Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

“Yeah way. I know these women, Sergeant. I know them. Now get the fuck out of my car.”

Griffin shrugged. Griffin got out of the car. “You know, Fitz, these cross-jurisdictional investigations continue to improve relations all the time,” he said.

“Yeah, that's my thinking, too.”

Fitz peeled away from the curb. Griffin headed for Cranston.

THE WAVES ROLLED INTO THE BEACH, GENTLE TODAY, peaking low with a cap of frothy foam, then fading back into the dark depths of the ocean. The sandpipers rushed into the retreating wake of low tide, searching frantically for anything good to eat. Slow day on the beach this early in May. Another dark green wave descended upon the sand, and the small white birds took flight.

Jillian continued watching the water long after she heard the car pull up, the engine turn off, the door open, then close. Footsteps in the sand. The thought reminded her of the religious poem she'd read as a child. She smiled, and the pain cut her to the bone.

She had never been good at belief. Never been one for faith. Too many nights alone as a child maybe. Too many promises broken by her mother, until she internalized, somewhere way down deep, that the only one she could depend upon was herself. Yet she had flirted with religion, talked about it with friends, found herself attending the occasional Christmas mass. She loved the sound of a choir singing. She took comfort, during the endless gray days of winter, from going to a cathedral warmed by hundreds of bodies, standing side by side in communal worship.

Trisha had joined a Congregational church when she was in high school. She'd gotten quite into things. Faith in a higher power fit her rosy outlook on life. Conducting good works suited her bubbly nature. Jillian had attended services with her several times, and even she had been struck by the glow that filled her sister's face during prayer. Faith recharged Trisha. Made her somehow even bigger, larger, more Trisha than she had been before.

Until the night she had truly needed God… or Jillian… or even a big, strong policeman intent on doing his job.

If there was a God, and He hadn't seen fit to save Trish, then should Jillian really feel so guilty? Or maybe there was a God, and He had turned to Jillian as His instrument, and by not being up to the task, she had failed Him and her sister both. So many thoughts she could torture herself with in the middle of the night. Or even during bright spring days in May, standing in the warm caress of the sun and watching the ocean break against the shore.

Oh God, Sylvia Blaire. That poor, poor girl. What had they done?

“Jillian.”

She didn't turn around. She didn't need to, to know who it was. “Bring your thumbscrews this time?”

“Actually, we're always armed with thumbscrews. Department policy. But I'm a good old Catholic boy-I wouldn't dream of using thumbscrews on a priest.”

She stiffened, then finally turned. Sergeant Griffin stood in the sand outside the deck railing. His cheeks were dark and shadowed, the line of his jaw impressively square, his eyes impressively bright. Even ten feet away, she could feel the impact of his presence. The broad shoulders, muscular arms, bulging chest. No different than any other state policeman, she thought resentfully. It was as if the department had a mold, and churned out one well-chiseled officer after another. She'd never been one for brawn anyway. She considered the size of a man's muscles directly inverse to the power of his brain.

“You should've just told me,” he said now, his voice quiet but firm.

“Why? I'd already said the money had nothing to do with Eddie's death. If you weren't prepared to believe that, why should I have expected you to believe an even bigger fairy tale?”

“It's not a fairy tale.”

She shrugged. “Close enough. I gave the money to Father Rondell in cash, took no receipt, ensured there were no witnesses, and made anonymity the primary condition of the donation. If you want evidence of where the money went, I have none to give you.”

“A priest's word is pretty good evidence.”

“Yes, but he wasn't supposed to tell you.”

Griffin smiled. “I confess, all good Catholic faith aside, I kind of tricked him.”

“You tricked a priest?”

“Well, it was for a good cause. I was proving a woman's innocence.”

Jillian snorted. “Let's not get carried away.”

“Actually, I can't take all the credit. Fitz told me to go talk to Father Rondell. So I approached him, saying that I needed confirmation that you had donated money to help Eddie Como's son. Immediately, he was quite gushing about your twenty-thousand-dollar generosity. It seems that Eddie, Jr., has a guardian angel.”

“It's not his fault what his father did. He wasn't even born.”

“Tawnya doesn't know?”

“Nobody knows.”

“Not even the Survivors Club?”

“Not even the Survivors Club.”

“Why, Jillian?”

“I don't know,” she said honestly. “I just… Trish was gone. Carol's a mess. Meg has lost her past. And I… well, I have my own issues, don't I? Last year when the police finally arrested Eddie, I expected to feel better. Vindicated, satisfied, something. But I didn't. Because Trish was still gone, and Carol's still a mess and Meg still has no memory, and now we're seeing pictures of Eddie's pregnant girlfriend and all I can think is here's another victim. A baby who will grow up without his father. One more destroyed life. It seemed too much.” She shook her head. “I needed… I just needed something good to come out of all of this. I needed to feel that someone would escape Eddie's mistakes. And God knows we never will.”

“So you set up a trust fund for Eddie's child.”

She shrugged. “I asked Detective Fitzpatrick for the name of someone close to the Como family. He gave me Father Rondell's name. Father Rondell took care of things from there.”

“But you kept it secret.”

“I didn't know if Miss Clemente would accept the money if she knew where it came from.”

“And why not tell Meg and Carol?”

“I didn't think they'd like it. Besides, it's not really their business, is it? It's my money. My decision.”

Griffin smiled. “You like to do that. Be a group player as long as it suits you, but revert back to an individual the minute it cramps your style.”

She just looked at him. “How did you know I was here?”

“Brilliant detective work, of course.”

She snorted again. He raised his right hand. “Scout's honor. Finding you is my biggest accomplishment today. Well, other than tracing your money, but Fitz is the one who connected those dots. After talking to the priest, however, I wanted to confirm the transaction with you. Being of sound mind, however, I figured you wouldn't magically take my call. So I figured I needed to see you in person. And then I started thinking, if I were Jillian Hayes, where would I be today of all days, with the press hot on my heels? I figured you wouldn't go to work, because you wouldn't want to turn your business into a media circus. Then I figured for the same reason, you couldn't go home-it would just bring the press down on your family. Then I confess, I made a wrong turn and tried your sister's gravesite. For the record, three reporters already had it staked out.”

Jillian looked at him curiously. “I did try there first. After spotting the reporters, however, I turned away.”

“Exactly.” He nodded. “Then it occurred to me. Like any good Rhode Islander, you're bound to have a beach house. So I did a search of Narragansett property records. Nothing in your name. Then I tried your mother's. The rest, as they say, is history.”