AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“The aliases they did find,” Quentin went on, “were in some trouble. It seems that, under several different names, Diane Cross was good at defrauding people of money. She started with a house-sitting scam, giving customers false references, then robbing them when she got access to their house while they were away. Then she moved up to stealing people’s bank and credit card information instead of simple theft. She’d collect the information while house-sitting, then clean out their accounts several weeks or months later, leaving them to backtrack to figure out who it could have been. There were other scams. Do you want to hear about them?”
The blood was roaring in my ears. I had known about the scams—there was no way I couldn’t have known. But Mom had kept the details from me, not out of consideration for my tender feelings, but because that way I couldn’t tell on her if the police ever picked me up. She was sentimental like that.
Still, I knew that the money in our joint bank account came from something illegal. I never asked. And I never told on her. I didn’t have the luxury of being moral. I had needed my mother to survive.
Quentin didn’t seem to need any answers from me. He was reciting all of this from memory, without even a notepad to read from. “Diane’s daughter was even more elusive than she was. Even the FBI could find almost no information about her. We do know that when she left California with her mother, her name was—”
“Stop.”
“I beg your pardon?” Quentin asked.
I ground the words out. “I don’t want to hear that name. Not now, not ever. Don’t say that name.”
There was a second of surprised silence, but then, with perfect inexorability, Quentin spoke the words. “Crystal Cross.”
My stomach rolled, and I wondered what it would be like to get sick right here in the sitting room, in front of everyone. It might happen. That name—that stupid name that my mother had thought was a great idea when I was born—was a burden I’d thought I’d dropped forever. “Crystal Cross is dead,” I managed.
“She was very much alive in 1981, when she presumably left California with her mother,” Quentin said. “After that, she disappears nearly into thin air. The FBI assumed she took a new identity. However, Diane was clever enough not to give her daughter’s new identity the same last name as any of her own new identities. She likely changed her date of birth, too. And since a teenage girl wasn’t implicated in any of Diane’s money scams, the FBI wasn’t interested—unless Diane had murdered her daughter, too, and she wasn’t alive at all.”
“My mother would never murder me,” I said. “She killed my father because he abused her. Because he abused both of us.”
“There were no police reports to that effect,” Quentin said. “However, I’ve been a policeman long enough to give you the benefit of the doubt on that. I’m not completely heartless.”
Anger seethed through me. The gall of him, to think he knew anything about what it was like to be me. To be my mother. To live in that house day after day.
“I talked to one of the original detectives on the Cross murder case.” This came from Detective Beam, on the other end of the couch. I’d almost forgotten he was there. “He told me that there were reports from the neighbors. The abuse was most likely true.” He cleared his throat. “He was probably doing it for years.”
“Thank you, Detective Beam.” Quentin’s tone was icy. “I’m certain all of the evidence was presented at trial.” He turned back to me. “Mrs.Carter—though that isn’t actually your name—I admit I’m curious about you. About why you’re here in Coldlake Falls. About why you haven’t left yet. About—”
“Enough.”
Eddie spoke from his position in the doorway. I gathered my courage and looked at him. He was tense, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw hard, his eyes blazing with anger. Eddie was rarely angry.
“Stop harassing my wife,” he said, his voice rough.
I wasn’t stupid enough to see this as a loyal defense. Some of that anger, I knew, was directed at me. Eddie’s trust was hard-won, and I’d broken it. What the damage might be, I had no idea.
“Mr.Carter,” Detective Quentin said.
“Leave her alone,” Eddie told him. “We’ve cooperated with your investigation. We’ve been interrogated twice. You’ve gone through our car, our luggage, our lives. None of this has anything to do with Rhonda Jean or your other murders on Atticus Line.”
Detective Quentin was looking at Eddie with his sharp, crystal gaze, his attention leaving me behind. “Are you sure about that?” he asked.
“Of course I am.” Eddie’s temper was rising. It was obvious, at least to me.
There was a moment of silence, and I panicked. I knew what was coming—not exactly what, but I had an idea. Enough to be sure that I didn’t want to know whatever the detective was going to say next. I opened my mouth to shut him up, to tell him to get out of here, to tell him to get out of our lives. This was over. I never wanted to see Detective Quentin again. But the detective spoke first.
“We’ve been given some interesting information about your discharge from the army,” Quentin said to Eddie.
Eddie went still.
“There were some incidents on your record,” Quentin said, again from memory. “Psychiatric incidents. A disagreement with another soldier. Behavioral problems. When you were discharged at the beginning of this year, an unauthorized handgun was found in your personal effects. I believe it was a .22.”
“I got rid of that gun,” Eddie said, his voice dangerously quiet. “It was legal.”
“But it wasn’t legal to have on base, was it?” Quentin’s tone was chillingly polite. “However, the gun is not what interests me about your record. What interests me is that you were stationed at Fort Custer in 1993, before you went overseas. Fort Custer is a few hours from here. You were on authorized leave from March 1 to March 4, 1993. Katharine O’Connor was killed on March 2, 1993, and her body was left on Atticus Line.”
There was not a single sound in the room except for the ticking clock. Rose was perfectly still, her knuckles white as her hands fisted in her lap. Eddie and Detective Quentin had locked gazes, Eddie’s expression hard and defiant. I glanced at Detective Beam to see him looking at Quentin. His expression was dark and almost impossible to read, but it looked a lot like hatred.
