These Violent Roots, Page 6

  His expression drew from concern to stern in one exhale. “Both of the boys and their families have decided to overlook today’s lapse in judgment,” he said, a definitive condition in his tone, “but this is it—the last chance. Andee pulls something like this again, and I’ll have no choice but to expel her.”

  “Understood.” I rose from the chair, realizing I’d shared longer conversations with Principal Severson in the past ten days than I had with my husband. Thankfully, the bell rang and I took that as my own opportunity to move on. “I’ll talk with her. Get her to understand this is it—no more chances.”

  Severson came around his desk, walking with me out of the office. “I know it must be hard being different, especially in a high school like this.” He scanned the hallway as students filled it with an army of straight smiles and polished hairstyles; uniforms pressed and accessories monogrammed. With her dyed hair, copious piercings, and knee-high combat boots, she would stick out. “But hopefully Andee will realize that not everyone is out to get her and that most people are good.”

  I observed the herd for a moment, remembering what my own days had been like in a private high school. For a few beats, my heart ached for whatever my daughter was going through.

  “When you’re in my line of work, you realize the opposite is true,” I replied as I eased into the crowd. “Most people aren’t good.”

  Back inside my car, I resisted the urge to text Andee about my meeting with Principal Severson and that she was grounded for the remainder of her existence. I’d talk with her about it later, once I’d had a chance to cool down and could form some semblance of a constructive conversation.

  Minutes away from the office, a call came in from Connor.

  “What’s the latest?” I answered.

  There was a length of silence on the other end that had me checking to make sure the call hadn’t been lost.

  “Skovil’s body shows signs of defensive wounds.” Connor’s voice echoed through my SUV, sterile and tentative.

  I squinted out the windshield as I replayed the words in my head. “Defensive wounds? Why is this a surprise? A man like that probably has a multitude of them peppering his body at any given time.”

  “Not these kind.” Connor’s voice lowered, his words muffled as if he had his hand cupped over his mouth and the phone. “Based on what Benjy told me, these were sustained close to the time of death.”

  “Shit.” I rammed my palm into the steering wheel before pulling over. “They’re going to rule this is a potential homicide, aren’t they?”

  “I think so. I mean, yeah, they’ll have to open an investigation. Run more tests on the body, comb his apartment for evidence.” Connor exhaled, his voice the total opposite of how it had been this morning. “I guess we haven’t heard the last of Darryl Skovil.”

  “Son of a bitch.” My eyes closed. “And this friend of yours, he’s a good medical examiner? Knows the difference between defensive wounds and track marks?”

  A huff came through the phone. “Pretty sure that’s why they require MEs to get their PhDs, so they don’t make those kind of pivotal errors when processing a body.”

  “And there’s no chance he could be wrong about the defensive wounds?” I continued.

  “If you’re looking for a percentage, Benjy gave me a ninety-nine percent positive one. But that probably doesn’t make you feel any better, does it?”

  My tongue pushed into the side of my cheek. “No.”

  “Me either.” Connor gave a frustrated sound. “I know this sounds all kinds of wrong, but it was so much more satisfying to think a guy like Skovil took his own life.”

  “That’s not wrong, that’s human.” I found myself watching the people on the sidewalk, the early stream of the after work shuffle, anxiety unfurling inside my chest and causing me to reach into my purse for yet another pill to fix something gone awry inside me. “Do you know if the police have been notified?”

  “Soon. If not already.”

  The faces of the children Skovil had hurt settled into my mind. None of them had been older than nine years old, yet all of them were now in possession of eyes that suggested they were old men. The death of innocence—it was the demise of society.

  Popping the pill in my mouth, I swallowed it without water. “And there’s not a chance that your good friend Benjy would consider failing to mention these defensive wounds in his report? All he’d need to do is confirm the suicide and Skovil’s body would be cremated and no one would ever question it.” I released my grip on the steering wheel when I noticed my knuckles were stark white.

  “Yeah, I’m fairly confident he would like to keep his job and not go to prison. Plus, there’s this whole issue of a moral code Benjy takes to heart.”

  I rubbed my forehead for a moment, wondering if this could all be a dream. “It’s funny, isn’t it? The way society follows the rules of morality even when dealing with the morally devoid?” A sharp sound rattled in my chest. “How in the hell are we ever going to win the battle of good versus evil with odds like that?”

  Connor groaned. “Don’t be a downer. I’m already sinking in the pits of despair.”

  “You and me both.” Turning on my blinker, I pulled back into traffic. “I’m a few minutes away. Let’s connect in my office, and hopefully you’ll have better news for me. Like Skovil’s body spontaneously combusted into flames. Or Benjy realized he was completely wrong and is considering a career change. Or you were pranking me six months before April first. I’m not picky—I just don’t want to hear there’s going to be some investigation to arrest Skovil’s murderer, who our office will then have to prosecute.” I had to take a deep breath following that spiel. “God, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? The office attempting to charge Skovil to the fullest extent of the law is the same one that will likely be prosecuting the person who murdered him?”

  “I’m speaking to Grace Wolff, correct? Staunch upholder and defender of the law? Because you almost sound like you support the idea of citizens taking the law into their own hands.”

  “I’m saying out loud what all of us are thinking,” I replied.

  “Methinks I know of one person who isn’t thinking that . . .”

  “Don’t bring up my dad right now. I don’t want to hear his speeches about justice playing in the back of my mind.” A car horn screamed behind me. “Does anyone else at the office know?”

  There was a pause, the sound of a chair screeching in the background. “I’m going to go out on a limb and assume Watson is being told right now based on the expression on his face. You know that pissed, accosted look that makes his whole face go fire-engine red? Eyes close to popping free of their sockets?”

  “Watson is a carbon copy of my dad. He’s going to try to make an example of whoever this person is if they manage to catch him or her.” I pondered who could have done it and for what reason. The list of both wasn’t short. “Let’s hope whoever it is, they didn’t leave any evidence.”

  Connor was quiet for a moment. “You want a murderer to go free?”

  The throb pulsing in my head made me wince. Did anything make sense anymore?

  “I don’t know,” I breathed.

  Seven

  Skovil’s death had mutated from a suicide to a homicide in the span of a workday. Whispers had trickled through the office halls all afternoon, though I was still clinging to the last shred of hope that the preliminary ME report was wrong.

  The garage was empty when I pulled into it later that night. Noah saw clients late into the evenings on Mondays and rarely made it home before eleven. If Andee was home, there were no signs of her. The first floor was dark, the only sound filling the space coming from the antique clock that had been Noah’s grandmother’s.

  “Andee?” I called after tucking the take-out meal I’d picked up for Noah into the fridge, beside the handful of others I’d gotten him last week that remained uneaten.

  When no answer came, I wandered up the stairs to her bedroom. A sliver of lig
ht was streaming from beneath her door, the scent of that musky incense she liked infesting the hall.

  Knocking, I waited a moment before opening the door.

  “This is my personal space.” Sprawled out on her bed, she didn’t glance up from her sketchbook. “You agreed to knock before barging in.”

  “I did knock.” Holding up the take-out bag in my hand, I approached her bed. “Have you eaten?”

  “It’s nine o’clock.” She didn’t check the time, but she was close enough. “I ate hours ago.”

  “Then this can serve as Dinner: The Sequel.” I set the bag beside her and leaned in to see what she was drawing.

  She tipped the notepad out of view, scooting back until she was leaning against the headboard.

  “It’s your favorite. Spicy chicken sandwich, waffle fries, and a cherry turnover.”

  “That was my favorite when I was, like, twelve.”

  My shoulders became heavy; it was exhausting being wrong about everything when it came to your only child. “Well, what’s your favorite now?”

  Her hand stopped moving over her drawing. “Is there something you want? Besides a merit badge for an attempt at providing dinner at nine p.m.?”

  Kicking out of my shoes, I was about to take a seat on the edge of her bed when I changed my mind following the look she gave me. “We need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About lots of things. To start, what happened at school today?”

  She went back to drawing. “Lots of things happened at school today.”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Because we have such a tight bond we can read each other’s minds?”

  My mouth opened to snap something back, but I knew this dance. It didn’t end well if I let her ruffle me. “Principal Severson said this was it. Last chance. You attack a kid at school again, you’re out.”

  Her eyes narrowed at her sketch, angling the pad a different direction. “There’s a promise to shed a tear over.”

  “He’s serious, Andee,” I said.

  “So am I.”

  “What’s going to happen if you get kicked out of Prescott Prep?” I continued. “In the middle of your sophomore year of high school?”

  “Probably what happens to the other kids who get kicked out of private schools. They enroll in public schools. The horror.” Her gaze cut my direction for a moment, as though she were checking for a reaction.

  “If you care about your future, you’ll care about what school is listed on your college applications.” My attention trailed to the window, checking to see if it was closed and locked, estimating the potential for a certain boy to make the climb to get to it.

  “My future?” Andee huffed. “What? So if I graduate from a school like Prescott Prep, then I can get into a fancy college and get some big, important job, settle down with the first guy to make me an offer, pop out a kid or two, and be just as happy as you one day?” This time her eyes stayed locked on me, relentless in their accusation.

  My teeth ground together. “I am happy.”

  “If this is happy, I’ll pass. Thanks for the concern though.” Andee’s voice broke toward the end, though her expression remained blank. “Add another merit badge for that attempt.”

  I looked at my daughter on her bed. Really looked. Without all of the makeup and layers of clothing in some state of shredded or studded, she looked so young. Innocent. In her flannel pajamas, hair pinned back behind her ears, smudges of charcoal streaked across her face, it was easy to remember she was only a child fumbling her way through the entrance of adulthood.

  “Principal Severson said he saw you volunteering at the shelter a few weeks ago,” I started, reading her eyes for a reaction. “Did you have plans to tell your father and me about that?”

  “I’m sixteen and I spend most of my time outside of school unsupervised and you’re worried about me sneaking off to volunteer at some animal shelter?” Her charcoal strokes had slowed, although all of her concentration remained aimed at her sketch.

  “All I’m saying is that it would have been nice of you to tell us that you were doing that.”

  “Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad. Oh wait, he’s not here.” She looked up from her paper for a moment, her tone sarcastic. “I volunteer at an animal shelter once or twice a week.”

  My hands wrung in my lap. “Is that something you can see yourself doing in the future? Working with animals? Going to veterinary school?”

  She scoffed, shaking her head. “Do you really think I’d willingly sign-up for another seven years of school when I’m not sure I can make it through the next two-and-a-half years of hell?”

  “College is a lot different than high school,” I assured her.

  Her charcoal went back to work. “Different douche-bags, same game.”

  “You used to be a straight A student. Trust me, you’d do great in college.”

  “Used to being the key takeaway,” she hummed. “Now I’m more on par with solid D’s.”

  “How do you suppose that happened?”

  One of her shoulders moved. “School’s hard.”

  “Life is hard.” When she rolled her eyes, my jaw clenched. “That doesn’t mean you get to use that as an excuse to go from the honor roll to barely passing.”

  “Whatever you say,” she muttered. “You’re the expert on winning at life.”

  Rising from her bed, I forced myself to take a breath before replying. “I’m not going to let you throw your life away,” I said as I turned to leave her alone with her drawing.

  The scratch of her charcoal silenced. “You can’t fix something until you know what’s broken.”

  Her words stopped me when I was stepping out the door. “That’s true . . .”

  Her charcoal went back into motion. “Close the door when you leave.”

  Doing as requested, I closed the door, not knowing if it was the right decision or not. Something was askew, but I didn’t know the extent of the situation. Was it a troublesome teenage phase? Hormone-driven angst? Or something deeper? With the way she viewed me as the enemy, I wasn’t sure I would ever know.

  The energetic child who’d wanted my endless attention when I had so little to spare had grown into a young woman who seemed to want nothing of me, least of all my attention.

  As a distraction from the pain of regret, I powered up my laptop after changing into some leggings and an old sweatshirt of Noah’s. I studied Skovil’s case file for the thousandth time, wondering if there was anything I could pinpoint to confirm or deny a homicide—a plausible suspect to lead the investigation with or a note in the psych eval mentioning suicidal tendencies. It was pointless, of course. I knew the ins and outs of Skovil’s case, being fresh from the trial.

  When I reached the section detailing victim accounts, I closed my laptop and headed for the front door. The victim accounts from all of the cases I’d worked were seared into my memory—I’d die with those images and details tucked inside me.

  It had been months since I’d gone on a walk. Setting aside the time to do so was a luxury I rarely had. But tonight, I knew better than to convince myself I could fall asleep, despite going on my twentieth hour awake. Fresh air seemed like a good idea, and physical activity was something my GP had been encouraging me to place a priority on for years.

  The late September air was crisp, hinting at the promise of rain. The glow of porch lights was diffused by the faint hint of fog settling into the neighborhood. Given this perspective, it felt like I was seeing everything for the first time. Something that looked one way in the light could appear entirely different when cast in darkness.

  I was nearly to the main gate that stood as a stalwart sentential for the hundred odd houses tucked inside when it opened, a pair of headlights cutting through the advancing fog. It was impossible to identify the car until it was pulling up to the curb beside me. The window whirred down.

  “Grace? What are you doing out here?” Noah leaned across the passenger seat, the ski
n between his brows drawn.

  “Taking a walk.” My shoulders moved beneath the oversized sweatshirt. “I’ll start heading back in a bit.”

  Noah opened the passenger door. “Get in the car.” His voice was firm to match his expression. “It’s not safe out here by yourself at night.”

  I made a point of staring up and down the empty sidewalk, hiding my smile. “We live in a gated community in one of the wealthiest suburbs in the area.”

  He leaned back into his seat, waiting. “Given both of our lines of work, we know better than to think a person is safe no matter their surroundings.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, turning back down the sidewalk. “I picked up some dinner for you. It’s in the fridge. I’ll be back in a half hour or so . . . in case you want to talk?”

  What had transpired over the weekend hung heavy in my mind, though I wasn’t sure if it did with him. I wanted to talk about it, about what was happening with us, but I wasn’t sure I knew the words to frame it. I wasn’t sure the words we spoke to each other had the same meaning they once had.

  He turned off the car, then pushed open the driver’s door.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Walking.” His eyes met mine as he stepped onto the sidewalk beside me. “Unless you prefer to be alone?”

  I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. “Company sounds nice.”

  The sharp rap of Noah’s dress shoes joined the muffled padding of my sneakers as we continued down the road, bending at the street just before the gate. Neither of us said anything, and the reminder of what comfortable silence felt like caused my chest to tighten. Noah and I were no longer capable of that kind of quiet in each other’s presence.

  “Do I seem happy to you?” I asked after a minute.

  His head tipped in my direction. “You don’t seem unhappy.”

  My hands twisted inside the large pocket of the sweatshirt. “Are you happy?”