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“Just an example,” I tell him. “During the course of our investigation, we discovered trauma to Holly’s skull.” Lifting my left hand in a fist to act as the bone in question, I use my other hand to illustrate. “Holly’s head collided with something solid here,” I point to the front of my fist, “somewhere near her forehead, which left a fracture and created a significant bleed that might’ve ended her life.”
“Might’ve?” Losing patience, Henry shakes his head. “Itdidend her life. She’s dead!”
“Not yet,” Fletch says. “Holly’s head collided with that same object here,” he reaches across and taps the top of my fist. “That created a second bleed.”
“And then one more,” I tell the pair. Pointing to the back of the makeshift skull, I touch the top of my wrist where it meets my hand. “She was struck once more here, which was the killing blow.”
Swallowing, Henry tries so very hard to put the pieces together. “I don’t understand why this is important. She hit the truck, the collision knocked her around.” He rolls his head forward, as though picturing it in his mind. “Maybe she hit the windshield, or the steering wheel or whatever. I don’t understand how knowing this helps anyone.”
“Because her injuries could not have been sustained in that car accident.” I look to his wife and feel nothing but rage as she sobs. “Holly was attacked before she got in her car that night. She was driven three hours away, but she was already dead—or extremely disoriented and dying.”
“She was…” Henry sits back, growing angrier with every word we speak. “What? You’re lying.”
“Holly’s death was not a result of suicide,” I tell him. “She was murdered.”
“No!” He shoves from his chair and slams a fist to his desk. “I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve in all this, but you’re wrong.”
“She was beaten to death with a tire iron,” Fletch adds coldly. “Investigations prove the grooves in Holly’s skull exactly match those of the standard tire iron sold with the ‘65 Chevrolet Cavalier.” Turning silent for a moment, he adds, “She was beaten with the tire iron from her own trunk—a weapon that was never recovered.”
“You’re lying!” he growls. “Murder means—”
“It means someone wanted her dead,” I fill in. “Yeah.”
“Holly’s killer coerced her into meeting with a crappy psychologist, where she was eventually‘diagnosed’,” Fletch does the finger quotes he’s so apt at using, “with mental health conditions she never had. We do not judge anyone who seeks help, Mr. Wade. In America alone, more than five and a half million people are diagnosed every single year with bipolar disorder. To search for help is noble.” With an ex-wife currently in rehab, my best friend understands this better than most. “But in Holly’s case, she was tricked, and soon after that, medicated unnecessarily.”
“Those psych appointments set the groundwork for what would eventually be labeled a tragic suicide. Had Holly seen a reputable doctor, she would never have been diagnosed. But she followed a friend’s recommendation.” Finally, I turn my attention to Hillary. “She went where her best friend nudged.”
“What?” Pale and shaky, Hillary’s back snaps straight when our eyes meet. “What are you saying?”
“It was your suggestion Holly speak to someone, wasn’t it?” Fletch asks. “You explained to Holly how her excitable moods and inability to sit still were serious mental issues.”
“I did not!”
“She was a hero to the weak,” he pushes. “She burned bras and walked picket lines in City Park. No matter the cause, she was there to lend her voice.”
“I loved that about her!”
“You were jealous,” he bites out. “Holly was brave and colorful and loud, and you were the best friend who was bullied whenever Holly wasn’t around to keep you safe.”
“I don’t… She didn’t…” Her voice breaks. “No. I didn’t hurt her.”
“You thought she had the perfect life,” I press. “The perfect family, the perfect sister, the perfect boyfriend. You put your plan into motion when they were only dating. But dating turned to wedding planning. Which turned to buying a home. Which turned into the conception of a baby.”
“You were green with envy,” Fletch snarls. “She had the perfect life, and you couldn’t even land a job or a boyfriend.”
“I was seeing someone else back then.” Angry now, Hillary argues. “I was nowhere near Holly’s accident that night. I was with another man.”
“You had dinner at the diner. And then you fabricated an alibi that would keep you busy all the way until the morning,” I counter. “Perfect, since that meant no one would come looking until the next day. Except, there was no man, was there, Hillary?”
“Of course there—” She spasms when I push to my feet. “I didn’t hurt Holly!”
“Ya know what gave you away?” Moving to his feet as well, Fletch circles the desk and snags Hillary’s wrist. He claps one cuff closed and starts on the next. “The best friend chains. You know the one you buried with Holly?”
“I was gifting it to my friend!” she cries. “I was sending her away with a piece of me.”
“The clasp was broken,” I tell her. “And the newspaper articles leading up to her funeral, ya know, the pictures you posed with Henry for?” I shake my head when our eyes meet. “No necklace.”
“So?” Henry moves around his desk,awayfrom Hillary and Fletch, rather than closer. “What does it matter that she wasn’t wearing it?”
