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And yet.
That first time with Eddie, I was someone I’d never been before. I was April Delray, not the woman who was a lie but the one who was real. Eddie—who hadn’t been with anyone since he came home from Iraq, since he’d seen and done whatever he’d seen and done over there—was real, too. And to be honest, it wasn’t all bad. Parts of it were very good.
So we’d practiced. And now, newly married with his hands on me, we were getting good. So good that I stopped caring about dead girls or trucks or cops or the predicament we were in. I pulled Eddie onto me and kissed him, wrapping my legs around his hips in just the way he liked. I felt his scruff on my skin and his breath against me. I let my hands wander over the muscles and planes I had memorized like a map, and I felt my hips rise under his, my back arch from the bed. Everything went away, as if it didn’t matter. Because it didn’t.
We tried to be quiet. But deep down, I didn’t care.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I awoke to a gentle tap on the bedroom window. Faint gray light was coming through the blinds, the first light of dawn.
The tap came again. I grabbed Eddie’s shoulder, but he was already awake, his body tense beside me. “Stay here,” he whispered.
He got out of bed in the near-dark and crouched next to the nightstand. Then, still low to the ground, he angled his head so he could see past the edge of the blind without moving it.
I watched his tense expression turn to a bemused frown. “It’s that cop,” he whispered.
“What cop?”
“Syed. But he isn’t in uniform.”
We exchanged a look. Then we reached for our clothes.
—
Officer Syed was waiting for us in Rose’s backyard. He was wearing jeans and a gray tee with a brown leather jacket over it, and the sight of him out of uniform was jarring, as if it made him a different person. The clock radio in the bedroom said it was just after five o’clock in the morning.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said as we came out the back door and crossed the grass. “I wanted to talk to you, but not in an official capacity. And not where anyone would see.”
I glanced back at the house, which was silent. Rose must be a heavy sleeper. The houses on either side were dark. Rose’s neatly fenced yard backed onto shrubby green space and, beyond that, trees.
“What’s going on?” Eddie asked.
Officer Syed shifted on his feet. “I guess they didn’t fill you in on too much when they let you go.”
“They didn’t fill us in on anything,” Eddie said.
Officer Syed nodded. He was in his early thirties, clean-shaven, handsome, a little tired at this early hour, his dark hair brushed back from his forehead. His wedding ring looked new, like mine. I wondered what his wife was like and if they had any kids. His eyes were troubled, as if he’d heard something upsetting.
“Max Shandler has been officially charged with murder,” he said.
Eddie and I were silent. Somewhere far off, a starling called in the trees.
Officer Syed took a deep breath. “I grew up here,” he said. “Max is only a few years younger than me. I can’t say we were friends, but we were acquainted. Everyone is acquainted in a town this size.” He turned to us, his brown eyes pained. “If you’re gonna ask if I ever thought Max could do this, the answer is no. He wasn’t one of those guys you know is headed for trouble. So no, I never thought he could.”
“Did he confess?” I asked.
“No. At first he told us that he was home alone when Rhonda Jean was killed, but then he admitted he had no memory of that night. None at all. He remembers getting in his truck to pick up some beer, and nothing else.” He shook his head. “Maybe that’s a lie, too—I don’t know. Max has a lawyer now, so he isn’t talking.”
Eddie crossed his arms as an early-morning breeze ruffled the grass. “Was it the backpack? That was the evidence that proved it?”
“Rhonda Jean Breckwith’s backpack was in his truck, yes,” Officer Syed said. “There’s blood on the backpack. There’s also blood in the cab of the truck. We’re testing all of that. A neighbor passed Max’s truck as it left his driveway that night, so we know he left home. And the jacket Rhonda Jean was wearing when you found her, when she died—that jacket belonged to Max Shandler.”
We were quiet. I remembered Rhonda Jean in the army-style jacket that seemed too big for her, that she’d pulled closed as she stood at the side of the road. Mitchell hadn’t said she was wearing a jacket when she left Hunter Beach and got into the truck.
“After we left Atticus Line with you two yesterday morning, we sent two uniforms to keep searching the roadside,” Officer Syed continued. His expression was stark. “They found the knife in the grass. It had blood on it. We’re processing it for fingerprints. Max probably kept a knife in his truck because if you get in an accident, a knife is handy for cutting your seat belt. A lot of us keep a knife in our car for that.”
I spoke up. “Officer Syed—”
