"I'm sorry." Clementine gripped her phone, letting the warm plastic press into her cheek as she leaned with an elbow on the kitchen table. "Yes, I understand."
And the conversation was over. She placed her phone in the middle of the table, the ringer volume on high, just in case.
Maybe there would be a call from Donovan, or a call from the police. Maybe the colossal mistake that had landed him in jail would be resolved quickly on its own. Until then, she'd have to play detective. The fact that she'd just lost her new job hardly mattered – she'd expected to be replaced when she'd called in to let them know that she wouldn't be showing up to work today or any other day until an emergency personal situation was resolved. You just didn't get to make calls like that after one day of work.
What was the loss of her position at Kellogg-Hart compared to the loss of Donovan? The thought of spending her days in an office while he sat in a jail cell was unbearable. She wouldn't – couldn't – focus on anything else until he was free.
Brewing a quarter of a pot of coffee – she would've made at least half a pot if Donovan had been there – she proceeded to clean up the kitchen. A pot of spaghetti noodles and a pan full of sauce sat cold and congealed on the stove – she'd discovered the abandoned meal when she'd finally left the police station and returned to the house. How Donovan had managed to cook the meal with one arm she didn't know, but pressure stung the backs of her eyes as she scraped the food into the trash.
After rinsing the pans and wiping the stove clean, the coffee still wasn't done, so she pulled on her shoes and arranged her hastily-brushed hair into a ponytail. As soon as she had a cup of coffee – something told her she'd need the energy – she'd get started.
Too bad all she knew about solving crimes was what she'd picked up watching the occasional police or detective show – so basically, nothing at all. It wasn't like TV networks were known for dazzling viewers with realism. Shoving thoughts of Hollywood detectives from her mind, she tried to think logically.
She'd spoken to Detective Wagner again before finally leaving the police station the night before, and he'd informed her that the murder weapon had been a tire iron. The murderer – allegedly Donovan – had struck Trevor several times across the chest and head, killing him with blunt force trauma to the skull.
The tool had been discovered in the field that stretched behind the ditch Trevor's body had been left in. Supposedly, the murderer had dumped Trevor's corpse and then thrown the murder weapon as far as he could, out into the field where it had initially remained undiscovered in the tall grass, covered in prints at one end and blood at the other.
Donovan had never been fingerprinted by the police, but like all military recruits, his fingerprints were on file with the government and the police had accessed that data to compare after discovering the weapon.
Clementine had asked whether anyone else's prints had been on the weapon, whether it might have been stolen from his garage.
According to the police, there had been no other prints and there were no reports of a break-in or theft at the garage.
Maybe there had been no crime reports, but that didn't mean someone hadn't taken the tire iron, which was exactly why as soon as Clementine finished a breakfast of coffee and cream, she left the house, heading straight for the garage.
Mike was there, as she'd hoped he'd be. When she walked in, he was just emerging from his paint booth. When he saw her he signaled to her, and ten minutes later he joined her by the front desk. No one else was present in the shop – they had total privacy.
"Mike, I need to talk to you about something."
He nodded, his green eyes sober beneath his close-cropped dirty blond hair. He was young – maybe a couple years older than her, at most. She barely knew him, but she liked him, if only because she knew he'd helped out Donovan when he'd needed it, like the night Donovan had gone drinking and he'd given him a ride home, and when he'd driven him to the airport.
"I heard about Donovan being arrested," he said. "The police came here yesterday to ask me twenty-thousand questions about a missing tire iron."
"So one is missing from the shop?"
"I never used them, but I know Donovan had two that hung on the wall over there." He hitched a thumb over his shoulder, indicating Donovan's work area.
Through a window in the wall that divided the reception and work area, a cross-shaped tire iron was visible on the far wall.
"The other one was different – shaped more like a crowbar, only had two ends."
"When did you notice it was missing?"
"Yesterday when that detective showed up to ask me about it. Guess it never really registered before then – if I saw it was gone, I must've figured Donovan had taken it, maybe to use on his truck or something." He frowned. "Wish I'd paid more attention now."
Clementine suppressed a sigh. "Well, I know Donovan didn't take it, because whoever did killed Trevor with it and I know for a fact that Donovan isn't guilty – I was with him all night. He never left the house."
Mike nodded. "You don't have to tell me – I know he's not a murderer. What would he even have against Trevor Grier, anyway?"
Mike's rhetorical question was a relief. Obviously Donovan had never expressed his hatred of Trevor to Mike, which was for the best. "So you believe what I believe – that someone else must've stolen the iron and then used it as a murder weapon?"
Mike appeared to mull it over for a few seconds, then nodded. "What other possibility is there?"
"Okay, so..." Her mind worked a million miles a minute as she glanced around the shop, trying to figure out how it could've happened – when and why. Her old theory of an assaulted female fighting back against Trevor didn't seem fit to hold water. If a woman had been cornered like she had, she would've fought back immediately with whatever weapon she'd had at hand, not stolen a tire iron from a garage to wield against him later. Right?
"The police told me no one broke in here," she said, going over what she already knew.
"No break-in," Mike confirmed. "I would've noticed if that'd happened."
"Does anyone else have a key?"
"Just me and Donovan. And I keep mine on my key ring – never share it with anybody."
"Did you ever leave the shop unlocked overnight? Or maybe during a lunch break?"
He shook his head slowly, frowning. "I always lock up any time the garage is gonna be empty. It's Donovan's rule. But... I don't know. Shit. What if I forgot? Left it unlocked while I went over to Ann's or something and never realized? I've been thinking about it ever since the police came by. Anyone could've come in and out of here. Lots of people have been coming by wanting work done, especially since we've been so backed up with Donovan being hurt."
"What about while you were actually in the shop – could anyone have come in and taken anything then?"
"Doesn't seem very likely that I wouldn't have seen them – we don't let customers in the work area. Safety hazard."
"And nothing else is missing?"
He shook his head. "Nah. Nothing."
What did a tire iron cost? Not much, especially not compared to some of the other equipment in the shop. Which made it look like whoever had taken it had taken it for a specific reason, like murder. Which would explain the lack of prints besides Donovan's – the real killer could've worn gloves.
"Sorry," Mike said. "I feel like shit over what happened. If the iron was taken while I was the only one here..."
"Are you going to keep working while Donovan is in jail?"
He nodded. "No reason not to. I figure he'll be out soon, right? I mean, the tire iron can't be enough to keep him locked up for good. Not when anyone could've taken it."
Clementine's heart sank. "It was enough to get him arrested and held without bail."
"Shit, no kidding?"
She shook her head. "If I was kidding, he'd already be home."
"So what are they gonna do ... keep him locked up until his trial?"
She hadn't budged at all during her conversation with Mike, but her heart was beating fast, making her head ache. "That's the plan. Unless something comes up – something to take the blame off him, or incriminate someone else."
Damn it ... pressure was welling behind her eyes again. She blinked it away, blaming it on lack of sleep. She'd tossed and turned all night, limbs sprawled over the empty side of the bed where Donovan belonged, then cradled close to her body.
"Listen, if the police come by again, I'll tell them this is bullshit. Anyone could've taken that iron ... this isn't exactly the Pentagon. People steal shit."
"Thanks," Clementine said, oddly glad to have someone on her side, even if it was only Mike, "but I don't think that'll make a difference. Trevor's father – my step-father – is the chair of the County Commissioners' Board, and he has a lot of money, too. I'm sure that's why Donovan's being held without bail. It's going to take something concrete to get them to let him go."
"Some kind of evidence that proves he's not guilty – is anyone even looking for that?"
She donned a wry smile. "I am. So let me know if you think of anything else." She pulled a scrap of paper out of her purse and wrote on it. "Here's my number. Who knows... Maybe the thief will return to the scene of the crime."
* * * * *
Trevor's memorial service was held on Tuesday evening at Willow Heights' only funeral home. Not a viewing – the murder had been too brutal for that – just a service. The announcement had been in the paper, and Clementine couldn't help but notice the crowd outside the funeral home as she drove through town, more frustrated than ever after a brief meeting with Donovan's attorney. Her talk with him had been about as useless as the talk she'd had with Mike earlier that morning.
While she had no doubt that the lawyer intended to argue against the evidence, to fight for Donovan's freedom based on the fact that someone else could've stolen the tire iron, there was still no one else to rightfully shift the blame to. No other suspects, as far as she knew. The police seemed content with Donovan.
Meanwhile, the real killer ran free.
While she couldn't claim to be heartbroken over Trevor's death – though she wouldn't have raised a tire iron against him herself – the murderer's freedom grated on her because Donovan had been left as a scapegoat. Right now, he was trapped like an animal among the criminals that filled the county jail. He didn't belong there, never should've been taken there. And someone was letting him take their place, presumably thrilled at the prospect of him serving their sentence.
Her jaw ached, and she had to concentrate on unclenching it as she left the town behind. Donovan had been in jail for nearly 24 hours and she still hadn't found so much as a speck of evidence to contradict what the police were accusing him of. Worse, she didn't have a damned clue what to do to collect said evidence. A day of trying had left her feeling useless, deflated ... and more determined than ever. Because she had to be.
She'd even taken her laptop into the garage and web-stalked Trevor, browsing his social media profiles and Googling his name in hopes that she'd uncover some news, some hint of trouble or conflict that might shed some light on who might've wanted to hurt him and why.
After hours of searching, all she'd found was a years-old announcement of his college graduation, a couple even older student newspaper references to his involvement in clubs he'd belonged to during his college years and a brief piece on his employer, a marketing agency in Connecticut. He'd only been mentioned in the articles, and there hadn't been a whiff of scandal.
So now she was left back at the drawing board – the one she'd never even left. And it was beginning to look like it might be easier to prove that Donovan had been home all night during the night of Trevor's murder than it would be to discover who else might've done it. So when she reached the house, she walked upstairs to the bedroom, where he'd slept in her arms, innocent and dreaming.
He hadn't even gotten up to sleepwalk – he'd been calm the entire night, ignorant of the events that had been taking place, of the body being dumped in the ditch down the road and how it would affect his life.
If only they'd been out in public that night, where someone else might have seen them. Problem was, there was nothing to do in the middle of the night in Willow Heights.
A better scenario would've been if they'd stayed longer in Florida. They'd had such a good time ... she'd wanted to stay. Now, knowing that they'd returned in time for Donovan to be implicated in a murder filled her with self-resentment. It had all been for her, all for her new job. There was no way she could've known, but still.
With a sigh, she sank down onto the bed. The mattress bowed beneath her and something bumped the back of her heel as she tucked it beneath the edge. The soft clunk of her foot against metal resounded throughout the lonely room, the empty house. Sliding off the edge of the bed, she knelt on the floor, allowing a spark of curiosity to provide a little relief from her other emotions.
The metallic object was Donovan's ammo box. The sight of it made her heart twinge, and before she knew it, she was succumbing to an old weakness. Much like she had with her own shoebox of notes as a college freshman, she opened the box and dumped its contents out on the bed, hands sifting through paper, eager to settle on a letter.
Of course, there was only the one, and he hadn't even written it. She read it anyway, scanning her grandmother's neat script, her heart skipping a beat as she read Donovan's name. She was done with the short letter way too fast, and then she was gathering up the rest of the papers she'd dumped out, doing her best to organize them into some sort of stack as a pang of realization hit her – this was pathetic.
Still, when a piece of lined paper – notebook paper – slid out from between a few formal-looking printed documents, her gaze was immediately drawn to the handwriting. It was Donovan's, and – God – the first word was a simple "C" that set her heart racing.
How had she missed this before?
Whatever the reason, her heart pounded against her ribs and she was ridiculously grateful to have found it now, to have a tiny piece of Donovan when she couldn't have him. The date at the top of the paper indicated that he'd written the letter before he'd received her grandmother's disappointing response – maybe he'd written this letter just after he'd written to her grandmother and saved it, waiting for an address to send it to, wanting to be ready to send it out right away.
C,
Got your address from your grandmother. Hope you don't mind, but I'm going to write you even if you do. Left you a note behind the loose brick years ago, before I left for Parris Island. Now I'm in Afghanistan. I figure I've never been farther away from you, so even if you don't want to be near me, I'm not really hurting anything.
When you left Willow Heights
Fuck it, you know me well enough to know how I felt. Look, truth is it's been three years and I can't stop thinking about you. And that's dangerous, over here. I try to keep my head clear, but you're always wandering around the edges of my mind, ready to take center stage if I let my guard down. Sometimes I get tempted to let you, think maybe if I let myself get lost in thoughts of you it might all end in a blaze of bullets and smoke and it wouldn't matter much.
But I don't want to be a ghost stuck wandering the desert. I at least want to haunt you like you haunt me – I want to see you again. And maybe if I make it back, it'll happen.
Until then, I think about you. I wonder about you. I can't help it. So send me some answers.
How are you?
D
He'd never sent the letter – he'd never had a chance. And he'd kept it all these years. Why? The paper shook in her hands, and she re-read it twice before finally placing it back in the box. She was so lucky that he'd come home unharmed, that he'd made it all the way back from the other side of the world and eventually to Willow Heights, to the house she'd loved when she'd been young, just like she'd loved him.
And now this.
Fingers numb and eyes burning, she continued gathering documents. They were official-looking, discharge papers and other things that seemed important. The ammo box must've been his version of a filing cabinet, necessary paperwork sprinkled with the detritus of his virtually non-existent personal communications, his attempts to get back in touch with her. As she re-packed the box, she felt a piece chip off her heart and fall among the paperwork, lost there. Like the box was giving something in exchange, something distinctly personal slid out from between a few documents – a photo.
It wasn't the third grade school portrait her grandmother had sent him. It was more recent than that – seven and a half years old, to be exact. The sight of it gave her a jolt, sent bittersweet agony rushing through the fresh crack in her heart.
It was a rare photo of her and Donovan together, taken by his sister. In it, they stood under a familiar maple. One of the many cars Donovan had repaired under that tree was just barely visible in the background, behind him. He wore a black t-shirt and had an arm around Clementine. She leaned against him, smiling and cradling a scrawny grey kitten against her striped tank top. Nineteen and eighteen, she couldn't help but be struck by how young they looked ... and how happy.
Even the cat looked happy, bright-eyed and pleased with the attention.
That was why Donovan's sister had taken the photo – she'd wanted a picture of the kitten. A whole litter of them had been roaming the trailer park that summer, sometimes crawling up into the undercarriage of the vehicles Donovan worked on. The grey one had been Clementine's favorite because its baby-soft fur had been the same color as Donovan's eyes.
His eyes ... they captivated her even from the picture, looking straight at the camera. He was smiling – not as broadly as her, but still. He looked happy – content, even on the outskirts of Shady Side – and why shouldn't he have? The picture had been taken before the summer had gone to shit, before she'd left for New York and he for Parris Island.
After several long minutes, she forced herself to put the picture away, snapping the ammo box shut and shoving it back under the bed, where she'd found it. Her engagement ring gleamed brightly against the drab green metal, another reminder of what they'd so recently regained – what was at stake.
* * * * *
The Willow County Jail had a 48 hour lockdown policy for all new inmates. After that, visiting was a matter of being named on the inmate's list of authorized visitors. Donovan had included Clementine on his list – she was his list – but she still had to wait another day for a background check to go through. So it was Friday before she was finally allowed to visit him.
It wasn't like in the movies, where visitors spoke to inmates on a phone. Maybe the small county jail couldn't afford the technology, but whatever the reason, it was a relief to discover what the visiting facility was really like. After her ID was checked and she completed a security screening, she was escorted into a visiting room where she was separated from him by only a pane of glass. A hole cut in the center allowed for conversation.
Donovan wore yellow, a lurid shade that was at odds with the sleek black of his hair and deep sun-tanned tone of his skin. The sight of him in the jumpsuit sent a fresh wave of fury through her – at her mother and Robert, at Trevor, at the police and Donovan's attorney. At everyone, including herself, because he'd been wrongfully incarcerated for four days and she hadn't been able to do a damn thing about it.
"How are you?" she asked when he took a seat on the other side of the glass.
His mouth was an impassive line, a little tight, but his eyes locked with hers, intense rain storm grey. Somehow, they seemed brighter than the day-glow jumpsuit. "Fine."
"Stupid question," she amended. Nothing about the situation was fine. "I mean..." Her gaze drifted to his sling, to the bandages wrapping his right hand.
"I'm healing just fine – they're not gonna let my hand rot off. Pretty sure they let the food here rot before they serve it, though." He flashed her a wry look. "I'd give just about anything for that burnt spaghetti I left sitting on the stove."
A fresh pang of frustration sailed through her heart at the memory of discovering the dinner he'd made, the food she'd had to throw away.
"I spoke to your attorney. He plans to argue against the evidence – the one piece of evidence the police have against you. He says it may be too weak, too circumstantial – someone could've stolen the tire iron from your garage and used it. But he hasn't said a thing about trying to figure out who actually killed Trevor."
Donovan didn't look surprised. "He's a lawyer, not a detective."
"Yeah, well..." She bit back a sigh of frustration. "Detective Wagner couldn't care less about finding the actual killer, as far as I can tell. The whole police department seems content to sit back and let you take the blame."
Donovan didn't say anything, just looked grim.
God, what was wrong with her? Saying things like that when he was stuck in here... She should try to comfort him, to offer some sort of reassurance. "I've been trying to get to the bottom of this," she said. "Whoever did this is still out there, and they have to have left some sort of evidence behind. Real evidence, I mean."
Donovan raised a brow. "What do you mean, trying to get to the bottom of this – have you been snooping around?"
She straightened in her seat. "I've been looking into things – trying to come up with some sort of theory. I've spoken to a couple people, done online research, even visited the crime scene. So far I haven't come up with much, but I spoke with Mike and it seems pretty likely that he forgot to lock up the garage either while on lunch break or overnight. I think that's when someone took the tire iron."
Donovan frowned. "Be careful, Clementine. And stay away from the crime scene."
"What – why?" She was the only one out there trying – however unsuccessfully – to prove his innocence. Stopping was out of the question.
"Because somebody killed your step-brother. I know you didn't think of him as family, but the killer might not see it that way. We don't know who murdered him and we don't know why – don't put yourself in danger. Don't attract attention."
Now it was her turn to frown. "I'll be careful, but I'm not going to stop looking for information – I'm not going to give up. Not unless the police do their job first and you're freed."
"That'd be nice. Hell, bail would've been nice. This—" His expression darkened as he clearly paused to rein his temper in.
"It's insane," she finished for him, feeling the same dark temper rise up inside of her. "I know. God, I haven't been able to think of anything else since you've been arrested. I'm sure it's my step-father's doing." Her stomach roiled at just the thought, but she set her jaw. "I'm going to see him today."
Surprise flashed across Donovan's face, quickly followed by obvious concern. "Why the hell would you do that?"
She didn't want to. God, she didn't want to. But her will was set in stone. "I've been thinking about it, and I figure if I'm going to have any real chance of figuring out who killed Trevor, I need to figure out who might've had anything against him. I know next to nothing about his life, but my mom and Robert... I'm willing to bet they know something. Trevor was their golden child, after all."
The crease between Donovan's eyes deepened. "You're going to their house?"
She nodded. Though she hadn't informed anyone besides Donovan, she planned to show up there that evening, when her mother and step-father would probably both be home. She had no doubts they wouldn't want to share a word of information with her – probably wouldn't even want to see her – but that wasn't going to stop her from trying.
"I wish you wouldn't go. But if you're going to ... be careful. Get some pepper spray to carry in your purse or something. Or take that knife you hid from me."
"What – to their house?"
"Yeah. And everywhere until I'm out of here and can protect you."
"You really think I'll be in danger at their house?"
For a few moments he said nothing, his expression as dark and brooding as a storm cloud. "I haven't had much of a chance to do anything besides think these past few days, and I've pretty much come to the same conclusion you have – someone's gotta figure out who had something against Trevor."
"And you think it could be Robert?" At first the possibility bounced right off the surface of her mind, like a drop of rain against tin. Her step-father had adored Trevor as much as such a selfish, materialistic person could adore anyone – he'd spoiled him, treated him like a prince. The shallow, boundless affection was what had made Trevor into such a rotten person.
But as she continued to meet Donovan's gaze, doubt crept in, diluting her certainty. The look in his eyes said that he'd given this serious thought, that it had been eating away at him. "Whoever killed him was probably someone he knew. And they probably didn't come all the way from Connecticut to murder him in Willow Heights."
"What could Robert have had against him, though? I mean, to—"
Donovan shook his head. "I don't know. But I sure as hell know that appearances mean everything to your step-father. Maybe Trevor messed up big time – maybe he did something that would've been more agonizing to his father than having a dead son."
* * * * *