The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller (14 page)

“Knowing that if she told the truth, she could lose the kid.”

“Exactly, yeah. Then Ronnie gets arrested, and here’s where it gets complicated: if she provides an alibi, it all comes out in court, that she left the kid unattended.”

“Tough decision for a mother to make,” I said. “Let Ronnie die or lose custody of her daughter.”

“Yeah. Of course, he felt partially responsible. I mean, he was
the one who insisted she come see him in the first place.”

“So what happened next?”

“Emma decided to put the alibi in writing and give it to Ronnie.”

“In other words, putting the ball in his court.”

“Right.”

“But he never used it.”

Nissie raised a brow. “Part two—the trickiest part of all. The baby didn’t actually belong to Emma’s husband.” She rested her arms on the table, crossed them, then leaned in toward me. “She belonged to Ronnie.”

“Wow.”

“Understatement. So there he was, between a rock and a hard place. Use the alibi, they’ll take his daughter away from Emma for sure. And then who gets her? The scumbag, abusive husband.”

“A risk he wasn’t willing to take,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“So it all boiled down to keeping himself safe or keeping his kid safe?”

She nodded, shrugged. “He rolled the dice on a trial without the alibi.”

“And lost.”

“She gazed down at the table and frowned. “Unfortunately, yes.”

I thought about what it must have been like for him. The sacrifice. To put his child’s life before his own because of love. Then something else crossed my mind. “How come you didn’t convince him to use the alibi, and then you fight for custody yourself?”

She shrugged. “I never had the chance.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t know about the note until after Ronnie died. He left it for me. I guess he wanted me to know he wasn’t the monster everybody thought he was.” She shook her head, a hint of anger mixed with sadness. “But I already knew that.”

I tipped the note up. “And you never gave this to the folks at
The Observer?
They never saw it?”

She straightened her spine as well as her facial expression. “I wouldn’t give those people the time of day.”

“How come?”

“Because they’re scum, that’s why.” She looked away and sneered. “The way they covered the trial was shameful. They had him convicted before he ever set foot in the courtroom. Banner headlines every day, practically calling him a pervert child killer. They turned it into a damned circus carnival, and when I tried to complain, they wouldn’t hear it.”

“So after that, Emma ended up keeping the girl?”

She shook her head. “Overdose. She died right after the execution. I wondered if it was guilt about Ronnie, but
—
”

“Then the little girl went to the ex-husband anyway? After all that?”

Nissie’s expression changed to one of determination. “Hell, no. I fought long and hard, but I finally won. She’s
my
kid now.” And then she smiled.

I smiled, too.

She pulled out her wallet, flipped it open, turned it toward me. With alternating glances between it and me, she said, “Jessica.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“That was at her college graduation. She’ll be thirty-five in August. A lawyer, if you can believe it.”

I looked from the photo to her and said, “Something good came out of something bad.”

A tear filled her eye. She wiped it away, a bigger smile now spreading across her face. “Yeah, something did … after all.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

My mother’s needs always came first, with mine getting pushed to the end of the line. Not only that, but she used me to help satisfy those needs, placing me in danger and going places other parents would never tread. I don’t know if she understood the damage she caused or the demons she left with me: The demon of,
You are Worthless
. The demon of,
You’re a Sad Excuse for a Human.
The demon of,
Nobody Loves You.

I fight those demons every day.

I was eight years old. My mother decided she needed a radio for the kitchen, and as was often the case, dragged me along to Pete’s Discount Mart.

She found one she liked, until she saw the price.

“Highway robbery,” she mumbled as she shoved the radio back onto the shelf, then shot an angry look toward a nearby salesman. “These people are criminals.”

She moved a few paces down the aisle and grabbed another radio.

“Like the price on this one better,” she said, holding it up, examining it, “except it’s a piece of crap.”

Then she looked down at me, and I could practically see the up-to-no-good flashing in her eyes. She put the radio back, pulled me farther down the aisle, then knelt and whispered into my ear, “I’m going to go around the corner to the next row. Once I’m out of sight, you take the price off the crappy radio and put it on the good one. Then put the tag from the good one on the crappy one. Understand?”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to—”

“It’s fine,” she said, “Trust me. Nobody will know the difference. These people are making a killing.”

“But what if I get caught?”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. You won’t get caught. Nobody even notices you. It’s like you’re invisible.”

I didn’t say anything, just shook my head.

Her expression grew more serious. “Good boys listen to their mothers. If you want me to love you, then you need to trust me.”

I looked at the salesman, who was busy flirting with the cashier.

“Go ahead,” my mother said, waving me on. “Just do it.”

I stepped tentatively down the aisle, my hands clenched, my shoulders tight and stiff.

“I’ll be in the next aisle, honey,” she said, speaking loudly now so everyone could hear.

My heart began to pound.

I moved over to the cheaper radios. Grabbed one. Glanced at the front of the store; the salesman caught my eye, smiled, then went back to charming the cashier. I turned the box over and found the price tag, began peeling it off.

Then, a short time later, “It’s over here on aisle six, ma’am. I’ll show you.”

I looked up. The salesman was gone, and the cashier was busy reading a magazine.

I kept peeling.

“This toaster is our most popular model, and it’s on sale right now.”

They were in the next aisle.

The label began tearing in half. My fingertips were sweaty and I felt like I was about to lose it. Everything was turning into a mess. I wiped my hands on my pants and grabbed another radio. Began peeling again.

Then I felt a firm hand on my shoulder.

I jumped.

The salesman glared down at me. “You mind telling me what you’re doing, son?”

Fear and panic silenced me.

“I said, son?”

“I was…I…”

“You want to tell me why you’re removing price tags from our merchandise?”

“I…”

My mother stepped around the corner. With hands clamped to her hips, head tilted, and an angry scowl on her face, she said, “Patrick! What have you done now?”

“This your boy, ma’am?”

She walked toward us shaking her head, and with irritation in her voice said, “Oh for heaven’s sake. What has he gotten himself into this time?”

“I caught him removing price labels from our merchandise,” the salesman said, pointing to the shreds still stuck to my pant leg. A group of people began gathering around, watching us.

Watching me.

“You apologize to this nice man!” she shouted. “Do it right this instant!”

And so I did, with tears rolling down cheeks, barely able to get the words out.

My mother turned to the salesman. “I’m so sorry. I really am. He’s a problem child, and I’m just at my wit’s end. His father passed away, and me being a single mother and all, you know… I just don’t know what to do with him. I’m so embarrassed.”

Then she dragged me by my arm, through the crowd and out of the store, shouting the whole way.

I don’t remember much about the ride home, except for the humiliation I felt.

And this:

“Congratulations,” she said, once we were on the road. “You really fucked
that
one up.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Yet another storm.

This one came barreling in off the coast, slate gray skies and rain drifting through the air in sheets.

A perfect match for my mood…and the turbulent feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Figuring out Nathan Kingsley’s murder was like peeling away the layers of an onion: the deeper I got, the more it stunk. The less sense it seemed to make, too. No wonder I’d had such a hard time figuring out Ronald Lucas’s connection to all this. He didn’t really have one.

But if he didn’t do it, who did?

The mysterious Sam I Am entered my mind. His role seemed to be pushing its way toward center stage. I wondered if he could have killed both Jean
and
Nathan Kingsley. But why would he want either of them dead? And why then spare Dennis?

And what about my mother and Warren? I still had no idea what they were doing in the middle of all this.

Nissie Lambert helped me fill in a lot of empty spaces where Lucas was concerned. Still, what she told me was just one piece to an already confusing puzzle. If her brother was in fact framed, I had no idea who was behind it, or why.

Jackson Wright had represented Lucas during his trial and during the subsequent appeals process. Back at the motel, I powered up the computer and did a search. He was still practicing law in Corvine with an office on Prospect Street. Good. Hopefully, he could help me take Nissie’s information to the next level.

Questions without answers—they were building too quickly. So too, was my exhaustion, because for the second night in a row, I passed out cold without even turning off the lights.