Page 12 of 4th Silence (Schock Sisters Mystery #4)

Charlie

A lex’s fingers tap a steady rhythm on the armrest of the chair across from me, the only visible sign he’s nervous. His eyes move from Meg’s whiteboard to my notepad, then to the modern art canvas on the wall behind me—anywhere but directly at my face.

Patience isn’t my strong suit on a good day.

Today, I’m anxious, working on an eight-hour sleep deficit, fighting a migraine, and my heart and head have been in a major collision since JJ chose his job over me.

Go Team Charlie . Every step of this investigation has dug a hole I can’t seem to claw my way out of.

I’m not about to cut Alex any slack, though.

He’s framing and reframing his answer—I see it behind his eyes.

He doesn’t want to throw a family member under the bus, especially not his father.

If I were in his shoes, I’d feel the same way.

And while I’m no prosecutor, I’ve been on the receiving end of a cross-examination enough to know when to strike and when to wait.

Wait , I order myself. Do not show impatience .

That doesn’t mean I can’t try to get under his skin and see who he coughs up as a suspect. I slide some papers aside and find a class photo of Tiffany. Using one of the magnets on the board, I place it in the upper left corner to remind us of why we’re here. Who we’re doing this for.

Meg catches my eye as I return to my seat, approval flickering across her face.

The gamble pays off. “No way my dad killed her,” Alex finally says, his words confident.

“Despite what you’ve told us about his temper?” I maintain a neutral tone—a skill honed through years of FBI profiling and investigative work.

A shoulder lifts in a half-hearted shrug. “I won’t deny that when he’d been at the bottle, he threw things, punched walls, and screamed himself hoarse.” He meets my gaze, defiant through a veil of uncertainty. “But murder? Bashing in Tiffany’s skull? No way.”

Bashing in her skull . I note the distinction he’s making—violence against objects versus violence against people. Classic compartmentalization. As a forensic psychologist, I’ve seen this denial pattern countless times in families of offenders.

“You suggested it could have been an accident,” I press, crossing my legs and adjusting my skirt. Today, I’ve overcompensated for my heartbreak and exhaustion with my favorite Pucci jacquard knit pencil skirt and top. I look fantastic, even if I can barely walk.

“Look, I know how this sounds.” Alex rubs the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture. “Dad was an asshole, but if it had been an accident, he would have admitted to it.”

“Alex,” I say, purposely using his name to subtly put him on the spot. I shift my expression into what Meg calls my “therapist mask” —attentive but neutral—doodling on my notepad like this is nothing more than a casual conversation. “Speculations aside, what do you think happened to Tiffany?”

His face mirrors mine, his own skill with interrogating criminals giving nothing away. “Doesn’t matter what I think, and you know it.” His fingers interlace over his stomach, shielding his center. Classic. “You’re looking for something to back up what you’ve already decided.”

A flare of irritation hits, but I suppress it.

I offer a small, professional smile. “I want your perspective, Alex. No judgments, no preconceptions. This isn’t about confirming what I think—it’s about understanding what might have happened from someone who knew Tiffany. ” I point to her picture with my pen.

Alex rubs his hands over the chair arms. “My gut says it wasn’t premeditated. What could an eight-year-old have possibly done, seen, or overheard that would upset someone enough to kill her in the midst of a party?”

“Assuming we aren’t dealing with a child killer who purposely targeted her,” I say.

He doesn’t bite. He continues to speculate.

“If we take Dad out of the equation, that leaves Gerry. As I mentioned, Gerry had an addiction to pills. He was a playboy. A total screw up.” Something about his delivery feels off.

Rehearsed. As if he’s been turning these alternatives over in his mind for years.

Probably has since the case has been reopened at least twice before now.

Or maybe Mary fed him those exact lines through the course of his childhood.

“Mom always said Gerry would end up dead or in prison. She hated him and that Dad let him hang around.”

Hate is a strong word. I casually add another tally mark to my mental Mary Did It column. “But Gerry was there for the entire party?”

“Yeah. The tension between him and Dad was putting a damper on things, and Mom forced them to take it downstairs. I remember how upset she was. She literally walked the two of them out of the parlor and down the steps.”

Of course she did. “To the basement?”

A single nod. Tight. As if he’s embarrassed to talk about his uncle’s addiction.

“How long were they down there?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes maybe?”

My mind spins with fresh ideas. Meg and Matt watch me carefully. “Did Tiffany see her father escorted out by your mom?”

“I don’t know where she was when it happened.”

“So, she might have been in the basement already.”

He doesn’t agree, but he’s following my train of thought.

“Let’s assume Gerry was high or asking for money to pay his bookie,” I theorize.

“He and Phillip were arguing, and things were tense. Mary escorted them downstairs, where Tiffany was already hanging out. Mary was especially outraged that Gerry was ruining her Christmas party, and perhaps things got out of hand. She picked up the nearest heavy object and threw it at him.” It’s a tough thing to force Alex to imagine, but I want to push him enough to see his reaction.

I mimic throwing something. “Tiffany got in the way and ended up dead.”

He gapes. A long, horrible pause ensues. Neither Matt nor Meg moves a muscle. “You think my mom killed Tiffany?” He blows a raspberry and rears back in the chair. “That’s ridiculous.”

His reaction is genuine—absolute shock at the idea. “I’m simply exploring all the ways the scenario could have played out. You took your father off the table. I’m following your reasoning.”

His eyes harden. “The Hartmans aren’t perfect, my mother included, but we’re not monsters.”

Someone is.

I start to say exactly that, but JJ’s face flashes in my mind—his eyes narrowed in frustration, his frame tense and simmering with anger beneath the surface. You’re obsessed, Charlie. This case is thirty years cold for a reason. Let it go before it costs you everything.

JJ has never accepted that, for me, some ghosts refuse to rest until justice is served.

Maybe that’s why we’re falling apart—his world is black and white, neat and classified with cases that are either worth pursuing or not.

Orders come from the top, and he follows them.

My world exists in the gray spaces. In the files that gather dust. In the voices that have been silenced.

I don’t take orders from anyone but my conscience.

I force those thoughts away. His theory conveniently shifts blame to either a dead man or the family black sheep.

Gerry makes an easy scapegoat. Still, he’s alive.

Might be worth tracking him down. “An accident explains a lot, but regardless of who did it, why wouldn’t they admit to it, if it was an accident? ”

“Um, because they killed a child?” Alex’s gaze darts to his watch. “Look, I need to get to work. I have a ten o’clock meeting.” He shifts in his chair, already mentally out the door. “I hope I was able to shed some light on things.”

“One more question.” I rise with him. “Any idea what happened to that designer purse I mentioned that Phillip gave Mary that night?”

“Purse?”

“The Sherman. It’s not listed in the items recovered from the party.”

“I don’t remember it. A lot of that night is a blur, to be honest. Mom took all that stuff to the cottage after the police returned it. She said she didn’t want to look at it after what had happened to Tiffany.”

“Why didn’t she donate it to charity?” Meg asks.

A noncommittal shrug. “She said it was all cursed.”

At the door, I extend my hand. “If you think of anything else, even something that seems insignificant, please call.”

He cups my hand with his. The warmth of his touch surprises me. “Sure, of course. Oh, and I’m sorry about what happened with JJ.”

So, he does know. His earlier comment made me think he was in the dark about it.

The way his eyes soften surprises me. The gentleness of his hand. I actually want to like this guy.

I ease out of his grip. “I put him in a bad position. It was to be expected.”

Lies, lies, lies . I hate myself for them. I didn’t expect it. Not at all. I would have sworn on every tenant I hold sacred that JJ Carrington would never break my heart.

“I put in a request for the footage from the security cameras, by the way,” Alex says, back to business. “It’s missing. I have an intern looking for it, but my guess is that it has been misplaced somewhere since it was last reviewed five years ago. Sorry.”

Another accident. It happens, but what are the odds?

As he pulls away from the building, Meg joins me. The sun is bright, reflecting off the piles of snow. “What do you think?”

“He never should have been allowed to work on this case.”

“Is the killer his dad or Mary?”

“I want to believe it’s her.”

“Me, too.”

Our father’s car stops at the curb. Mom’s imposing figure jumps out of the passenger side. Her raised voice suggests they’re arguing, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. She slams the door and stomps up the sidewalk in the same clothes and boots from yesterday.

“Oh, boy,” Meg says.

Mom enters our office like a tornado—a notebook clutched in one hand, her phone in the other, glasses perched precisely on the bridge of her nose. “Was that Alex Hartman?” she demands, not bothering with pleasantries.