Allison Brennan - See No Evil

“And where would those messages be kept?”

“Nowhere.”

“You don’t retain them?”

Again, he hesitated. “Not for the long term.”

“Any other messages you remember that you might want to make the police aware of? Any other threats?”

Bowen stood. Dillon had crossed the line. “I wasn’t aware that I was the subject of a police investigation.”

“I’m trying to help Emily.”

“Hmm.” Bowen looked down his nose, trying to use his height over the sitting Dillon to intimidate.

Dillon stood.

“What do you know about Paul Judson?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

But Bowen wasn’t looking him in the eye. Dillon knew he was lying.

Bowen went on the offensive. “Perhaps you’re the one on the wrong side here. Have you thought that perhaps Emily acted out her own fantasies? She is a violent, emotionally distraught girl who has never recovered from her father’s sudden death. She has a verbally abusive mother, and her stepfather was attempting to fill a role that emotionally she couldn’t handle. You can’t overlook her potential involvement.”

“And do you believe Emily was involved in Paul Judson’s murder as well?”

Bowen looked at him blankly, but Dillon didn’t forget his original reaction.

“Do you have a list of everyone you invited into the group?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t give it to you without a court order, Dr. Kincaid.”

Dillon started to leave, then turned and said in a low voice, “You should have your license pulled. Giving your patients essentially the right to counsel each other. You’ve created a forum for anger to fester, not diminish.”

“You’re wrong, Dr. Kincaid.”

“No, I’m not.”

Connor parked outside Emily’s private college preparatory high school in La Jolla. It was after two and the kids were still in class.

Emily had given him a list of her friends, surprisingly short for an attractive, smart girl like Em. The school wasn’t large-maybe a thousand students in all four grades-but it was meticulously maintained and looked like a small version of an Ivy League university. A place rich parents sent their kids.

There were a handful of girls on the list, but the one Emily said she was closest to was Wendy Roper, whom she’d known since early childhood. Connor had a description of the girl and her car, and waited until classes let out at three. Ten minutes later he spotted Wendy, a dark-haired beauty, tall and lanky, and dressed impeccably. He followed her to the parking lot to verify her identity and as she was about to get into a sporty red compact, Connor called out. “Wendy?”

She turned, neither scared nor worried. “Yeah? Who wants to know?”

“Connor Kincaid. I’m a friend of Emily.”

Wendy’s round face relaxed. “Em’s talked about you.”

“Do you have a few minutes?”

She glanced at her watch. “Sure. Is Em okay?”

“She’s going to be fine.” He looked around, saw too many people walking around, curious about him. He pointed to a grassy slope with trees on the far side of the parking lot. “Let’s go someplace private to talk.”

They walked in silence, sat on a short stone wall near the grove.

“People are saying she tried to kill herself,” Wendy said. “I tried calling the house, but her mother refused to talk to me. What a bitch.” Wendy looked at the ground. “Em would never kill herself. She didn’t try, did she?”

“It was an accident,” Connor said. “She did drink too much, though. Had to have her stomach pumped.”

“Ugh. I told her she had to stop.”

“Do you know why she drinks?”

Wendy didn’t say anything, and Connor sensed Wendy knew more than anyone about Emily.

“Wendy? Emily told me to talk to you, that you were her closest friend. She needs your help. Tell me the truth.”

“I know about Victor, if that’s what you mean.” Wendy didn’t look at him, her hands squeezed together so tightly that her knuckles were white.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

“She didn’t tell me until a few months ago. I came over one afternoon and she was drunk. It all came out then. I told her she had to stop drinking and tell her mother what was happening, but she said her mother wouldn’t care, that she would blame her for it like she blamed her for everything bad that happened in her life. Besides, Crystal’s never around.”

“Did you know whether Emily ever talked to anyone else about what Victor did to her, other than you?”

“No, and every time I brought it up she refused to talk about it. She was scared, I think. That she’d lose her inheritance if she said anything.”

“She was worried about money?”

“You make it sound bad. If you had five million dollars sitting in a trust fund and only a year to go, would you make waves? All she wanted to do was get the money and get the hell out of there. The other stuff, like the vandalism, she did when she was plastered. I really tried to help Em with that, but she needs real help, not me.”

“Did Emily talk to you about Wishlist?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s an online therapy group. Anger management.”

“Oh, she talked about how stupid her therapy was all the time. The guy her mother sent her to creeped her out. But it was only once a week, and she said she had him wrapped around her finger.”

“But she didn’t talk about an online group.”

“Not that I remember.”

“Did she ever talk to you about wanting to kill Victor?”

Wendy stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Whose side are you on? I thought you wanted to help Emily.”

“I do. That’s why I need to know everything.”

“She’d never hurt anyone.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“The jerk made her suck his dick! Don’t you think that’s gross enough?”

“Wendy, please. The police are going to be talking to you and if you lie, they’ll put you on the stand as a hostile witness.”

Realization hit Wendy and she paled. “Do-do the police really think she killed him?”

“I don’t know what they think, but I used to be a cop and looking at the evidence right now, chances are she’s on the top of the suspect list.”

“She would never.”

“Did she talk to you about it?”

Wendy said nothing for a long minute. “It’s not what you think. You know how people talk. They say ‘I’ll kill him’ just as a part of conversation. Not because they really mean it. Sure, Emily hated him, she wanted to hurt him, but she didn’t mean it.”

“Did she talk about this with anyone else?”

“Absolutely not. I had to pull everything out of her. She never talks about it, even now. It’s just one of those things we both know and talk around.”

Wendy took Connor’s hand. “Please, please help her. Crystal won’t. She just wants Emily’s money.”

“Crystal’s worth more than five million dollars.”

Wendy laughed. “Emily’s trust is worth a lot more than that. She gets five million when she turns eighteen. And a million dollars every year for the rest of her life. Last I heard, her trust was worth over fifty million bucks and growing.”

Connor walked Wendy back to her car and wondered if somehow this was all about money.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Grace Simpson slid into the seat across from Julia at Crab Catcher, a restaurant up the coast in La Jolla, far, far away from the courthouse.

“Thanks for coming out here.”

“I only have thirty minutes, so what’s up?”

The waitress came over before Julia could answer. They both ordered the Crab Catcher’s excellent salads, then Julia said, “What do you know about Jason Ridge’s death?”