One Perfect Morning Page 24

  We’d been through so much together over the years. But I was doing the right thing, and that’s all that mattered. I’d grieve the loss of my friendship, let the guilt of what I’d done make me a better person, then move on. I had spent too long mourning what I didn’t have; it was time to start living instead. I just hoped that Robin and Grant could do the same.

  Robin stood up to hug me goodbye. ‘I’ll miss you too.’ She pulled away, fixing those intense brown eyes on mine. ‘At least it was you. I know it’s a weird thing to say, but I’m glad he ran into the arms of someone who loved us both. Had it been anyone else, she would have tried to take him away from me. At least you’re giving him back.’

  ‘Robin, he was never mine to give back. He has always been yours, and he always will be.’

  Chapter 38

  Owen

  2001, BEAVER FALLS, PENNSYLVANIA

  Owen Fischer had grown up around guns. By the age of five he was already spending weekends target practicing with his dad at the local sportsman’s club, and he was a decent shot, too. By seven he could hit a beer can at twenty-five yards. When he was thirteen his dad bought him his first pistol, a 9mm. And by eighteen he was a marksman, frequently competing in and winning competitive shooting tournaments, and a proud card-carrying member of the National Rifle Association. Owen’s dad made sure he knew the foundation of responsible gun ownership: how to properly clean, handle, carry, and store his weapons. How to treat a gun was instilled deep; how to treat others, not so much.

  ‘If you can handle the responsibility of a weapon, you can handle anything,’ his dad had taught him.

  Except when Owen got angry. When Owen got angry, he couldn’t handle himself, let alone a deadly weapon. His father’s rules flew out the window, and recklessness flew in. And right now, Owen was angry. ‘Righteously angry,’ he called it when Mackenzie begged him to calm down.

  It started with a fight. And it ended with a murder.

  Owen didn’t personally know Geoffrey Faust. As far as he was concerned, he would have never crossed paths with the degenerate if it wasn’t for Mackenzie Kirkland’s soft heart. Everyone on campus had noticed and gossiped about Robin Goldman’s growing belly. She was a flirt, which automatically made her a whore, according to most of the students at their small college. Yet when Robin refused to drop out and instead have the baby, that was more shocking than her pregnancy.

  Like every other classmate, Owen had assumed a one-night stand had caught up to Robin. That’s when Mackenzie set him straight. After she’d told him what Geoffrey had done – a secret Mackenzie had vowed to keep for Robin, then slipped up and shared with him after one too many vodka Jell-O shots one night – Owen’s moral indignation was triggered and his vigilante impulse kicked in.

  His father would have killed him for sneaking the gun out of the gun safe. He would have killed him a second time for concealing it and taking it to a college campus. But when it came to justice, Owen didn’t see in shades of gray. Raping and impregnating a girl and then leaving her high and dry was crossing a line punishable by death.

  Geoffrey Faust would deserve what he got. Hopped up on testosterone and self-righteousness, Owen wanted to play judge, jury, and executioner.

  Nico Bartelli wasn’t Owen’s usual fare when it came to friends. But when you’ve grown up with someone since first grade, you know if you can trust them or not. Owen trusted Nico with his life … and the biggest secret he would ever have.

  Although Owen, for the most part, had trodden a straight and narrow path, Nico wasn’t as lucky. His grades had always been sub-par, and his parents didn’t care enough to notice when he started hanging around with a high school gang. Drug deals and car thefts and run-ins with the law had been his initiation to a life on the streets.

  When Owen now reconnected with Nico, he discovered his old friend was a shell of the guy he’d known – he’d done jail time for petty crimes, dabbled in drugs and illegal gambling, and occasionally made extra dough as a police snitch. The small-time hustler was all too happy to accompany Owen on his ‘mission’ this brisk spring night, figuring he’d at least get his rocks off with a little excitement. Owen didn’t mention to Nico that he’d packed a Glock 19 in the pocket of his Tommy Hilfiger jacket.

  It wasn’t hard to track Geoffrey Faust down. One call to Pizza Joe’s, where Robin had first met him, and the teen who answered gave up an address where Geoffrey usually crashed. Geoffrey turned out to be an easy target.

  They found his beat-up Toyota Corolla pulled to the side of a disused road that led to a forgotten park’s overgrown entrance. Beyond the gate was a dirt path that now only saw the footprints of drug dealers and secret lovers. Honeysuckle vines snaked along the walkway to a small clearing where the carcass of a merry-go-round rusted in a rank sea of nimbleweed and quackgrass. The skeleton of a swing set remained, but the swings had long ago dry-rotted away. From the dusky edge of the tree line, Owen and Nico watched as Geoffrey sold a skittish-looking teen a dime bag of weed.

  The kid dashed off into the trees as Geoffrey pocketed the ten-spot in his Eckō brand cargo jeans, then headed back toward his car. Stepping out of the shadows onto the moonlit path, Owen and Nico cut him off.

  Geoffrey curtly lifted his chin in acknowledgment, playing with the rim of his Von Dutch trucker hat. ‘’Sup.’

  ‘’Sup. You Geoffrey?’ Nico asked.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘We wanna score some weed. We heard you could hook us up, man.’

  Geoffrey looked from Nico to Owen and back again. ‘Sorry, dude. Just sold my last bag. Besides, your Ken doll buddy here looks like a cop to me.’

  ‘I’m not a cop,’ Owen said evenly.

  ‘Then who the hell are you?’

  ‘Never mind who I am.’

  ‘I don’t have time for this cloak-and-dagger shit,’ said Geoffrey. He tried to walk around them on the path, but Owen grabbed his shoulder.

  ‘Get out of my way, motherfucker!’ said Geoffrey, shrugging himself loose.

  Owen backhanded him across the mouth. Geoffrey reeled, then looked quizzically at Nico.

  Nico laughed nervously. ‘I’d watch my language if I was you, G.’

  ‘He’s right, G,’ said Owen. ‘I ought to kill you just for your foul mouth.’

  Geoffrey laughed and spat on the ground. ‘With what? Your bare hands?’

  ‘I could.’ Owen drew his weapon and brandished it in the moonlight. ‘But I’d rather use this.’

  Geoffrey took a step back. ‘Easy, man. You don’t want weed. What do you want?’

  ‘I have a friend who says you’re her baby’s daddy. What about it?’

  ‘Naw, man, bitches be crazy. I ain’t never got a girl pregnant.’

  ‘Robin Goldman begs to differ.’ Owen leveled the Glock, aiming it at Geoffrey’s heart.

  ‘Yo, I swear, I didn’t get your girl pregnant!’ Geoffrey screamed, throwing his hands up in surrender. ‘I don’t know any Robin, dude.’

  ‘Well, that’s even worse if you don’t remember the girl you raped, Geoffrey.’

  ‘Shit, man, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. If your girl got herself raped, she probably wanted it. Have you seen these college girls around here? These bitches are beggin’ for it.’

  ‘That’s the only admission of guilt I need,’ said Owen. ‘There’s a special corner of hell for scumbags like you. And that’s where you’re going – now.’

  Owen didn’t hesitate. Geoffrey was just a 3D version of the targets he had shot at all his life. A pop broke the silence of the still night air, then Geoffrey hit the ground with a soft thud.

  Right in the heart. Dead on impact.

  ‘Holy shit, Owen! I thought you were just bluffing.’ Nico’s eyes goggled in horror, his mouth frozen in an O. He was a common criminal, not a murderer, and he’d never seen this much blood before.

  ‘Come on, we gotta get rid of the body,’ Owen ordered, but Nico couldn’t move. His feet were dead weight.

/>   ‘Nico! Get it together, man!’ Nico jolted, snapping out of his trance. ‘We gotta hide the evidence.’

  With chilling detachment, Owen picked up Geoffrey’s limp arms. ‘Grab his legs. We’ll bury him in the woods where there’s not a lot of foot traffic.’

  Spooked, Nico numbly obeyed. Together they carried the body deeper into the woods until they found a remote spot where the ground was soft and there were plenty of leaves at hand to disguise the grave. Owen had brought shovels; they fetched these, along with rags and flashlights, from his vehicle, then blistered their palms as they dug a hole big enough to drop the body in. But first Nico cleaned out Geoffrey’s pockets, taking his car keys and wallet, then unlaced his Timberland boots.

  ‘Dude, his shoes?’ Owen scoffed.

  ‘What? They’re a hundred bucks a pair! Besides, it’s one less piece of evidence to leave behind,’ Nico reasoned.

  ‘Good idea. Nobody’ll be able to ID him, if the body’s ever found,’ Owen remarked. ‘Which it won’t be.’

  ‘You sound pretty sure of yourself,’ said Nico as he rifled through the billfold’s contents.

  Owen was matter-of-fact. ‘I’m not worried. Trust me, nobody’s going to miss a lowlife like Geoffrey Faust.’ He kicked the corpse.

  ‘Especially if Geoffrey Faust is alive and well,’ Nico said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Dude has a clean record, a bank account, employment history … how hard would it be to just take his place?’

  ‘You’re serious? Why would you want a dead guy’s identity?’

  ‘I already got an arrest record and nothing to live for. But Geoffrey’s a clean slate. His death could be my second chance, man.’ Nico traced the edge of Geoffrey’s driver’s license.

  ‘Look, do what you want to do. But it’ll be getting light in a few hours. We’ve gotta hurry.’

  Hours of sweat-stained shirts and bloody hands later, they filled in the grave and covered it with a bed of leaves and pine straw. Over this, they arranged small logs and heavy stones in a natural-looking pattern. They used a pine limb, dense with stiff needles, to brush away their footprints. The trail of blood from the execution site to the grave they sprinkled with gravel and dirt.

  Together they buried the one secret that would hold Owen captive for life. But Owen was good at hiding things. He swore Nico to secrecy, and the punk readily agreed. He had seen what his trigger-happy friend was capable of.

  The sun was just rising as they headed back to the road. Nico took off in Geoffrey’s Corolla. Owen, carrying both shovels, walked to where his car was parked.

  And there, standing next to the trunk, was Mackenzie with her arms folded across her chest. Owen halted mid-stride. Her hooded eyes said it all; she’d seen too much.

  ‘Mackenzie—’

  ‘Dammit, Owen, what have you done?’

  Chapter 39

  Mackenzie

  MONDAY MORNING

  ‘Hey, honey. You okay?’

  Aria was spread out on a full-sized bed separated from mine by a small, cheap nightstand. She glanced up at me, ears plugged with music, then returned to flipping through an old Vanity Fair magazine the previous tenant had left behind.

  She hadn’t spoken to me since yesterday. When I looked at her, I didn’t see the little girl who had decorated her hair with yellow dandelions or who clung to my leg when a stranger said hi. In a single week Aria had grown into an adult, with adult problems. I missed my little girl.

  With the sunrise I felt dread rise with it. I was a homemaker without a home, a mother without a child, a wife without a husband. I hadn’t anticipated the perpetual state of panic I’d be stuck in when I slashed my husband’s neck. Little more than twenty-four hours ago it had been a tiny thought that crept in, then it fully formed in my mind. Take his life like he took yours.

  When I picked up the knife, I hadn’t anticipated the butterfly effect that would ripple out from there. The years of anger, pain, and injustice had taken the wheel; my body was just along for the ride. Now here I was, gazing out the window at the Extended Stay hotel parking lot below, waiting for everything to come crashing down. Eventually the police would show up, slap on the handcuffs, and haul me off to prison. The fear had kept me awake all night, buzzing in my skull.

  We hadn’t been allowed to return to the house yet as it was still being investigated and analyzed as the crime scene, so Aria and I checked into the only long-term hotel in town, since I wasn’t sure when we’d get to go home. Every phone call made me jump, and the patter of feet in the hallway outside our door made my heart skip a beat. It was a waiting game at this point: waiting for Detective Rossi to figure out I was a cold-blooded murderess.

  It was shortly after ten o’clock when I recognized the detective’s black sedan pull into the parking lot. The temptation to run was strong, but I held my ground. He wasn’t accompanied by other policemen, so I figured I was safe … so far. I imagined when the day came that I was officially under arrest they would arrive with guns drawn and sirens blaring – just like on TV.

  ‘Detective Rossi is here,’ I said to Aria.

  She closed the magazine and popped her earbuds out. ‘Then I’m going for a walk. Text me when he leaves.’

  ‘Be safe, honey,’ I reminded her ironically. The monster wasn’t out there on the streets; it was living with her.

  Aria swept past me out the door, leaving me alone with my anxiety. It was better this way; I had wanted to avoid forcing Aria to endure these ‘interview’ sessions, especially without an attorney representing us. I had barely had a day to figure things out, let alone packing some meager belongings and finding a place to sleep, as everything was moving so quickly with the investigation. How did anyone throw together a defense team on such short notice? Milk, bread, and a criminal defense team weren’t exactly part of our family budget. Anyway, if I had immediately lawyered up, that would only make me look guilty, or at least suspicious.

  I hurriedly brushed my hair and splashed water on my face to make myself somewhat presentable, but I didn’t have time to hide the dark rings under my eyes or the pimples splotching my temples from stress.

  A knock on the door, a detached greeting, a declined offer for a cup of burned coffee. Whoever had stayed here before me had cooked a crisp black residue to the bottom of the carafe, which no amount of scrubbing could clean. After pouring myself a cup – cheap coffee being the only sustenance I’d had in twenty-four hours – Detective Rossi directed me to the cheap round dining room table that accommodated four, if squished knee to knee.

  ‘I’m going to cut to the chase,’ he began, setting his briefcase on the table. ‘The preliminary autopsy report came back. I have some news.’

  I swallowed a mixture of anticipation and fear, waiting for him to continue. He passed a folder to me, opened it up, and pointed to the top piece of paper with the heading Autopsy Report.

  ‘According to the medical examiner, your husband didn’t die from the stabbing, Mrs Fischer. He was already dead from lethal cardiac arrhythmia before his throat was cut.’

  I ran my finger down the long line of medical jargon that I didn’t fully understand.

  ‘Wait – what does that mean?’ I couldn’t make sense of the words. Something about Owen already being dead … that couldn’t be possible.

  ‘Lethal cardiac arrhythmia is a heart attack. Your husband was already dead from a heart attack before the perp cut his throat.’

  I looked up at the detective, who chomped on a piece of gum. The man sure loved his spearmint.

  ‘How were they able to determine this?’

  He ran his finger under a line of text. ‘It explains it here, but you may have noticed when you found your husband that there wasn’t much blood coming from his neck.’

  ‘Honestly, I was in such a panic when I found him, I didn’t really notice anything but the big gash.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t bleed out because he was already dead. The ME is determining
the approximate time and cause of death, but we think it was poisoning or a drug overdose, based on the toxicology report. As you can see, this leaves us with a lot of questions.’

  ‘What kinds of questions?’ I didn’t want to know, but I needed to be prepared. My hands trembled, so I tucked them under my legs.

  ‘Like who would have poisoned him. And why. And with what. Somehow the post-mortem wounds play into all that, which we’re looking into. As you can appreciate, when a man is first poisoned and then coincidentally has his throat slit on the same day, well, it arouses a lot of suspicion.’

  ‘So you think it’s the same person.’

  ‘Most likely. And most likely a female. Poisoning is more common among women than men.’ His eyes assessed me like I was a lab specimen, not a grieving widow. ‘Maybe they poisoned him, then wanted to make sure the job was finished. Or staged the break-in to hide the poisoning. It’s not an uncommon spousal tactic.’

  And there it was. Sweat trickled down my armpits. I was suspect number one, not that I had expected it to go any other way. It was always the husband … or the wife. At least on those lurid 20/20 murder mysteries Owen and I had watched faithfully every Friday night.

  ‘Are you suggesting I murdered my husband? Because I’ve told you my alibi and it was confirmed.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything, Mrs Fischer. Yes, we confirmed your alibi, but poison could have been administered at any point. Depending on what was used, it could have taken effect at any time. The crime scene investigators should be able to piece everything together once they’re done working the scene and compiling the facts. We’ll be subpoenaing all phone calls and messages, see if anything turns up.’