage collection goes to, organize a search.’

‘He could have gone to the men’s room, left something behind there for Alice to pick up,’ said Gary.

‘And we need to wait to get a hold of Paula Leon,’ said Paul. ‘I think your theory is right about the car, Ren, but if we can hear it directly from Leon...’

Fuck you all: I want to hear it from John Veir right now.

The group broke up and went their separate ways. Ren checked the time.

My flight!

She grabbed her purse and went into Ruddock’s office.

‘I wanted to apologize for getting emotional last night,’ she said.

Ruddock batted her away. ‘I won’t hear a word of it.’

‘You’re very kind,’ said Ren. ‘And then I pull a gun on your nephew...’

‘Well, I think he’s proven he likes a little excitement from the ladies.’

Ren laughed.

‘I called Eileen Dennehy,’ said Ruddock, ‘which was probably terrifying for her – this is her first encounter with the family and she’s at the receiving end of an interrogation...’

‘Interrogation...’ Ren laughed.

‘She had nothing new to add,’ said Ruddock, ‘except she did ask me to check lost property for her mother’s cell phone, which I did, but no one had handed it in.’

‘I’m off to Denver,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back late tomorrow night, so I’ll see you first thing Wednesday.’

Ruddock nodded. ‘Safe trip.’

She turned to walk away.

‘Do you still have that thing,’ said Ruddock, ‘when you get on the plane, or the plane’s about to land?’

She looked back at him.

‘That feeling of “there’s no one to care if I’ve got here on time, or if I’ve landed safely”? No one to text.’

‘I do,’ said Ren. ‘I do.’

‘Well, lots of people care,’ said Ruddock. ‘Remember that.’

What a gorgeous soul. ‘Thank you.’

‘Safe trip.’

When Ren landed, as soon as she turned on her cell phone, it beeped with a text.

Her heart flipped.

Joe Lucchesi.

Screw you, heart, you independently operating asshole.

Ren decided to stay at a hotel in Denver instead of staying in her apartment. She didn’t want the coldness, the bareness, the memories.

She knew where Joe Lucchesi would be staying – where he always stayed when he came to visit his son: The Maker Hotel, sleek, stylish, sexy. Ren booked an olde-worlde, cozy, chintzy hotel.

Safe. Unsexy.

She checked in, sat on the bed, looked out at the lights of the city. She took out her phone, opened Joe’s text, and stared at it for a while.

This will be a shitshow. We are both fucked-up, damaged beyond repair. If you meet, you will feel worse.

If that’s at all possible, you will feel worse.

She texted one of two letters of the alphabet that had caused her so much trouble in the past:

Followed by a double-dose of the other: