Chapter 11 - The Body in Victor’s House
Harris had been shot once in the chest.
Victor’s registered handgun lay beside the body.
Victor’s fingerprints were on it.
It looked painfully familiar.
A weapon.
A body.
Evidence arranged to point toward one person.
Victor stared at the crime scene photographs.
“He’s doing it again.”
I looked at him.
“Who?”
Victor whispered.
“Noah.”
Rachel went pale.
“No.”
Victor turned toward her.
“You don’t know him anymore.”
“He is my son.”
“He hates me.”
“He has reasons.”
Victor laughed.
“That does not make him innocent.”
The police detained Victor.
This time, he did not fight.
Before they took him away, he looked at me.
“Claire.”
I said nothing.
“Harris called me yesterday.”
“Why?”
“He wanted money.”
“For what?”
“To leave.”
“Did you meet him?”
“No.”
“Then how did he end up in your house?”
Victor shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
I almost believed him.
That frightened me.
The family had become a maze where every person could be guilty of one thing and innocent of another.
Rebecca drove me to the prison.
Mom entered the visitation room wearing gray.
When she saw me, she knew.
“You found out.”
I sat across from her.
“You thought I stabbed Dad.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“You were seventeen.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“I know that now.”
“You were going to die for me.”
She lowered her head.
“I thought I was saving you.”
“You almost died because you wouldn’t tell me the truth.”
Her face crumpled.
“I know.”
I cried.
“You wrote me for six years asking me to believe you.”
“I was innocent of murder.”
“But you let me believe I might have been the reason.”
“You didn’t remember.”
“I could have helped.”
“You were a child.”
“I was your daughter.”
Silence.
That sentence hurt both of us.
Mom reached toward the glass.
“I’m sorry.”
For six years, I had imagined what I would say if I ever believed her.
None of it mattered.
I pressed my hand against the glass.
She did the same.
“I’m sorry too.”
Mom shook her head.
“No.”
“I believed them.”
“You were seventeen.”
“You wrote me.”
“I know.”
“I couldn’t answer.”
“You’re answering now.”
We sat like that for a long time.
Then I asked.
“Who is Noah?”
Mom’s expression changed.
“You know about him.”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the guard.
Then lowered her voice.
“Your father was afraid of Noah.”
“Why?”
“Because Noah found out something Michael never told anyone else.”
“What?”
May you like
Mom stared at me.
“Michael Hayes was not your biological father.”
