Poisonous: A Novel (29 page)

“I understand,” she said.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” she lied. It was better this way. Keep Nick at a distance. He had a major problem with his ex-wife, and he didn’t want Max involved. Intellectually, she knew she should accept it. That Nick enjoyed her company, she liked being with him, and that the other stuff didn’t matter.

But it
did
matter. And it bothered her that he was letting it happen. Worse, it pained her that he wouldn’t share with her. But all these feelings and emotions told her she was getting too close to him.

She had to step back and reassess. They were good in bed. That wasn’t a surprise. Nick was a thirty-six-year-old healthy male and she was a nearly thirty-two-year-old healthy female who enjoyed sex. Attraction was a good thing. It worked. She didn’t need anything more than that. When did Maxine Revere really have the time for a relationship anyway? And really, how much time had they spent together? A few stolen weekends over the last five months. One week in Lake Tahoe—with David, Emma, and Nick’s son Logan. She hadn’t seen Nick in six weeks, and Skypeing twice a week didn’t count.

Max was too independent and confident for most men. With Nick, Max thought she’d found someone who truly accepted her life choices, who respected her career even when he sometimes disagreed with her methods. Nick was grounded, there was no rush to make a commitment. They had a nice balance. But Max wondered if she wanted more from her lover. Because the idea that he was intentionally separating part of his life from her deeply bothered her.

Or was all that just an excuse for Max to keep
him
at arm’s length?

“Max—” Nick began.

She put her hand up. “It’s fine. You know what you’re doing.” As she said it, she realized she didn’t believe it. She’d just lied to Nick.
Again
. She told him she understood, then she told him it was fine. She wanted to backtrack and tell him that she
hoped
he knew what he was doing, but she bit her tongue. She didn’t want to fight tonight. She wanted to eat, she wanted more sex, she wanted to sleep.

The timer beeped and Nick retrieved the lasagna. The silence was uncomfortable.

“I saw your segment on ‘Crime NET’ tonight,” Nick said. “Watched it on the computer as soon as it was posted.”

“What did you think?”

“You were fantastic, as usual.”

“Of course I was,” she said, lightening the mood. Maybe this was really for the best. Keep her distance, don’t get too involved. Enjoy the company and the sex, but remember that she had a completely separate life, one that Nick didn’t want to participate in, just like she wasn’t part of his life.

The only difference, she figured, was that she wouldn’t mind Nick letting her in a bit. She’d shared as much about her life as he wanted to know, but maybe this was the boundary of that.

“It was well edited,” Max said between bites.

“What happened? You said earlier this week that you planned to interview the mother.”

“She set up rules I couldn’t follow,” Max said. “I had to go around her. Ben told me I wouldn’t like her, and he was right. I’ve worked with people I didn’t like before. But this time—no way was I agreeing to her terms.” She sipped her wine. “I hope we had enough and can generate a lead from the program. Our Nor-Cal affiliate is running the show again later tonight, and of course it’s on the Web page. I caught a break that the police cooperated—they weren’t inclined to at first.”

“You can be persuasive.”

“It wasn’t me. It was Paula Wallace, the victim’s mother, ordering and threatening them not to talk to me.”

“Why would she not want this publicity? It would seem to be the only real chance of finding out what happened to her daughter.”

“I’d like to say I don’t know why, but I do. I suspect that Paula Wallace convinced herself that her cyberbully daughter didn’t do anything wrong, or that Ivy was just being an average teen when she drove another girl to kill herself. She called the Brock family’s civil lawsuit frivolous. She’s in denial—or even more likely, she lies to herself and believes only the good about her daughter.”

“That’s a common reaction when a parent loses a child. Blinders. Losing a child … it isn’t easy nor does everyone respond the same.”

She nodded. “I don’t blame her for the rose-colored glasses. I blame her for her attitude before Ivy’s murder. But as far as the investigation, I did what I came to do. I helped gather additional evidence because I have the resources and desire to do so. Because I pushed, the police have more than they had last week.”

“Without new evidence or a witness, they had no direction,” Nick said.

“Exactly.”

“And what do you think?”

“I don’t have an opinion yet.”

“You always have an opinion, Maxine.”

She leaned back and sipped her wine. She’d cleaned her plate. The lasagna was delicious.

“More?” Nick offered.

She shook her head. “Maybe for a midnight snack.”

“It is midnight.” He stared at her. “You don’t want to tell me what you think?”

“I haven’t finished my interviews,” she said. “On paper, Justin Brock has the strongest motive. He blamed Ivy for his sister’s suicide; his alibi is his girlfriend—who’s now his fiancée; and he confronted Ivy the day before she died.” Max paused, then finished her wine. Nick poured her another glass. “The local reporter is Justin’s future brother-in-law. He’s been pushing—very hard—the theory that Ivy’s death was an accident. She went up to the preserve alone and fell to her death.”

“But there’s solid evidence of a homicide.”

“Depends on how one looks at it, I suppose.
Someone
else was up there with her. Graham is confident that based on where her body was found and other injuries, she was pushed off the cliff.” Max rose and stretched. After the tense drive to Nick’s then vigorous sex, she was sore and stiff.

Nick got up and rubbed her shoulders. “What’s bothering you?”

She couldn’t tell him, because what was bothering her was why he wouldn’t talk to her about Nancy, and he’d already asked that she stay out of it. Ordered her to stay out of it.

“I hate traffic.”

He kissed her neck, then steered her into the living room. He tossed a couple of throw pillows onto the floor. “Take off your shirt and lay on your stomach.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Bossy, aren’t we?” She pulled off her shirt.

“Well, that’s my shirt. Maybe I want it back.”

She tossed it at him.

She did as he asked because Nick’s hands were truly magic. He straddled her, supporting himself on his knees, and worked through her muscles. “You’re tense.”

“I’m going to melt.”

“Tell me about your theories.”

She waited a few moments and let Nick’s fingers relax her. “Ivy had cuts on her arms. Forensics said they were caused by a thin blade, not the fall. They appeared to be defensive wounds, but none were deep enough to kill her. Based on where her body was found, forensics believes she was pushed. I brought in a private forensics team to look at the evidence and give me possible scenarios.”

“And the police detective was okay with that?”

“I didn’t ask her permission, but I told her what I was doing and she ended up observing. Graham—the director of NCFI—gave her a copy of their findings. They’re experts, it’s not unheard of to bring in a private consultant. I’ve used them on other cases.”

“I wasn’t being critical.”

Max had to get over this mood. She had only this one night with Nick, and her wounded ego was making it difficult to enjoy their time alone.

“One theory is that Ivy’s death was an accident. She went to the preserve to meet someone; they argued and fought. The killer had a knife, maybe brought it out to scare Ivy or maybe in the heat of the moment wanted to kill her. Ivy put up her arms and was nicked several times as she backed away.”

“And she couldn’t have backed off the cliff?”

“Unlikely. The cliff was nearly vertical, but if she walked off it, she would have fallen closer to the base.

“A more likely scenario is that after the knife attack, the killer pushed Ivy. It would had to have been a good, solid push and right at the edge. The photos taken the morning after show that there may have been a scuffle at the top, but revealed no clear shoe prints. The ground was too hard and dry.”

“Any more theories?”

“She ran off the cliff to get away from her attacker, not realizing how steep it was.”

“You don’t sound like you buy that.”

“I don’t. And my forensics people think it’s less likely, based on how her body was found—she landed on her back and the back of her skull, not her side or front, which would be more likely if she was running away. However, there was some brush and saplings she hit on the way down that could have altered her fall, especially if she reached out and caught onto something. Torn clothing halfway down on a jutting tree branch matches her clothes.”

“So you think she was pushed. And the detective thinks she ran away from an attack. Either scenario doesn’t make the killer less guilty.”

Max looked at him over her bare shoulder. “How do you know Grace thinks she ran away?”

“Because, based on what you’ve told me, that’s what I think. If someone is being attacked with a knife, if they have a chance, they run away. Why do you believe she was pushed?”

“I don’t know,” Max admitted. “Ivy’s personality was to push back, not run. She lived in Corte Madera half her life. She would be aware of the area, the cliffs, the risk. I don’t see her running off a cliff.”

“But you don’t know her.”

“I feel like I do.” Max didn’t know if she could explain it. It was more intuition than anything else. “She reminds me of Lindy.”

“Your high school friend.”

Max hadn’t articulated these feelings, and they were still confusing.

Because it really wasn’t Lindy who seemed the most like Ivy.

“I graduated from high school nearly fifteen years ago. There was no Facebook, no Twitter, no Instagram. I keep thinking—if Lindy had a blog, would she have kept her secrets in her diary? She had a mean streak, especially if someone had hurt her, perceived or real. She hated hypocrites.”

“That sounds familiar,” Nick mused, still rubbing her shoulders.

“It might be one of the reasons Lindy and I got along so well. But Lindy was two-faced. She kept her sexual relationship with my cousin a secret. She spied on people. Blackmailed them. Knowing secrets made her feel superior, but it also depressed her. It was as if she expected the worse, dug around until she found it, then used the information when it suited her.”

“And Ivy?”

“Did the same thing—except she revealed everything immediately. She had no filter.” Max paused. “I’m just like her.” Her voice cracked, and that she didn’t expect.

“You’re not.”

Max didn’t say anything. The thought had been circling around all week. Was that, more than the insomnia, why she was in such a foul mood? Why she was arguing with David?

“Is it because you speak your mind?” he asked.

“No—well, yes, I speak my mind, but that doesn’t bother me.”

Max hadn’t slept well the night before. Everything had been jumbled around, from the Brocks’ civil suit to Paula’s claim that it was frivolous; from Jenny Wallace’s hatred of her ex and his wife to her argument with David, only Emma and Brittney had been replaced by Nick’s family, Logan and Nancy. Lance Lorenzo’s ridiculous but annoying article angered her, but there were some hidden truths. Not to mention that Tommy and Austin had put everything on her to resolve, as if their future depended on whether she solved Ivy’s murder.

But something Bailey had said this morning had stuck with Max. That Ivy only posted the truth. Travis said something similar: because Ivy’s gossip was usually true he had a hard time proving her photo of him smoking pot was fake.

Max believed the truth deserved to be heard. That lies destroyed, they tore apart families. Yet did that mean that Heather’s mistakes should be spread far and wide for no reason except to hurt her? When Max thought about the truth, she thought first about lies—the lies her mother told to her over the first ten years of her life, the lies her uncle Brooks had told when he was cheating on his wife, the lies her cousin had told to his friends and family when he was secretly sleeping with Lindy in high school. Lies that nearly cost her cousin his freedom, and did cost him his marriage.

“Max, what’s wrong?”

She rolled over to face Nick. She didn’t care that she wore no shirt; she’d never been falsely modest and she and Nick and been sleeping together for some time. “Ivy posted photos of Heather in compromising positions with two different boys. She posted a short video of Heather having sex with her boyfriend. Photos of Heather drinking at a party, dancing provocatively at another. Heather was a bit wild, I suppose, but the pictures of her and the boys were taken when she thought she had privacy. When they were exposed on the Internet, she lost that privacy. The kids at school branded her a slut, largely because those boys had other girlfriends. Boys expected her to put out. Girls shunned her because she tried to steal someone’s boyfriend. All high school drama … except with a dark edge. A meanness. Even though she changed schools, Heather couldn’t get away from it. Ivy continued to push, enjoying her reaction. That’s all I can think it was, Ivy took pleasure in hurting Heather. All because Heather had embarrassed her back in junior high. Ivy took that pain and humiliation and escalated it until someone died. In this case, Heather.

“When I was in high school, I learned my uncle Brooks was having an affair. I exposed him. At a family dinner where he couldn’t get away from it, couldn’t lie, couldn’t threaten me to keep quiet. And I wonder … if I was sixteen now, would I have exposed him on Facebook? Would I have stalked him until I got a photo of him and Lindy’s mother doing the deed? Because I certainly didn’t keep the truth a secret then. Yet I hurt the one person I never wanted to hurt—my aunt Joanne. Brooks has never forgiven me—I don’t care about that—but Aunt Joanne hasn’t forgiven me, either. She was embarrassed—humiliated—and I caused that.”

“There are so many differences between what you did then and what Ivy did,” said Nick.