Keep Them Close(47)

Henley’s fingers hover over one of the photographs, not touching, just pointing. “See this brake line?” His voice is steady. “When an accident severs a cable, you get fraying, strands bent out in all directions, okay, like hair after it’s been yanked. But this…” He leans closer, squinting at the faded image. “This end is square. Flat. It doesn’t look torn.”

“It looks cut,” I say.

“Right. And look here,” Henley goes on, moving his hand to another photo. “Rear line’s the same way. Same kind of cut. Nice and clean. Weird enough that it happens once. But tell me—what are the odds both the front and back brake lines snap the same way?” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t happen, okay. Not in any crash I’ve ever seen.”

“So you’re saying…” My voice catches, dry in my throat.

“Someone didn’t want that bike to stop,” Henley says firmly, his eyes fixed on the photos. “This wasn’t an accident. This was sabotage. That’s exactly what I told the lawyer,” he says to Trinity. Then back to me: “Somebody cut the brake lines on your bike, son.”

I came here knowing he would tell me this, knowing his conclusion, but his words don’t sting any less. “I rode my bike to school that day and parked it in the racks,” I say. And despite knowing the answer to this question, too, I ask it: “Any chance the lines were cut before then?”

“Not unless you rode all the way to school without ever once applying the brakes,” says Henley. “Which is basically impossible.”

Of course it’s impossible. The six blocks to school? I probably used my brakes a dozen times. The brakes were fine when I racked my bike that morning.

“Anyone else have access to your bike?” asks Henley, his curiosity piqued.

My throat catches. “Someone walked the bike from the racks over to the fence a few feet away and handed it over to me. We called him the ‘gofer.’?”

Henley draws a deep breath. “So I guess the question is, who was the gofer?”





After April Fools’ Day





37


Louise

—Investigation, Day 4—

In the bedroom of the Brices’ downtown condo, Louise watches the senior tech, Mendoza, complete her collection of the pressure smear, the makeup stain, on the window.

“Any other evidence of struggle in here?” she asks.

“The carpet won’t be any help for indentations,” says Mendoza. “Dense, high-pile plush—the fibers are too springy. Comfortable, but not helpful from an evidentiary standpoint.”

“Got something,” says one of the techs on his knees, leaning over the carpet. He teases out a stray fiber with a pair of forceps. “Hair follicle,” he says, dropping the strand into a paper evidence bindle. “We’ve got a root.”

Meaning they’ll be able to cull DNA from it.

“Dark, curly hair, Lou,” says the tech. “Several strands.”

Louise takes a look, then turns to Cutty. “Know anyone with dark, curly hair?”

“Luke Rankin didn’t tell us much,” says Cutty. “But he did say he hadn’t been inside this condo for years.”

“That he did,” she agrees. “We’ll test it, but it sure looks like his.”

Cutty nods his head. “So why would Luke lie about being in this condo?”





The Week Before April Fools’ Day





38


Allison

The Monday after. I’ve spent three days recovering from the Marlow Luckett incident last Friday, downing painkillers, wearing ice on my face, getting very little done for my trial. It was time I did not have to waste. Today is the twenty-third of March, forty-nine days from trial.

One more day working from home. The bruising on my face and neck hasn’t completely faded, but if it’s still visible tomorrow, I’ll just add extra layers of concealer. My ribs are still sore, too, but clothes will hide that problem.

I’m constantly texting and jumping on the phone with Vivian and Aaron, doling out instructions, drafting pretrial motions, and preparing for my Zoom conference later today with the congressman. He doesn’t like the idea that we are going to point the finger at his chief of staff. I keep reminding him that juries don’t like politicians, and they will need to blame someone. They will need a villain.

During all the back-and-forth with my lawyers, Finley is setting records for communications with me:


Today 9:52 AM

Should we talk about this? Doesn’t 19 years of marriage deserve at least a conversation?



I won’t change my mind. I don’t want to hurt you. For Gray’s sake, if nothing else, I want this to be amicable.



You think getting divorced doesn’t hurt me? It’s killing me.



Is there someone else? Did you meet someone?



You did, didn’t you? Someone at work? Some rich lawyer? Some pencil-dick egghead?



The silence is deafening. You have a boyfriend!



I don’t even care. We can get past that. Just give me one more chance



When my phone buzzes, I don’t recognize the number. I answer anyway.