Sarah felt her cheeks flush red, and the mere sensation made her want to pound her fists on the table.
“I did it because I knew it would break her heart to see it again. I…”
The lawyer held up his hand.
“I’m not the cops. I’m not accusing you. I am here to protect Corrie and her family. Sammy was my friend, and I’ve known you guys for a long time. I believe in Corrie’s innocence. That being said, if there’s anything I should know - the sooner the better, so I can jump ahead of their accusations. Do you understand?”
Sarah nodded, a jumble of images flashing through her mind - the most recent of Corrie holding a butcher knife and mindlessly slashing into her own skin.
“I didn’t hide the dress. Corrie assumed they took it, she told me so herself. They asked her for her clothing from that night and she told them I hung it in the laundry room.”
“Did you?”
“No, it was so wet I dropped it in the bathtub. Corrie said they must have taken a black evening dress she had hanging in there. It was a mistake. We weren’t misleading them.”
“I understand that, I do. These situations are messy. The police know that. It’s never black and white.”
“Corrie’s a wreck, Doug. Since Sammy’s death, she’s barely keeping it together. I’m afraid they’ll twist her reactions into guilt when it’s actually grief.”
“Sometimes they do,” he admitted.
Sarah stared through the window at the gray day beyond. Heavy clouds and a spattering of rain pulled the color from the city. The trees, rather than gold and vibrant, looked heavy and forlorn.
“What do they have? I mean, evidence-wise?”
The lawyer took out a legal pad and flipped several pages.
“No murder weapon, no DNA other than Sammy and Corrie’s. A handful of hairs and fibers that may or may not be linked to the killer. One helpful bit is that the murderer seemed to be right-handed.”
“And Corrie’s a leftie.”
“Yep. The attack also appeared to come from above, which would imply-”
“Someone taller than Sammy. And he was over six feet.”
“Maybe,” the lawyer paused. “They think he was kneeling. There was no blood spatter from the knees down, and his pants were grass-stained.”
“Kneeling?”
The lawyer shrugged.
“Possibly, which implies he was being threatened. Someone told him to get on his knees - that kind of thing. Though I tend to picture a gun in that scenario, not a knife.”
“And Sammy would fight,” Sarah said. “He wouldn’t just get on his knees.”
“Which is also troubling,” the lawyer said. “He had zero defensive wounds. None. Almost as if he let it happen.”
“That’s crazy. He’d never-”
“I know, and I agree, but the forensics don’t lie. Maybe he was so intoxicated he couldn’t fight back. His blood alcohol was high.”
“I’m sure it was.” Sarah remembered her last moment with Sammy. He’d kissed her goodbye as she left the party, his mouth sloppy and his eyes glazed. He’d reeked of alcohol. “What about the bloody rags by the sink? Was there DNA or whatever?”
The lawyer smiled.
“Corn syrup, fake blood. Sammy’s fingerprints were on the rags. Maybe he spilled some and cleaned it up.”
“Sammy and his fucking fake blood,” Sarah muttered, grimacing at the memory of the buckets of overturned fake blood near the back porch dripping a line of red onto crumpled white sheets below.
“I would like to ask you if you have any intuition about this, Sarah, about who murdered Sammy and why.”
Sarah drew her mouth into a grim line and shook her head.
“I don’t know, Doug, I don’t. But it wasn’t Corrie. I would bet my life on it.”
“As would I,” the lawyer said, following Sarah’s gaze to the window. “Whoever did this is out there. That’s a terrifying thought.”
CHAPTER 26
Now
Sarah
“M ama?” Isis called, dropping her stuffed Gizmo and running into the living room at Helen’s house.
“She’s not here, Icy,” Sarah told her, petting her soft blonde head.
“Come here, baby girl,” Helen said, leaning down and lifting Isis into her arms. “Grandma made banana muffins. Want one?”
“Muffnins!” Isis repeated. “Nana made muffnins.”
Sarah followed her mother and niece into the kitchen. Like her last visit, baked goods coated every surface - this time muffins instead of cookies.
“I can call Corrie’s sister, Mom,” Sarah started, but Helen shushed her.
“No. I want Isis here with me. She gives me a purpose. Plus, I feel like I’ve got a little piece of Sammy when she’s here. Is Corrie okay?”
“Yeah, they released her after questioning. I took her home and met Micah in Northport to pick up Isis.”
“Do they know-”
“That she was arrested? No, and technically she wasn’t. I guess that’s one thing we can be grateful for about Kerry Manor. There’s no prying eyes.”
Helen nodded but her lower lip trembled.
Isis sat in a kitchen chair, legs dangling far above the floor, as muffin crumbs dropped around her.
“Why?” Helen asked but Sarah shook her head.
“We’ll talk about it later. I have to run, but if you need help, call me, okay? I mean it. I told Corrie you’d hold on to Isis for a few days. It’s better that way.”
SARAH FOLLOWED WILL DOWN a steep hill into a park. Most of the leaves had fallen, and they created a wet sheath of slippery madness. Sarah wiped out and slid the rest of the way down, cringing as her coat pulled up and soggy leaves sponged across her back.
“Graceful as a gazelle,” Will chided, offering her a hand.
“I might take you down with me,” she muttered, scrambling back to her feet and pulling the sodden leaves off her skin. “Another white t-shirt ruined.”
“Have you considered switching to black?” he asked, grinning.
“We couldn’t meet this guy in a coffee shop?” she grumbled, pulling her coat around her body as she followed him.
Will looked back with a smirk.
“Not likely.”
He walked a paved path to a bridge that hung over the Boardman River. As they drew closer, Sarah heard voices and slowed. She saw no one, and yet the voices drifted down as if…
“Is he up there?” She pointed at the dark underbelly of the bridge, where long shadows hid the alcoves beneath.
“Home sweet home,” Will murmured. He stopped beneath the bridge and called up. “Maurice Paul? He here tonight?”
“I’ll Maurice your Paul,” a woman called, followed by a shrill cackle and another man’s hoot of laughter.
“Stuff it, Spider Lady,” a male voice snapped.
Sarah watched a shape disembark from the darkness. A man layered in sweaters and a grimy pair of corduroy pants shimmied down the concrete embankment. His hair was a long gray tangle over his shoulders. Sarah tried not to twitch her nose at the smell of whiskey and something pungent.
“What kin I do ya fer, Will the Potato Handler?”
“We need a good, long chat,” Will told the man. “Buy ya a pack of smokes?”
“And a sandwich?” Maurice asked. “And a duce of Bud?” The man cast soft gray eyes from Will to Sarah, who he understood would pay for his requests.
He had kind eyes. Nothing sinister about him, other than his smell. Sarah wondered if her instincts were true or if she, like many others, simply couldn’t sense bad from good.