“What is the name of this witness?” the attorney asks.
“You’ll find out in due course,” Bledsoe says. “But we know who it is. The witness is very credible and has been into the station this afternoon to make a written statement.”
Gully sees a flicker of concern cross the attorney’s face.
“We all know that eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable,” the attorney says. “Have you any other evidence?”
“Not yet. But I’m sure we’ll find it.”
Bledsoe seems confident, but Gully knows that so far, they’ve found nothing in Ryan Blanchard’s house or car. No bloodstained clothing, nothing that belonged to Avery. They’ve been through all the drone footage and have seen nothing of Avery ever being with Ryan—or anyone else. They’ve got the preliminary forensics back on Ryan’s car, and come up empty. If the girl was in his car, it was probably for a short time, and he could have cleaned it afterward. There are no signs that she was assaulted or killed in that car. But he could have driven her out to the country somewhere, attacked her, murdered her, hidden her body. They have his cell phone records so they know roughly where he drove that afternoon. That rural area is being searched as they speak. But if they don’t find her, and if he doesn’t talk, it makes it bloody difficult to get the evidence they need.
“Here’s the thing, Ryan,” Bledsoe says, leaning forward and fixing his eyes on the frightened boy. “If there’s any chance that Avery is still alive, it is in your best interest to tell us where she is. Things will go much easier for you if you do.”
Ryan says, “She never got in my car, I swear.” He turns to his lawyer. “Why don’t they believe me? Why do they believe this other person? Whoever it is, is lying!”
Bledsoe continues as if the boy hadn’t spoken. “And if Avery isn’t still alive, it is still in your best interest to cut a deal. Do the decent thing and tell us where she is. Give the parents some closure.” The boy appears to be struck dumb. Bledsoe sits back in his chair again and says, “Tell us what happened, Ryan. Was it an accident? You didn’t mean to kill her, did you?”
“Stop!” the boy screams. He raises his hands to cover his ears.
The attorney studies Ryan briefly and says, “I’d like a moment with my client.”
* * *
? ? ?
After a few minutes, the attorney beckons them back in. Gully reenters the interview room with Bledsoe and looks at the boy in the chair. He’s obviously been crying, and she allows herself to hope. Perhaps he’s ready to talk. Maybe they can end this.
They sit. The attorney looks grim, resolved.
“Well?” Bledsoe says.
“My client denies any involvement with the missing girl. She did not get in his car that day. He is innocent.”
“Is that right, Ryan?” Bledsoe says tiredly.
Gully can see his fatigue, and it hits her then, how tired she is too. They’ve been running on adrenaline, and now she realizes how empty her tank is.
Ryan says tearfully, “I had nothing to do with her. Whoever said she got in my car is lying.”
“But the witness is a fine, upstanding citizen,” Bledsoe can’t resist saying to Ryan, “and you’re a known drug offender.”
“That’s enough,” the attorney says, a knee-jerk reaction.
“Oh, right, you were his attorney on that, weren’t you?” Bledsoe shoots back. Then he turns back to the boy. “You’ve got a good lawyer, Ryan—good for you. But we’re going to hold you for now.”
Bledsoe pushes back his chair noisily and stands, while the attorney rests his hand on the boy’s back in a gesture of comfort. Gully knows Ryan’s never been in jail before. She’s looked into his file. He was a minor when he was arrested for possession, and he was released to his parents. But now he’s an adult, and he’s suspected of kidnapping and possibly murder.
Gully hears the attorney speaking quietly to Ryan. “It’s okay. You’ll be held overnight here. They can’t hold you for too long before bringing you in front of a judge and charging you. But if they don’t find any physical evidence, they’ll never be able to convict.”
Gully wonders if the attorney believes Ryan is innocent. She can’t tell.
* * *
? ? ?
Marion Cooke lives alone in a bungalow with two bedrooms on the main floor and a guest suite in the basement with its own bathroom. It’s small, but nicely redone. She’s never had children, so the house is quiet, clean, and uncluttered. The guest room in the basement is generally empty. She does, occasionally, have her sister come stay.
Marion spends a long time downtown before she drives home, still feeling on edge.
She places her handbag on the kitchen counter and unlocks the door from the kitchen to the basement. She flicks the switch on the wall to light up the stairs and the area around the bottom. She listens for a second, cocking her head. Silence. The television isn’t on. That’s unusual.
She heads down the steps. The basement is divided into two separate areas, a bedroom with a small bathroom at the front of the house, and a larger main room behind it, where the windows—barred long ago to prevent break-ins—don’t let in a lot of light. Her guest is in the bedroom, where there is no window at all.
Marion knocks on the door to the bedroom and calls, “Avery?”
Thirty-three
Ryan stands up, his legs trembling beneath him. None of this feels real. He’s afraid to look his attorney in the eye in case he doesn’t believe him. Ryan knows he didn’t pick Avery up in his car. He’s innocent. But what really frightens him is that the truth doesn’t seem to matter. He knows that innocent people get convicted all the time of crimes they didn’t commit. For a moment he can’t move, even though his lawyer is urging him forward.
He stumbles, putting one foot ahead of the other. His parents are waiting outside this room, down the hall. Will he see them before they take him away? In handcuffs? He wants to see them, he wants his mother to hug him and tell him that everything’s going to be okay, that he’ll be home soon, that she’ll make everything better. He wants his dad to fight for him. But he doesn’t want them to see him like this. He’s afraid he’ll blubber like a baby.
His parents are there in the waiting area when they bring him out. His mother looks like she’s been sitting at the bedside of someone who is dying. His father is clearly frightened. Ryan wonders if they actually think he took Avery Wooler and killed her. How could they believe that of him? He made some stupid choices. He wishes he’d never done the drugs, that they’d never lost faith in him. He made one mistake, and now the whole world is prepared to believe the worst of him.
They let his mother and father hug him. His mother won’t let go. She causes a bit of a scene, and he’s grateful, because it takes attention away from him and his unstoppable tears. He meets his father’s eyes one last time as he’s taken away.
An officer brings him downstairs, and as the door closes behind him and they descend he can still hear his mother’s wails. In the basement are the cells. At the moment, they’re empty. Stanhope doesn’t have a lot of crime.