Dead Secret

‘Please, bear with me. How much do you remember?’

Jodie rolled her eyes. ‘Not much. I know I took a second shot, but after that, nothing.’

‘Why two shots?’

‘I explained all that. The first shot was for Ethan, the second one was supposed to be for me.’ She indicated herself with a sweeping flick of her hand. ‘Obviously, I missed.’

‘Maybe you didn’t.’

She squinted at him, and he went on.

‘Maybe you had to change your plan. Maybe when it came to it, you needed that second bullet for Ethan. Because you knew the first one hadn’t killed him.’

‘The gun was inches from his head.’

‘But the car was speeding, swerving all over the road. You said in court you were flung around, thrown from side to side, so how can you be sure your shot was accurate?’

For an instant, Jodie was back in the car: lurching, pitching; her head dazed, the Bentley screeching, spinning out of control.

A cold sweat settled on her skin. It wasn’t possible. She’d killed him, she knew she had.

Novak said, ‘So where was Ethan going?’

‘Boston. The airport.’

‘On his way to New York, that’s what you said, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know for a fact he was going to New York?’

Jodie paused. ‘If you put it like that, I suppose I don’t. New York is just what he told me.’

‘Did you know there are no flights to New York that time of night?’

Jodie frowned. ‘No. No, I didn’t.’

‘It was a business trip?’

‘I assumed so. But he never told me much. Look, Mr Novak, Ethan had a lot of secrets. More secrets than we’ll ever know about.’

‘Yeah, I’m getting that.’

He broke eye contact, and scratched his stubble for a while. He seemed to have trouble forming his next question. The cacophony of families echoed around them, punctuated by the clunkety-clunk of cans being dispensed from the vending machine. Eventually, Novak said,

‘How many other cars did you see on the road?’

‘One or two. Not many.’

‘What? That can’t be right. On the fourth of July?’

Jodie raised a brow at the argumentative tone. ‘I can see that’s not the answer you wanted. But it was late. Most people had gone home.’

He drummed his fingers on the table. Jodie checked over her shoulder at the clock on the wall. Time was almost up. Some families were already getting up to leave, preparing for the long ride home. Chairs rumbled against the floor, and a low-level wailing started up. The sound of children and mothers parting.

Jodie’s throat constricted. Her mind flicked back to the mannequin in the art room, to the stash of pills that would bring an end to everything. Instead of the usual release, the notion stirred up a worm of unease. She shifted in her chair.

‘You said you could prove Ethan was still alive.’

Novak nodded. ‘He’s come up in a fraud case I’ve been investigating. Actually, he first came up three years ago, but then he conveniently died.’

‘Came up how?’

He hesitated, his expression wary. A journalist protecting his story. Then he went on.

‘We can go into the details later. Bottom line is, he’s heavily implicated. Along with his buddy, Sheriff Caruso.’

She flashed on the sheriff’s fleshy face, his dark, hard eyes. ‘That’s no surprise. Where does Belize come into it?’

‘I’m getting to that. One of my contacts called me. About a bank account I’d linked to Ethan three years ago, an offshore account in Belize City. It’s been dormant ever since Ethan died, but six weeks ago it suddenly became active. He’s started moving money around.’

Jodie sat back. ‘Activity on a bank account? That’s all you’ve got? That could have been anyone. It doesn’t prove a thing, it’s absurd to think that was Ethan.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ He clasped his hands in front of him, his knuckles tense. ‘So my contact got me a photograph.’

Her stomach jolted. She stared at Novak, who wasn’t quite meeting her eyes. Every muscle in her body felt rigid, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Eventually, she managed,

‘Aren’t you going to show it to me?’

He scraped a hand over his cheek. She could see some kind of debate chase back and forth across his face, and from the tremor in his frame, she guessed it had sent his leg jiggling. He finally seemed to make up his mind, and reached into his jacket pocket, drawing out a single photograph. Jodie’s mouth felt dry. He held the photo close to his chest, still unwilling to part with it.

‘This was taken from the security camera in the bank.’ He peeked at it, like a poker player unsure of his hole card. ‘It’s a little grainy, you may not recognize him.’

Jodie swallowed hard, waiting for him to hand it over. When he didn’t, it occurred to her he was as anxious as she was. She squinted at him.

‘You’re not sure, are you?’

‘Of course I’m fucking sure.’

She studied the taut line of his jaw. ‘No, you’re not. But you badly need it to be him, don’t you?’

He shrugged, avoiding her eyes. ‘It’s just a story.’

But the sheen on his forehead spoke of desperation. The guy had more riding on this than he was prepared to say. Slowly, Jodie held out her hand, aware that her pulse was hammering. He gave the photo one last look, then slid it across the table.

She picked it up. Looked at it. Her breath caught in her throat. Nausea rolled in the pit of her stomach, and she shoved her knuckles against her lips, fighting the urge to fling the photo back across the table. She made herself study it long and hard, just so she could be sure.

It was a half-body shot in gritty-looking monochrome. The man’s image was over-magnified, his outline defined by small, pixelated blocks. Jodie scrutinized the longish dark hair, the jaded face, the hint of stubble on his chin. Not wild stubble like Novak’s, but groomed, designer-style. And above it, the sculpted, buttoned-up mouth that looked so much like Abby’s. A chill skittered through her.