Page 37 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth

Thirty-Four

Tristan

I shift my weight in a futile attempt to find a comfortable position in the molded plastic seat.

Still, I’m grateful for my grim surroundings.

Graham pulled some strings to get me into an interview room and not a holding cell.

It’s probably only a matter of time before I’m behind bars, but I’d like to delay that for as long as possible. Apparently, my boss would, too.

The officer who booked me did, however, take my watch, and the clock on the wall is stuck at ten minutes to eight.

It could be intentional, an effort to disorient people.

Or it could be a dead battery. As a county employee, I’m leaning toward the latter.

Whatever the reason, though, it does disorient me.

I don’t know if I’ve been in here for twenty minutes, two hours, or some amount of time in between.

I turn my gaze away from the infuriating stopped clock and crane my neck up to study the water stain on the ceiling tiles and wonder if it’s evidence of a budgetary issue or a Rorschach test. I’ll know for sure when someone asks me what I see.

The door opens and Detective Dunn comes into the room. He doesn’t care what I see in the stain. Instead, he says without preamble, “Give me your arms.”

I obediently lift my wrists, and Dunn unlocks the cuffs.

“Thank you.” I rub my raw, red skin and then turn circles with my wrists to get the blood flowing again.

“Don’t thank me. Captain’s orders. I’d leave you cuffed like any other suspect.”

“I understand.” And I do. The system really only works if everyone’s treated the same in the eyes of the law.

Dunn narrows his eyes. “That right?”

“Sure, even though I’m presumed innocent and, in this case, actually, factually innocent, there are procedures to be followed. I can respect that you don’t want to give me any special treatment just because I work at the crime lab.”

“So you want me to put the cuffs back on?” He smirks.

I have nothing to lose by being honest. “No, I like the special treatment. But I understand why you don’t.”

He nods a couple of times. Then he twists his mouth to one side.

“You know, you have a good reputation around the station. The book on you is that you’re a straight shooter and a talented analyst. But being good at your job doesn’t mean you aren’t a murderer.

And I gotta tell you, man, it doesn’t look good for you. The evidence is compelling.”

“Show me what you have. If I see it, I can explain it.”

“Maybe you could.” He gives me a shrug. “But I can’t do that because you lawyered up.”

It’s my turn to look skeptical. “Surely you didn’t come in here to do a good cop routine to get me to talk. At a minimum, you need a bad cop, too.”

“Nah, man, it’s not like that. Your lawyer’s on her way. But if you have an explanation for this, I would love to hear it.”

“And you will,” I tell him, “when my lawyer gets here.”

The detective shakes his head as he leaves the room. “Suit yourself.”

The door locks with a loud click, trapping me inside. I may be sitting at a conference table with free use of my limbs rather than on a metal bunk behind thick bars, but there’s no mistake. I’m not free to go.

I stare up at the water mark a while longer and finally decide it looks like a boat sailing on turbulent seas. I tip the chair back on its back two legs and continue to focus on the boat. It reminds me of the whale-watching cruise.

Three summers ago, Emily and I spent a week on Cape Cod.

As a surprise, she booked the excursion—a private charter with a local naturalist to see the whales up close.

The morning sun streaked the sky pink, the water shimmered, and the sea spray tinged my takeout coffee with a hint of salt.

Emily’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright, and her wavy red hair was windblown.

We held hands, stared out at the endless blue water, and just breathed.

And, despite it being peak migration season, we didn’t see a single whale.

When we returned to the pier, Captain Mark tripped all over himself apologizing for the whale-less nature of our trip and tried to refund our money.

But Emily and I waved him off. We didn’t need a pod of whales, we had each other.

And we still do. This realization gives me a sense of calm despite my shitty situation.

My estranged, deranged brother is dead, which means Emily is safe.

While being accused of murder is less than ideal, I can fix this.

There’s no way Tate’s getting the better of me.

For one thing, I’m alive and can adjust my strategies as needed.

Tate played his last hand before he died.

I am surprised he didn’t stick around to watch his plan play out. I’d expect him to fake his death, but the police and Graham have seen his body. Killing himself to frame me is a level of commitment I didn’t expect. I know he hated me, but I didn’t realize he hated me that much.

Footsteps sound in the hall. I tip the chair back down to the ground and watch the door, waiting for Loretta Simmons to walk through it.

Calling Loretta my lawyer is a stretch. But I am her parents’ next-door neighbor, and I’ve seen her in action in court.

She’s a young, hungry criminal defense attorney. She’s exactly what I need.

I straighten my back and prepare to greet her. But when the door swings open, it’s not Loretta who’s standing in the doorway. Instead, my boss eyes me balefully, clutching two styrofoam cups.

He flashes me a smile. I don’t return it.

“Where’s Loretta?”

Graham nudges the door closed and plunks down in the chair across from me before answering.

“She just called. She’s stuck in traffic. Four-car pileup on the expressway.”

He slides one of the cups toward me. “Thought you could use some terrible police station coffee.”

I consider making a joke about the coffee, comparing it to paint thinner or varnish remover, but I don’t. Instead, I cock my head and give him a disbelieving look.

“You can’t seriously think I’m going to touch this cup so you can use it to gather DNA evidence. Did you forget who you’re talking to?”

He blinks, but his face gives away nothing. “Did you forget we have a sample of your DNA?”

I haven’t, of course. But I also know how this works. The more they collect, the better.

“Still. I’m not thirsty.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He raises the cup to his lips, takes a sip, and grimaces. “Actually, good call. Jeez, this sucks.”

I chuckle, then I lower my chin and give him a close look. “What do you want, Graham? You’re not going to get to a confession out of me by pretending to be my friend.”

“I am your friend.”

I let that pass. “You can’t trick me into confessing. For one thing, I know all the tricks. For another, I didn’t kill anyone. So there’s nothing to confess to.”

He abandons the coffee and rests his forearms on the table, leaning across to peer at me.

“That isn’t entirely true, though, is it?

You may not have killed anyone—although, the evidence is what it is, Tristan, and it’s going to be hard to explain away.

But you know something. You’ve said as much.

At your house you claimed you suspected your brother of the Ward and Rowland murders.

So what did you do? Withhold evidence? Tamper with it? ”

“Of course not.”

“You were working together, weren’t you?”

“No.” My voice is forceful. Then the thought —hitting me with the force of a gut punch. Despite Tate’s repeated overtures, I wasn’t working with him. But what if he did have a partner?

I must gasp or grunt because Grant peers at me. “What?”

I ignore him. My mind races. If Tate was working with someone else, then Emily could still be in danger. No. If that’s true, she is still in danger. The truth unspools in front of me like puzzle pieces snapping together.

“Tristan?”

I can’t wait for Loretta. “How’d you find Tate’s body?”

“I told you. He was in the parking lot behind the gym.”

“Not where. How? Did someone stumble over it? Who called it in?”

He narrows his eyes. “I’m not sharing details of the investigation with you. Like you said, you know how this?—”

I pound my fist on the table, and he flinches.

“We don’t have time for this, Graham. I think Emily’s in danger. Who called it in?”

He bites his lip for a moment, then shakes his head. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

I hold my breath and say nothing, letting him get there on his own. I can’t still my jittering leg, though.

“We got a call to do a welfare check. Tate’s therapist, a Dr. Wilde, was worried because he didn’t show up for his last video appointment, and he couldn’t reach him.”

Wilde told my mother the police called him . He also told her that Tate was in Ohio—or at least let her believe it.

“When?” I croak.

“This morning. He didn’t have a home address, but he said Tate worked at a local gym. So we sent squad cars to all four gyms. We found him behind the Sweetwater Sweat Spot. What’s going on, Tristan?”

“I need you to call this number.” I rattle off the digits for Alex Liu’s landline while he stares at me.

“Graham, please. I need you to warn Emily.”

“Warn her about what?”

“Make the call. Tell the woman who answers that Emily’s therapist is coming to kill them.”