Deceptions: A Cainsville Novel (32 page)

W
as it possible that the Tysons had killed the first two victims? While my gut embraced it, my brain threw up a stop sign. It was like saying . . . well, it was like saying Cainsville had been settled by fairies. Seemingly preposterous.

“I don’t know,” Gabriel said as we slid into his car. I hadn’t asked a question. I didn’t have to. “We need to break it down.”

He started the car. When I said nothing by the first turn, he glanced at me and jerked his chin. I knew what he meant. Work this out aloud for him.

“There are a bunch of questions we’d need answered before we could seriously consider it,” I said. “Questions that we can’t get answers to, because the suspects are dead. Long dead. Where were Lisa and Marty on the night of the Mays and Perkins murders? Do they have an alibi? Any chance we can put them in the vicinity? Any chance of finding the murder weapon? That’s all gone, washed away by time. They were never suspects, so there’s no way to answer those questions now.”

A quick look. I understood that one, too.
Don’t dwell on what we can’t answer.

“The big connection, then, is the so-called satanism,” I said as I took out my notebook and started writing. “We might be able to dig up something. Getting details from Imogen would help. Once we’ve come up with a list of questions for her, we can use her mother to our advantage. The woman doesn’t want anyone messing with her baby. We can convince her that there’s no way to avoid that, and compared to the police, we’re the lesser evil. Obviously, the police would still speak to her after we made our case, but I don’t think Imogen or her momma are bright enough to realize that.”

“Agreed.” Gabriel paused. “We can convince her to talk. The fact she withheld evidence and watched your parents be convicted of the murders would be important leverage.”

“Blackmail.”

“
Persuasion
. With an implied penalty for failure to be persuaded.”

“I’ll let you handle that,” I said. “Back to the witchcraft or whatever. That could explain why we never connected the ritual to anything else. There are elements of Druidism, but nothing that more strongly suggested an actual fae influence. If it was the Tysons who devised the ritual, it would be exactly what your experts concluded: a mishmash of elements taken from God-knows-where. If the Tysons killed the first victims, then they established the pattern, meaning the pattern itself would be meaningless. The ritual elements. The method. The locations. Even the day of the week.” I stopped writing. “But that
was
significant. It was my parents’ date night.”

“I would suspect Friday is a popular date night. Meaning a good time for the Tysons to find a couple.”

I nodded and made a note of that. “Wait—what about the eyewitness who ID’d my parents as the people fleeing the first crime scene? She picked them out of a lineup, right?”

“Yes, but if I recall correctly, the Tysons were roughly the same age, body type, and coloring. They didn’t resemble one another in any significant way, but if the witness spotted them from a distance, it would be close enough, particularly if the lineup was skewed. I’ll look into that further.”

“If the Tysons killed Mays and Perkins, then my parents were following their pattern. Trying to hide the crime by emulating the victims’ own crimes. Which would throw a serious wrench into any investigation.”

“It would have been an even bigger wrench if there had been any forensic evidence with the first couple. Fingerprints. DNA. I could have gotten your parents off with that. It’s reasonable doubt.”

“Just their bad luck, then, that the Tysons were good. Or lucky. Which may also explain why the Cwn Annwn took an interest. If they needed my parents to commit murders and their purview is killing killers, the Tysons would have been an ideal case. They left no clues, so they stood little chance of being caught and convicted.” I paused, thinking it through. “Chandler and Evans copycatted their murders with Jan and Pete—after my parents copied the Tysons. So the chances that someone else murdered the third pair, in yet another act of copying . . .”

“. . . is infinitesimally small.” He drove another half block before saying, “Still, does this help?”

“Does it make it easier, you mean?” I closed the notebook, my forefinger still marking the page. “Little steps, you know? Along a continuum. At one end, my parents are sadistic monsters who deserve to rot in jail. At the other, they’re innocent victims of a cruel miscarriage of justice. Finding out that they didn’t kill Jan and Peter took them a step away from the monster end. Learning they killed only four people, who were likely murderers themselves? Short of innocence, it’s the best I could have hoped for. The Huntsman was right—I wanted simple. Black or white. This isn’t anywhere
near
either.”

“No, it isn’t.”

I flipped open the notebook. “Still, it’s only a theory. As you’ve told me many times, I can’t get too attached to it. We have work to do.”

“True. But . . .” He idled at the light. “It’s a solid theory. Very solid. I think you should prepare yourself to accept that this is the answer. Of all the ones you could find, there’s only one better,” he said. “And we knew innocence was unlikely. This is good.”

“I know.”

“If I can prove the Tysons killed the first victims, it will throw the case wide open. With that, I should be able to set your parents free.” He met my gaze. “Is that what you want?”

“It is.”

—

We needed answers, and the quickest way to get them was to go straight to the source: my parents. Yes, that’s what they were to me. My parents. They had been for a while, even if I hadn’t realized the shift. That didn’t change what I felt for my adoptive parents. They were still Mum and Dad. But those were names for a child, and I was no longer a child. The Larsens were Todd and Pamela. My father and my mother.

My first choice was Todd. It had been when I was a child, whether I’d skinned my knee or drawn a picture—he was the one I went to. Gabriel called the prison and bullied some poor desk clerk, but Todd was still off limits. That left Pamela. Which meant this would be tougher.

I asked Gabriel to stay out this time. He agreed without hesitation. I needed to win her confidence, and I wouldn’t do that with Gabriel in tow.

In the past, when I’ve wanted something from Pamela—which is, admittedly, every time I’ve visited—I’ve gotten straight down to business. Stick before carrot.
Be straight with me and then we can be mother and daughter for a while.
Now I reversed the process. I talked about my life. I had a new job as a research assistant. A crappy but comfortable apartment. A cat. And a boyfriend. I was most honest about Ricky, because that’s where I could light up, let her see how happy I was, and even if “biker MBA student” wasn’t her idea of son-in-law material, she focused on the student part of that, proof that the biker half was a young man trapped in his family business, working his way out.

In my openness, I manipulated her. I accept responsibility for that.

“I know about the spina bifida,” I said finally.

She jerked back as if I’d slapped her, and I wish I could say I felt guilty. But I only leaned across the table and lowered my voice. “I know about the deal with the Cwn Annwn, and if you deny it, I’m going to walk out.”

She went very still.

“I need to ask something I
don’t
know. Something I only suspect. Please listen until I’m done, okay? I know this isn’t easy for you.” I locked gazes with her. “But it’s not easy for me, either.”

She pressed her lips together, as if to ensure she wouldn’t interrupt.

“I think you didn’t kill Amanda Mays and Ken Perkins. I think it was the Tysons. The Cwn Annwn needed lives as part of the deal they offered you. They chose the Tysons. They also chose Stacey Pasolini and Eddie Hilton—I don’t know why, but I’m presuming it was a similar reason. The Cwn Annwn could justify their deaths, and so
you
could justify their deaths. Am I correct in those assumptions?”

She said nothing. I inched forward, close enough to earn the attention of a guard before I eased back.

“I know you aren’t innocent. The fact I’m not in a wheelchair proves that. So either you stopped killers, or you murdered innocents. Which would you have me believe?”

I could see the struggle in her eyes, the muscles in her cheeks twitching. I pushed my chair back.

“Then I’ll speak to my father.”

She shot up so fast I jumped. So did the guard. Pamela froze. Then she sank back into her chair. After a deep breath, she reached out, her hand going over mine.

“Have you seen him?” she asked.

“Yes, but he doesn’t have anything to do with what I discovered. I hit the medical lead when I went searching for my records. Things kept piling up until I made the connection. Someone from the Tylwyth Teg confirmed that spina bifida is a common condition among those with their blood. Someone from the Cwn Annwn confirmed the deal they made, and then they set me on the Tysons’ trail. My father had nothing to do with any of that.”

A lie, but I could tell I pulled it off.

“He would admit to it. He wants—” She looked up. “He
needs
you to believe in him, Eden. He needs you to believe he’s not a killer. At heart, he isn’t. He’s just a man who would have done anything to help his little girl. Those two things collided—the gentle man and the devoted father—and one had to give. It was never going to be the father. Never.”

And there it was. The confession. I sat there, processing it, accepting it. That came more easily than I might have expected. There’d been such a slow build to this moment, so many possible answers, so many times I’d been certain the answer would be “my parents are sociopaths.” Gabriel was right—this was a good answer. Imperfect but acceptable.

“Okay,” I said. “I understand why you did it—”

I was going to say I understood even if I didn’t agree, but as soon as I said “you did it,” she flinched, and I stopped.

“It
was
both of you,” I said slowly. “Wasn’t it?”

A shot in the dark. But when I took it, the look on her face, guilt and more, so much more . . .

“It was him,” I whispered. “All him.”

Her head snapped up. “No. Never. It was a joint decision and a joint action. We both—”

“No, you didn’t,” I said. “He did. Only him.”

“I . . .” Her mouth worked, panic filling her face as if she was trying to get the words out and couldn’t. “I . . .”

“Why are you in prison, then?” I said. “If it was my father, and only my father—”

“I couldn’t do it,” she blurted. “My nerve failed and
I
failed. I failed you. I wasn’t strong enough. He told me the deal, and I refused to consider it. So he did it without me knowing.”

“But you were together on those nights.”

“We . . . we didn’t have a lot of money. We wanted a house for you, and it all went into that, so on our date nights we’d just go for walks. In the forest. Your father always liked the wilderness.” Not surprising, given his bloodline. “We’d walk and then . . . we’d take some time alone.” Uh-huh. Pretty sure I knew what that meant, but I sure as hell wasn’t asking for confirmation. “Afterward, we’d fall asleep for a couple of hours, with his watch alarm set. All I remember from those nights is that I slept very well. I presume there was something in the wine. We never discussed it.”

“But you went to jail. For something you didn’t do.”

Her eyes flashed. “For something I
should
have done.
We
should have done, together. The DNA evidence was mine, Eden. I’m presuming someone planted it there. Maybe the Cwn Annwn—I never trusted them. Or maybe one of their enemies. After that, how could I claim innocence without turning him in? Turning
on
him? As long as we both proclaimed our innocence, there was a chance we’d both be freed. I was willing to take that chance. I still am, and I always will be.”

Y
ou should celebrate,” Gabriel said as he pulled out of the prison parking lot.

“Um . . .”

“When we first met, you were trying to reconcile yourself to the fact that your parents were cold-blooded serial killers. You know now that they are not. Your father killed four people, all of whom, I suspect, deserved it, and he did it out of love for you. Your mother is completely innocent. That’s a long way to come, Olivia.” He looked at me. “It is.”

“I know, but . . .”

“Yes, perhaps ‘celebration’ is the wrong word. But you deserve an evening to appreciate what you’ve accomplished, and to relax. So that is what you’re going to do. I insist. We’re going to . . . not celebrate.”

I managed a laugh.

“You know what I mean,” he said. “We’re taking the night off, and you’re going to enjoy it.”

“Yes, sir.”

His fingers tapped the wheel. There’d been an electricity in the car, an excitement after I’d explained. I could be brutally pragmatic and say Gabriel was happy at learning his client really was innocent. He was also happy that resolving this would free us to investigate James’s death and clear Gabriel’s own name. But I’d like to think he was also happy for me, for
us
, having gone through all this together and finally finding an answer, the second-best possible solution.

He’d made his offer of a celebration in a surge of ebullience. Now, when my reaction wasn’t what he’d hoped, that wave crashed and the energy seemed to suck back into him, like a black hole.

“That sounds good,” I said. “Really good.”

His hands relaxed on the wheel. “Does it?”

“A moment to lift our heads from the cesspool and recognize how far we’ve
both
come before we dive back in again.”

A soft chuckle. “That doesn’t exactly invoke the mood I was aiming for . . .”

“You know what I mean. Yes, I’d like a not-celebratory evening, please.”

My phone buzzed, and he tensed. “Ricky?”

“Mmm. Hold on.” I texted back. “He’s just checking in.”

He kept his gaze on the road. “If you would rather spend the evening . . .”

“He has homework to catch up on.”

He drove two blocks in silence. Then, “I
would
understand if you wanted to spend the evening with Ricky. A lot has happened today, and he’s . . . better with that sort of thing. We could do this another time. I mean that. I would understand.”

“You’re the one who had to put up with me through this whole mess. So you’re the one who has to not-celebrate with me, too.”

A flicker of a smile. “All right, then. We will do something special. Not dinner. Something different. Something fun.” He paused, and I could smell smoke as his brain whirred, furiously searching for a
fun
activity. The longer he struggled, the harder I had to bite my cheek to keep from laughing.

“Can I make a suggestion?” I said. “Since it’s my noncelebration?”

He exhaled in relief. “Yes. Please.”

—

We went to the beach. I’d remembered being at Villa Tuscana with Gabriel, before everything went wrong, how we’d walked down the steps and I’d talked about sitting out by the lake with a bottle of wine. That’s what I wanted to do. Not there, of course. But I wanted that feeling again.

We spent the afternoon in the office, working on James’s murder, so we wouldn’t feel guilty about the evening off. Then we bought wine and drove up to my spot. It was a wild place, all driftwood and long grass and thin stretches of sand mingled with eroded, treacherous paths. No one came here—there were better, safer, more scenic places.

I took off my shoes and socks before I even climbed out of the car, and I rolled up my pant legs. Gabriel got out, still in his suit and his loafers.

“Uh, gotta at least take off your shoes,” I said.

“I’ll be fine.”

I didn’t argue. Gabriel had to experience an obstacle for himself, which he did, as soon as we’d walked fifty feet and hit a patch where the path vanished, and water swelled over the sand. Gabriel eyed the lake as if he could intimidate it into retreating. It refused to yield.

As I waded in, Gabriel headed farther up the shore, only to curse as he stepped on boggy ground.

“You’re stubborn, you know that?” I called.

He grumbled under his breath.

“This is a beach, Gabriel,” I said. “No Ferragamos allowed.”

He looked down at his shoes.

I sighed. “All right. Fine. There’s a boardwalk a few miles up. We’ll drive—”

“No, I can do this.”

He started back toward the car. Then he lifted a finger, as if I might think he was making his escape. I walked to a small embankment and perched on the edge, my toes in the water, sinking into the mud below.

“Better?” he said when he returned a few minutes later.

I turned. He hadn’t just taken off his shoes and socks. He’d rolled his trousers and lost the coat and tie, even if the top button on his shirt was still fastened.

“Much better. Now let’s walk. By the way, I want a house right there.” I pointed at the windswept plateau above the lake’s edge. “A tiny house with a huge porch. I’ll come out every morning, with my coffee and my newspaper, and I’ll watch the sun rise.”

“I don’t think you can get newspaper delivery here.”

“You and your practicality.”

He chuckled as I climbed the incline to the grassy rise. I stood on the edge, face lifted as the wind whipped my hair back.

“My porch will be here. And if you mention the high probability of erosion, I will throw this bottle of wine in your general direction.”

“It’s a magical spot. There’s no erosion.”

“Thank you. I’ll sit on my porch with my coffee and my
book
every morning. I might even, on occasion, bring work. You will not, however, be able to check that I’m doing it, because I will have no cell service.”

He looked at his phone. “Actually, there is—”

“I will find a provider that doesn’t cover this spot, except on Tuesdays, if the wind is blowing north and I hold my phone just right. Otherwise, I am out of contact.”

“That might not be safe.”

“It’d be safer for everyone else. I can’t call for help and get you guys killed by a roving pack of evil elves.”

I moved to the edge of the bank and lowered myself to the ground. “Come and sit on my porch. It’s time to open the wine.”

He climbed up, then looked at the spot beside me.

“Yes,” I said. “There is dirt. The earth is made of it.”

“I was actually checking for bird droppings.”

“There are those, too, in the dirt.”

He sat beside me and pulled the corkscrew out of a pocket. “I thought you wanted a house of ruins?”

“I do. And a pretty little cottage on the beach. And a ramshackle cabin in the woods. Also, a Victorian with English gardens. Oh, and a condo with a view.”

He pulled the cork. “Which are you going to get first, once your trust fund comes in?”

When I didn’t reply, he said, “Wrong subject?”

“I want the freedom money gives me, but I’d rather have earned my own.”

“It is your own.”

“You know what I mean. If anything, it should go to the Tylwyth Teg, for finding me rich parents. Which brings up a whole other category of subjects I’d rather ignore tonight.”

“I always wanted a Victorian house,” he said.

“Like Rose’s?”

“No, I want a haunted one.”

I laughed. “You want pet ghosts?”

“Not haunted by
ghosts
. Just haunted.” He passed me the wine. “We forgot glasses.”

I drank from the bottle. “Mine now. I have cooties. Little guys, with wings.”

He retrieved the bottle. “I believe I have the same ones.”

“So, your haunted house,” I prompted.

He drank deeply, his eyes tearing at the corners, as if he were slugging hundred-proof moonshine instead of Bordeaux.

“There was this house,” he said. “When I was a boy. We moved a few times, but it was often within walking distance. It was condemned and boarded up. An old Victorian on a street of slums. I thought it was the fanciest house I’d ever seen. It probably reminded me of Rose’s, but it was this big, run-down, rambling place. Inside, though, you could see hints of what it had been. The flooring. The plasterwork. Even some antique furniture. It felt haunted, but in a good way. Memories and history. I would find things inside and imagine the families that had owned them. I used to tell myself that one day, when I was financially well off, I’d go back and fix it up.”

“Is it still there?”

He shook his head. “Long gone. Demolished. I’d never have bought it. Practicalities.” He snuck a look my way. “I can’t avoid them.”

“No one can, not if they have a drop of sense. You’d go back, and you’d see that it’d be a money pit in a bad neighborhood, and you’d feel like you’d lost that dream. Better it was removed due to circumstances beyond your control.”

“Yes, that’s it exactly.” He sipped from the bottle this time. “I would have felt guilty choosing, too. I’d want the condo, and I’d feel like I abandoned the house. Which sounds silly.”

“It’s not about the house. It’s about the dream.”

“Yes.” Another gulp of wine before he passed it back. “The condo was a dream, too. When I was in college, I had to do a joint project. Normally, I could wriggle out of them or do all the work myself, but this guy insisted on working together. We’d go to his father’s, an apartment in the building where I live now. I’d see that view and . . .”

“You wanted it.”

“I did. Part of it was just setting the goal.
This is what I’ll have someday.
A status symbol. But really, I wanted the view.”

“It’s a million-dollar one.”

“It is.” A crooked smile. “Luckily, when the housing market crashed, I got it for less. But it was nice to achieve that goal earlier than I expected.” He undid the top button on his shirt and leaned back, his hands braced behind him. “I wouldn’t mind a secondary residence. As an investment, of course. That’s the only way I could justify it. But . . .” He took off his shades, the sun having dropped almost below the horizon. “Someplace quieter. The condo is quiet, in its way . . .”

“But it’s still in the heart of a very big city.”

“It is.”

I took a hit from the wine bottle. “So tell me what you’d want. Perfect world. No practicalities.”

“There are always practicalities.”

“Pretend there aren’t.”

When he said, “I don’t think I can,” there was a look in his eyes almost like panic.

“Allow for them, then,” I said. “Just don’t dwell on them. What would you want? Forest, lake, mountain, ocean . . .”

“Meadow,” he said. “Not the most exciting landscape—”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s whatever you want.”

“Meadow, then,” he said. “Grass as far as the eye can see. A stream running through it. Forest around it, blocking everything else. I’d build a house . . .”