Page 22 of Darkwater Lane (Stillhouse Lake #7)
GWEN
It’s the last name I expect to hear, and it takes a moment for it to register. When it does, it feels as though the ground has dropped away beneath me. “Leo Varrus? That’s the dead man in my house?”
“We still have to wait for a formal identification, but we found his license and the photo appears to match.”
I turn to Sam. He’s frozen beside me, staring at the house. He shakes his head slowly. “Leo fucking Varrus,” he says softly, almost to himself. “And you’re sure he’s dead?”
“Quite sure,” Gutierrez confirms. “His throat was slit.”
There’s no way the detective misses how Sam nearly stumbles back a step, nor the fact that he mutters the word finally under his breath. Sam clearly appears relieved. It’s definitely not the response Gutierrez expected, and he’s suddenly way more interested in Sam than before.
“I take it you knew him?” Gutierrez asks.
I’m just as staggered as Sam is by the news that Leo Varrus was apparently murdered in our house, but I’m able to recover faster. I nod. “Yeah, we knew him.”
He waits for me to elaborate, but how in the world can I explain who Varrus is to us? My first instinct is to give as brief an answer as possible, but Gutierrez is obviously going to learn about the connection between us. And then what will he think?
Varrus was an enemy. He faked his own murder and tried to pin it on Sam. Now, he’s dead—murdered—in our house.
Which makes Sam and me pretty obvious suspects.
Sam was the last to use the alarm , I remind myself. At least, that’s what the records indicate.
Fuck.
“If you’re worried that either of us had anything to do with this, let me assure you that we did not,” I tell the detective. I realize the futility of the statement. Of course, we’d deny any involvement. The real murderer would too.
Gutierrez considers me for a moment before nodding. “In what capacity did you know Mr. Varrus?”
It’s a Catch-22. Normally, I would refuse to answer any questions until I’d spoken with my lawyer.
But refusing to talk will make us look guilty.
Exercising our constitutional right to counsel shouldn’t count against us, but it would.
It would make us appear even more suspicious.
Our best bet is to seem cooperative while trying to frame the narrative in the best possible light for us.
After all, Gutierrez is going to find out about our dealings with Varrus. It’s better if we’re the ones who tell him.
I blow out a breath. “Look, I’ll freely admit we have a past with Leonard Varrus.
He despised both of us, to put it mildly.
He went missing a few months ago and tried to make it look like Sam had something to do with his disappearance.
I could go into more detail, but you probably wouldn’t believe me.
I suggest you reach out to the Norton Police Department. They can fill you in.”
Gutierrez raises an eyebrow. “Any particular reason he didn’t like you?”
Because he thought I had something to do with his daughter’s murder . But I know that won’t go over well. Instead, I ask, “Have you heard of Melvin Royal?”
The detective grimaces. “Hard to be in my line of work and not know of him. Real piece of work, that guy.”
“He murdered Varrus’s daughter. He also killed Sam’s sister,” I say, nodding toward Sam. “The two of them started an organization called the Lost Angels—sort of a support group for those who lost loved ones to Melvin Royal. Ultimately, they had a disagreement that led to their falling out.”
Gutierrez glances toward Sam, scrutinizing him. “What was the disagreement about?”
He’s asking Sam, but I’m the one who answers. “Me.”
He frowns, not following. “Why’s that?”
“Melvin Royal was my ex-husband.”
His eyes go wide. This new piece of information clearly shifts his perception of me. “I thought your name sounded familiar.”
I give him a tight smile.
“You’re married to the woman whose husband murdered your sister?” Gutierrez asks Sam. If he’s trying to provoke him, to get some sort of reaction, it doesn’t work.
“We’re not married,” Sam says. “Yet,” he adds.
I try not to show any external reaction to that last bit.
Sam proposed to me a few years ago, but I told him no.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to marry him, but more that it wasn’t the right time.
The fallout from Melvin’s death still played an outsized role in our lives, and I wanted to make absolutely sure we were marrying each other because it was the right thing for us to do and not as a response to the trauma we’d endured together.
I know being turned down hurt Sam a lot, and he hasn’t asked again. Then again, marriage has never felt particularly necessary. Neither of us needs a ring to prove anything to the world. We know each other’s hearts. That’s all that matters.
I slip my hand into his and squeeze. He squeezes back, his fingers firm and warm around mine. A reminder that we’re a team and always will be.
“You dating Ms. Proctor led to your falling out with Mr. Varrus?” Gutierrez prods.
“Not initially,” Sam tells him. “But other members of the Lost Angels persuaded Leo to believe that Gwen was involved in her ex-husband’s crimes.
Of course, she knew nothing about what Melvin was doing, and I tried to explain that to them, but they didn’t want to hear it.
Leo thought I was a traitor for having anything to do with Gwen.
He thought I betrayed the Lost Angels’ cause. ”
Gutierrez takes a few notes and then says, “Anything else?”
Sam hesitates. “Leo blames me for the death of Miranda Tidewell. She was another founder of the Lost Angels and she was dating Leo. A band of kidnappers murdered her several years ago, and I was there when it happened.” Gutierrez’s eyes flare wide with interest, and Sam quickly adds, “If you want more details, you can reach out to Mike Lustig at the FBI. He was also there and can vouch for the fact that I had nothing to do with her death.”
“Have either of you had any contact with Leo Varrus recently?”
Again, this is information he’ll be able to glean from third parties, so there’s no reason to hold back. “I can’t say I’ve ever spoken to the man,” I tell him.
“And you, Mr. Cade?”
I wait for Sam to tell him about Varrus’s last call a couple of weeks ago. When he doesn’t, I glance his way. His face is pale.
Something’s happening, but I’m not sure what. I can feel some sort of momentum building. It’s the same sense as before a storm when the air is still and stale but charged, setting the hairs along your arms on end.
Gutierrez doesn’t press Sam for an answer. Instead, he asks, “Can you verify your cell phone number for me, Mr. Cade?”
Still, Sam says nothing, and a sort of dread begins to take root in my chest .
The detective reads a phone number off a page in his little notebook. It’s Sam’s.
Sam remains silent. I notice, then, how rigidly he’s holding himself. My dread starts morphing into panic.
I’m missing something, but I don’t know what it is. I give a nearly imperceptible tug on Sam’s hand, urging him to look at me and give me some sort of indication of what the hell is going on. Some reassurance. He doesn’t meet my eyes. My heart trips, thumping hard against my ribs.
“The victim still had his phone on him, and forensics was able to use his biometrics to unlock it,” Gutierrez continues. “We were able to gain access to his last several text messages. Are you aware that you were the last person in contact with the victim?” he asks Sam.
My breath catches in my throat, and sweat begins beading along the back of my neck despite the chill in the air. It’s everything I can do to keep the surprise from showing on my face. Other than the call several weeks ago, Sam hasn’t mentioned having any communication with Varrus.
“The last text he received was from your number about an hour ago,” he says, nodding at Sam. He holds up his notepad so he can recite the words verbatim. “You wrote, ‘If you come anywhere near me or my family, I will fucking gut you, understand?’”
The words land like a bomb. Sam’s eyes flutter shut for the briefest moment before he draws a deep breath and opens them again.
His expression shifts, hardens. His entire demeanor morphs into what I mentally refer to as Soldier Mode.
It’s how I imagine he looked out on the battlefield when his entire being was focused on defending himself and those he loved.
I’ve seen it before. Like when someone gunned us down in the cabin he was renting in Stillhouse Lake. Or when another cabin we were searching in the Georgia mountains caught on fire and exploded .
It’s confirmation of how serious this situation has become.
A thousand questions spiral through my head. I want to grab Sam’s arm and haul him somewhere private, where I can drill him with questions. But that’s not an option.
This is all happening way too fast, and I’m having difficulty wrapping my mind around what’s going on. I’ll take time later to sift through everything I’ve just heard. Now is the time to present a united front.
If there’s one thing I know, it’s that Sam didn’t do this. Even if he had the means, motive, and opportunity, he wouldn’t have killed Varrus—not in this manner. He never would have brought that kind of violence and death into our home—our living room, where we spend time together as a family.
“Sam didn’t do this,” I tell the detective.
He shifts his attention back to me. “Can you tell me your whereabouts earlier this evening?”