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“I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a misunderstanding.”
He recenters himself on the chair, folding his hands over a manila folder with the pictures inside, in no rush. His voice is firm but encouraging. “Why don’t you tell us and let us decide.”
I nod, though still unsure if I’m making the right choice, if I’m doing the right thing. I’m not sure if this will come back to hurt me. I take a breath. “It’s just that I was under the impression that the Becketts’ son, Jackson, arrived from London a couple days ago, though it seems he’s been here longer than that.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me. I don’t even know if he’s realized it by now. We were talking, and he let it slip, how he was with a friend at Promontory Point last weekend though as far as his parents know, he was in London at the time and didn’t arrive until the middle of the week. I’m not sure it matters. The Becketts are under so much stress and they’re not sleeping. It’s just,” I say, pausing for air, “I don’t know why he would lie about being in London if he was here in the city. And there seems to be some friction between him and Caitlin, some sort of resentment. Animosity.”
“How do you know?”
“Mrs. Beckett told me.”
The officer nods, thoughtful. He takes a business card from his pocket and hands it to me. “If you think of anything else, call.”
I go back to Caitlin’s room alone, tucking the business card into the pocket of my scrubs, having trouble meeting the Becketts’ eyes at first because of what I’ve just done.
“Did you identify him?” Mrs. Beckett asks, rising from the edge of the bed as I come in. Jackson is here now. He must have come while I was gone and he stands, leaned against the wall, though I can’t bring myself to look at him. “Was he one of the men in the pictures?”
“Yes,” I say, and her face grows pale, a hand going to her mouth. “Who is he? Do you know?” I ask, wondering if the Becketts have seen the pictures the police showed me before, if they know something I don’t.
Mrs. Beckett nods, unable to speak. It’s Mr. Beckett who says, “An ex-con. Milo Finch. The officers asked if we knew him, if we knew why he might have been in touch with Caitlin. We didn’t. He’s been out of a jail all of a month, and in that time, he’s violated parole. He left California without permission. He failed to report to his parole officer. The police have been looking for him.” Mr. and Mrs. Beckett exchange a glance before she sinks back to the edge of the bed, reaching for Caitlin’s hand as he goes on. “They think he followed her across the country, that he came here looking for her.”
Mrs. Beckett says then, as if thinking aloud, her words catching me off guard, “I keep wondering if he isn’t the same man you see on the news, the one who’s been attacking those women.”
“He’s not,” Mr. Beckett says, as if he somehow knows, but he’s just postulating.
“How can you be so certain?”
“It’s different, Amelia. Those other women were raped in their own homes. Caitlin was pushed from a bridge, and there were no signs of sexual abuse.”
“But maybe she ran from him, Tom. And maybe he followed her there.”
I dwell on the idea. It’s not impossible to think that it’s the same man. I attach weight to the conversation Mrs. Beckett and I began the other day. “You think this man, this Milo Finch, chased or lured Caitlin to the bridge that day? You think he’s the one who pushed her?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Beckett says. “I do. And maybe he’s the one who’s been raping those women.”
All the police have to do is find him and it will be through. It doesn’t matter what I just told them about Jackson. Milo Finch will be arrested. A jury will convict him. It seems so open and shut, if the police can find him.
I step out into the hall, moving toward the nurses’ station. I haven’t gone more than a few feet when I hear, “Meghan,” and I turn back to see that Mr. Beckett has followed me out, looking older and far more disheveled than when he first arrived in the hospital over a week ago. “Can I speak to you for a minute?”
“Sure.”
“That voice mail I played for you the other day, from Caitlin,” he says, coming to stand too close, and I realize how very relevant it is all of a sudden, the last-ditch, pleading, Daddy. I’m in trouble. I need your help. He turns around to be sure Mrs. Beckett and Jackson are still in the room and that the glass door between them has closed, which it has. He turns to me, leaning in even closer and it takes everything in me not to fall back. “I was hoping we could still keep it between you and me. It’s meaningful, in light of what we now know, but it’s not as if that message is going to help the police find this man, and I don’t want Amelia to know Caitlin reached out for help and that I dismissed it.”
“Of course,” I say. “Whatever you want.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He reaches out to set a hand on my arm. “Thank you, Meghan. I hope you don’t think less of me for asking.”
“No. Of course not,” I say, but I do. The request shows him in a bad light. “I understand. And like you said, it wouldn’t make a difference now.”
On the walk home, I search for Milo Finch on my phone and find him. Milo Finch is a former restaurant owner and a registered sex offender, who was found guilty of possession of child pornography and sentenced to five years in prison.
I tell myself again that he’s not a good man. I shouldn’t feel guilty for turning him in to the police.
That said, I wonder where he is now. I wonder if, when the police find him, they will tell him it was me who identified him.
Fourteen
