Leave Me Love (8 page)

THEY MADE ME
wait in the interrogation room for three hours with no contact or interaction before Detective Gray and his potbellied partner came in. I wondered if they'd fall into the good cop/bad cop role and, if so, who would be what. From my vantage point, they were both bad cops.

Detective Gray sat across from me and dropped Bridgette's journal in front of me. "This tells an interesting tale, Miss Travis. One of escalating anger and out
-of-control outbursts toward Bridgette and others. One of a young woman who began to fear for her safety around her best friend. One that ends the day she was kidnapped after multiple people saw and heard you fight with her."

My heart sped up and I wished I'd had time to fill the anti-anxiety
prescription before coming here. It would be useful right now.

"I
s there a question in there somewhere or are you just talking to hear yourself talk?" I asked, surprised my voice sounded so calm and cold considering how absolutely terrified I felt inside.

"That's not a very cooperative attitude for someone who claims to care about her best friend," Gray said.

"I've told you everything I know," I said, my voice getting louder. "What else do you want from me?"

"I want to know what happened the day your friend disappeared. I want to know why you're lying to us about going to the impound lot that day. I want to know why she was scared of you." His voice rose to match mine and his partner stood in the corner, his face unreadable.

I guess I was getting the bad cop/silent cop treatment today.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Brig wasn't scared of me or anyone else. And
, yeah, we had fights. What roommates don't fight sometimes? But I love her and would never hurt her. You should be out there looking for the Midnight Murderer. He's the one who has her, not me."

He pulled pictures out of a file and laid them in front of me. "We found a lot of blood
on the Beaumonts’ back porch. Our labs matched it with Bridgette's. This much blood means she might not still be alive."

My face drained of feeling, and probably color. I couldn't keep listening to this, couldn't let them talk about her like she was already dead and I was a suspect.

"That's not possible. He has her. I told you. The message on the wall. The note."

Gray sneered. "R
ight. The disappearing note that only you have ever seen and the lipstick message on the wall anyone could have written, including you. The man at the impound lot that only you have seen. No one there matches the description you gave us and no one claims to have seen you that day."

This didn't make any sense. I wasn't crazy. I wasn't making it up.

"You have to dig deeper. Look harder. Someone's trying to set me up. The guy who killed my parents is still out there."

"So you say," he said. "But we have a different theory. We think that you have become addicted to the attention of being a victim, that when Lucky was captured you couldn't handle falling into anonymity, so you had to create a story that would keep you in the limelight. We think that Bridgette knew you were snapping and was trying to help you, but you two fought. And that day,
when you snapped, maybe it was an accident. Maybe you didn't mean to hurt her. If that's the case, and you confess, we can help you. Get you help. But if you don't tell us what happened, there's nothing we can do."

The roar in my head took over and I pushed my chair back and stood, screaming at Gray as I leaned over the table to hit him, to stop him from saying these things. "She's not dead. I didn't do anything. You're lying. You're in on it. All of you are in on it
!"

The silent partner in the corner rushed me, yanking my arms back aggressively and putting my wrists in too-tight handcuffs that pressed painfully ag
ainst my still-healing scars. They dragged me down the hall and into a cell, locking me behind bars and leaving me alone. At least they'd taken off the handcuffs.

I fell to my knees, sobbing and pulling at my hair, knowing everything in my life was about to crash down around me.

***

I don't know how long I sat there on the dirty floor, tears streaking my face, before a different police officer came and escorted me out. "Your bail's been posted. You can leave."

Ash was waiting for me in the front room, his face lined with worry and fear. "Catelyn, oh my God, what did they do to you?"

I threw myself into his arms, shaking and crying. He put his arms around me and stroked my back. "Let's get you home. We'll deal with these assholes later."

He glared at Gray who shrugged in a 'just doing my job' way.

"You'll be hearing from my lawyer," Ash said.

I looked up at him. "Lawyer?"

He stroked my face. "You need a good lawyer
, sweetheart. This is serious."

"For what? I didn't do anything wrong. I can represent myself."

"Catelyn, you're not a real lawyer yet and my guy is the best. Trust me."

Gray smirked. "Listen to your boyfriend, Miss Travis. You're going to need one, but it's probably not going to help. Not with what we have. See you soon."

MAXWELL FISHER, ESQUIRE
, was a tall, lean man with impeccably cut sandy blond hair, an infectious smile and blue eyes. He looked trustworthy and likable and I knew every female jury member would be hot for him by the end of the trial. The guys would probably all want to buy him a beer just to feel cool. He was that kind of guy.

I didn't trust him at all.

He asked Ash to wait in the lobby while he escorted me to an expensive office with plush leather furniture and polished dark wood everywhere. Law books lined the walls behind his desk—books I'm sure he didn't use often.

I saw one book I recognized and went to pull it from his shelf, opening it to my mother's familiar signature. "You knew her?"

He nodded. "Fierce lawyer. The only time I ever lost was to her." He took the book from me and opened to the acknowledgements, showing me his name in it. "We respected each other, Alice and I. Her death came as a shock to us all."

"Murder," I said.

"What's that?" He put the book back on the shelf.

"Murder. She was murdered. She didn't just die, she was killed."

"Of course."

"And you might have defended her murderer, had it come to that."

He sat down behind his desk, where a legal pad and pen sat unused and waiting.

I sat
on the chair in front of the desk, crossing my legs and holding eye contact with him.

"I wouldn't have taken the case, Catelyn. Not to defend the potential murderer of your mother."

"But someone would have."

He nodded. "Yes. That's our system. You of all people should know that."

"He's still out there," I said.

"I've heard that's your theory."

“It’s more than a theory." I took him through everything that had happened, pointing out the key facts that lent credibility to my case.

"Why?" he asked. "What does he want from you? What does he want with Bridgette?"

"My mom's other book, the one she never published. It names
names
. It names
his
name. He wants it, and he thinks I know where it is."

Maxwell leaned forward, his eyes greedy. "Do you?"

"No, I don't. I don't think it even exists, but the killer seems to think it does."

He sat back, his expression disappointed. "They're going to try to pin this on you, and they're not without evidence."

"The evidence is fake," I said.

"We have no proof of that."

"Do you believe me?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter what I believe, only what I can prove in court. And I'm going to prove you're inno
cent."

His answer wasn't satisfying, but it would have to do.

"First, Catelyn, I need you to tell me everything. Every secret, every misdeed, every skeleton. I can't help you if you're not 100% honest with me. I will never tell anyone, not even Ash. But you can't hold anything back from me or we're both fucked."

"I've told you everything," I said.

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't think you've told me everything. I'm a very good read of these things."

I took a deep breath, weighing my options, trying to decide if I could really trust him. I looked over at the book my mother had signed to him. She respected him
. That had to count for something. Ash trusted him. That counted for more.

"If I tell you, you can't tell anyone. Ever."

THAT NIGHT I
read through my mother's book again, looking for any clues that could help me. When I came to the acknowledgments, my eyes landed on my lawyer's name. Maxwell Fisher. How close had they been? Did they ever talk or meet outside of court? Did he know something about her murder that he wasn't telling me?

Ash came into the living room and sat next to me, clicking on the news while running his hand over my neck, rubbing the tension out.

Bridgette's kidnapping was headline news on each network. Various talking heads speculated about our relationship, about the Midnight Murderer and if I'd somehow snapped from the pressure. The police weren't helping matters any, strongly indicating I was the primary suspect without actually naming me. Ash was on the phone with Maxwell before the story ended, demanding he find a way to reign in “the assholes destroying my girlfriend's reputation with unsubstantiated lies and made up bullshit.”

Jim
came over that night with new information. Once again, as he looked at me, I felt like he was seeing into my secrets.

"I found the guy you saw that day at the impound," he said.

"Great. We can get him to go the police and confirm my alibi." I was relieved to finally have a break.

He frowned. "
I found him in the morgue. He died in a car accident later that afternoon."

My legs wobbled. "That
—that can't be a coincidence."

Jim
nodded. "I don't disagree with you. Here's the next best thing, though." He held up a piece of paper. "I tracked down the guy on duty the day you allegedly signed your name to the paperwork. I can check him out if you want."

I grabbed the paper from his hand. "I want to go and talk to him myself. I want to hear him explain to me how I was there signing my name. I want to see if he recognizes me."

Jim spoke to Ash, rather than me. "It could be dangerous. You should let me."

Ash took out his wallet and handed the man a wad of cash. "I'll go with her. It'll be fine. Keep digging and see what else you can find. And thanks."

***

We drove to the
address on the slip of paper Jim had given us and found ourselves at a run-down apartment complex with peeling paint and homeless men squatting outside chain-smoking cigarettes. A man with a beer belly and two-day-old beard answered the door, the few remaining strands of hair on his head combed over to cover his spreading bald spot. He had a Budweiser in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and armpit sweat stains on his used-to-be-white shirt.

And he smelled like piss.

I introduced myself, but saw no flicker of recognition on his face.

"Sir, you work at the impound lot where my car was taken. Someone signed my name for it, and I need to know who that was." I gave him the details of my car and the date.

He scratched his head with the hand that held the cigarette, dropping ash onto himself. "I don't remember nothing about your car, miss."

Ash stepped closer. "It wasn't that long ago and this is important." He pulled out some money and the man's eyes lit up.

"I could be persuaded to remember. Do you have a picture of the car?" he asked. "I don't remember people, but cars I never forget."

I pulled out my phone and scrolled through it, looking for
the photo we'd taken with the car the night we'd christened it the Bruiser. I held the phone up to him. "That's the car."

"Ah sure, I remember. Yeah, it was signed for, sure as shit."

"By who?" I asked.

He pointed to the phone. "By her."

I looked where his finger landed.

"
You sure?" I asked.

"Sure as shit. I don't remember people, but I remember that looker."

I looked at the picture again, then showed it to Ash.

He'd identified Bridgette.