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The shuffling stopped. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“In the death of Jenna Jerrell, we have one suspect in custody, Renaldo Cristobal, one of her schoolmates. The second suspect is still at large. As you well know, when there are multiple perpetrators, the one who collaborates with law enforcement first is the one who gets the deal. Mr. Cristobal is forthcoming and eager to help with the investigation. We are confident we’ll bring this case to a close in the next twenty-four hours.” She paused for a second. “Got that?”
“Sure did. I’ll get it out in tonight’s news. How about Kendra? Did you find her yet? People want to know.”
Kay stared at the EMS helicopter’s strobes disappearing in the night. “Not yet, but we’re close. When we do, you’ll be the first to know.”
FORTY-SEVEN
MR. SHARP
Kay had fallen into a deep sleep that felt like a coma the moment her head had touched the pillow the night before. She woke with the first light of dawn, numb, wishing she’d pulled the curtains shut before going to bed. The sun shone through the sheers, its rays landing playfully on her face, luring her out of bed with the promise of a good day.
Stretching between the sheets with the deliberate moves of a lazy feline, she delayed the moment her feet would touch the cold floor, feeling around for her slippers. For a moment, she weighed her options, but then stood on the side of the bed and yawned.
She’d dreamed about something, the dream now a fuzzy and nonsensical memory about her flying weightlessly over Wildfire Ridge like Superwoman, her only propulsion the power of her thought and the strength in Elliot’s grip.
Elliot.
Nope.
She wasn’t going to think about him. Not today. Instead, she’d finish prepping the kitchen for the paint job she’d scheduled for Tuesday afternoon.
Stepping carefully over the paint-stained newspaper laid on the floors, she went into the kitchen and started the coffee maker, then ran through the motions of brewing a strong one. Within seconds, the mouthwatering aroma of French Vanilla filled the room, scaring away the last remnants of slumber.
Brushing her teeth and a quick, refreshing shower took her all of ten minutes while the coffee sat a little to darken. She filled her cup to the brim and proceeded to inspect the kitchen walls carefully, one patched hole at a time, coffee in hand like a professional contractor. She felt good about the job she’d done. Maybe it wasn’t as perfect as it would’ve been if Jacob had held the putty knife, but with every patched hole she found healing.
Running her hand over an uneven section of the wall, she let out a long sigh; she’d grown dangerously close to finding peace. Her eyes veered toward the window, where the two willow trees stood tall, their leaves immobile in the still morning air. Maybe, for a while, Elliot could keep on mowing the backyard if he wanted. For both Jacob and her, running the tractor over that stretch of grass between the willows was still a trigger, a painful reminder of the truths that should stay buried forever. And some lies she wished didn’t, like her father’s real identity.
She took a piece of sandpaper and ran it back and forth over the lumpy patch job she’d worked on the week before, stopping every few seconds to check if it was smooth enough. She loved the simplicity of the work, and how immersive it was. Her hands moved quickly, finishing the wall, while her mind roamed freely, wondering what secrets her father had taken with him to his grave, then asking herself whether Richard Gaskell would take the bait she’d laid out for him. What if he didn’t? What if he was gone already?
A quick rap against the door, and Elliot’s beaming face appeared in the window. Startled out of her wandering thoughts, she smiled, rubbing her hands together to shake off some of the putty dust. Her heart still swelled when she saw him; the discoveries of the past week had done little to change that, regardless of how illogical that was.
“Guess what the Marin County cops dragged in?” He paused for effect, while she tilted her head, still smiling, curious. “One Gavin Sharp. He’s waiting for you at the precinct.”
Her smile vanished, replaced immediately by a tension she felt in her shoulders and the back of her neck, stiffening her weary muscles in aching rigidity. Within minutes, she was dressed for work and ready to go.
The entire drive she was silent, and Elliot respected her choice, although he occasionally looked at her as if waiting for her to say something. She couldn’t think of anything to say. Her past and present collided in her mind, thinking of all the questions she had for the real Gavin Sharp.
She was still silent when they arrived at the precinct and as he followed her to the observation room. Standing by the two-way mirror, she looked at Gavin Sharp with undisguised curiosity. Her father had chosen that particular man to steal an identity from. Understanding why would bring her closer to figuring out who her father really was.
The real Gavin Sharp was charismatic, just as she’d noticed looking at his DMV photo. He seemed familiar in a weird, sickening way, because he looked like her father, only better. Younger. Healthier. The man seated at the scratched metallic table with his arms crossed wasn’t the boozer her father had been. He was fit, and took good care of himself. No saggy abdomen running over the line of his belt. No bloodshot eyes that barely stayed open. No bulldog jowls stained with liver spots and raspy from an overgrown stubble. No; this man’s eyes were clear, his hair neatly trimmed, his demeanor one of slightly worried self-confidence.
She threw Elliot a quick glance. “You can watch if you’d like,” she said, seeing how he wasn’t going to follow her into the room. “It’s not personal; he’s just another perp.” The brim of Elliot’s hat moved down a little, then back up in a silent nod. “Fact is, we can’t prove the statutory rape charge; Jenna did a number on us when she used a nickname for him. I have to get a confession.”
She entered the room and Gavin Sharp quickly stood, bowing his head in a greeting accompanied by a welcoming smile as if they were meeting at some fancy restaurant, not a police interrogation room with stained walls and stale air that stunk of sweat and fear.
“I’m Detective Kay Sharp,” she said, waiting for the effect her last name was sure to have on the man.
“Oh.” His smile widened. “Are we related?”
She shook her head, looking him straight in the eye. “It’s a common name in California.”
“Would’ve been nice.”
“What?”
“To have a relative with the police, when there’s a warrant out for my arrest.”
