Page 20 of The Guilty Trial

Darla’s shoulders sagged slightly. “Right. You said you had questions about Aris.” She gestured inside. “Come on in. I just got off work, so you’ll have to excuse me if I seem distracted.”

The interior was clean and organized, though signs of a teenager’s presence were everywhere—sneakers by the door, a backpack slung over the banister, the faint scent of vanilla body spray lingering in the air. Darla led Allie through to the kitchen. School photos and report cards covered the refrigerator door, held up by alphabet magnets.

“I hope you don’t mind if I get dinner started while we talk.” Darla moved to the counter where chicken breasts and vegetables were already laid out. “My daughter gets hangry if I’m late with food.”

“Not at all.” Allie took a seat at the small dining table that occupied one corner of the kitchen.

Darla pulled out a cutting board and knife and began dicing the vegetables with practiced efficiency.

“So what’s Aris done now?” she asked without looking up. “The parole officer already called me last week asking if I’d seen him. I haven’t. Nothing’s changed there.”

“We’re still trying to locate him,” Allie said. “I’m sorry if I end up treading some ground you’ve already covered. When was the last time you spoke with him?”

“Two years, probably.” Darla began dicing an onion with quick, precise cuts. “We divorced while he was inside. I couldn’t deal with the lies anymore, and I wasn’t about to wait around for him to get out and drag us down with him again.”

Allie pulled out her notepad. “Did your daughter have any contact with him after his release?”

“I asked her that when the parole officer called.” Darla’s knife paused mid-cut. “She said no. Why?”

“We pulled the records from a pre-paid phone your ex-husband purchased,” Allie said carefully. “One of our analysts found several calls made to your daughter’s number over the past two weeks.”

Darla’s hand tightened around the knife handle. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Allie said, meaning it. She knew how it felt when someone you loved was dishonest with you.

Darla slowly set the knife down. She turned, and Allie was now looking at the face of an angry mother. “Scarlett!” Her voice echoed through the house, even though she hadn’t shouted. Allie thought her level of control was impressive.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and a moment later, a teenage girl appeared in the doorway. She had her mother’s dark hair but wore it longer and pulled into a messy bun. Her hazel eyes widened when she saw Allie.

“Yeah, Mom. What’s up?” The girl’s voice was small, uncertain.

“You need to be honest with me,” Darla demanded. “I’ve got the FBI here, so it’s not the time to skirt the truth. Did your father call you? After he got out?”

Scarlett’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Mom⁠—”

“Did he?”

“Yes.” The word came out barely above a whisper.

Darla pressed her hands flat against the counter. She closed her eyes tight and inhaled deeply. “I asked you specifically if you’d heard from him.”

“I’m sorry.” Scarlett’s eyes glistened with tears. “I didn’t want him to get in more trouble. The parole officer said he wasn’t supposed to leave King County, and I thought maybe you’d have to tell them if you knew.”

Darla let the anger fall from her face and looked at her daughter with compassion. Allie watched the shift happen in real time, the anger folding inward to make room for something softer. “I’m not mad at you, honey. I’m mad at—yes, I’m upset you lied, but I’m not mad at you.”

Allie kept her voice gentle. “Scarlett, I need to ask you some questions about those phone calls. Can you sit down?”

The girl hesitated and glanced at her mother. After Darla gave her a reassuring nod, Scarlett slid into the chair across from Allie. She wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, a nervous gesture that made her look even younger.

“How many times did your father call you?” Allie asked.

“Four or five, I think.” Scarlett twisted her hands in her lap. “Maybe six.”

“What did you talk about?”

Scarlett’s shoulders hunched forward. “The first couple times, he just complained. About how awful prison was, how unfair everything had been. He said the guards treated him like dirt, that nobody cared what happened to people like him once they were locked up. He kept saying the system was rigged against people like him, that he never should have been in there in the first place.”

Allie made notes while Darla stood frozen by the counter with her jaw clenched tight. She could see the woman’s hands gripping the edge of the countertop, her knuckles white. “And after those first calls?”