CHAPTER 37
Grace
The UT campus is crawling with students, book bags slung over their shoulders as they travel between classes. Plenty of others are scattered over the parklike setting, hiding beneath the shade of trees or lying on their backs on grassy patches, tuning out the world and soaking in the afternoon sun with either a book or music pumping through earphones.
“You went here?”
“Best years of my life.” Noah pauses to step behind me, making room for a group of girls to pass while, at the same time, covertly scanning the area around us.
We pulled into the parking lot and watched the gray Civic coast past, the visor strategically positioned to hide the driver from view. All either of us could make out was a faded blue T-shirt and a white man’s biceps, and then they were gone.
“What about you? Have you ever thought about going to college?”
I burst out laughing.
“What? You’ve never even thought about it?”
“No. I mean, I’ve thought about it, but . . .”
“But . . . ?” Again he shifts to the side to allow others to pass, this time setting a hand on the small of my back, steering me toward an elaborate fountain up ahead.
It takes me a moment to remember what we were talking about, his touch distracting. “But that’s it. I’ve thought about it.” Noah doesn’t get it.
My school guidance counselor, Ms. Bracken, didn’t get it either. I remember sitting across from her in her office my senior year. She was holding out a stack of college pamphlets and application forms, thinking she would change my life with a simple conversation. While my grades were far from Ivy League–worthy, she was sure I could get into one of the local community college programs if I applied.
I smiled and accepted the brochures, stuffing them in my backpack. I even let myself indulge in the idea of filling out a form that night. And then I came home to find the needles strewn on the coffee table. Before that it had been all pills.
“I guess I’ve learned to live more day by day.”
“It’s good to set goals for yourself.”
“Trying to keep my mother alive and pay our bills are goals.”
Noah’s face falls in that guilty way it always does when he’s reminded how different our upbringings were. “Well, now you can start thinking about your future.”
My future. That’s not a phrase that was tossed around much when I was growing up. My mom was too busy stuck in the past, and holding me there with her.
“Over here.” He leads me to a retaining wall, and I admire his measured strides, his sleek movements. I take a seat next to him, and try to focus on our surroundings rather than him.
“Wow, now that’s a fountain.” I’ve never seen anything like the elaborate sculpture beside us, of horses charging from the water, ridden by what I’d call mermen, guarded over by soldiers and a goddess. The entire piece is surrounded by a massive pool of water to feed into the jetting sprays.
Noah doesn’t answer, his gaze searching faces.
“Do you think we lost them?”
“I hope so. I don’t know what the hell they want.” With a heavy sigh, he begins fumbling with the leather band around his wrist. His thoughts are elsewhere.
And I remember that I’m not the only one troubled by everything we’ve learned today, so far.
“I saw a sign for a lake back there,” I offer, trying to distract him from his brooding.
“Lady Bird?”
“Sure. Tell me about it.”
He closes his eyes and tips his head back to face the sky. “It’s actually a reservoir from the Colorado River. You can rent kayaks and boats, and all sorts of things. And the Congress Avenue Bridge is there too. Every night in the summer, you can watch over a million bats fly out from their nests underneath it.”
“That’d be . . . cool?” I cringe at the thought.
“It is, actually. If you’re around, we’ll go see it.”
If I’m around. That’s months away. Does he mean still in Austin? Or living in his house, with him?
How long will I be here? It all depends on whether I’d have a reason to stay. My mother will be in rehab for at least one month. Ideally, three, though I can’t let Noah pay for more.
“I agree, the bats are cool,” a male voice says suddenly. I was so busy staring at Noah’s handsome profile that I didn’t notice the man take the spot on the other side of me. He could pass for a student, albeit an older one, in his worn jeans and faded blue Houston Texans T-shirt.
I’m about to turn my back to the stranger, to overtly dismiss him for listening in on our conversation, when I hear a soft “fuck” slip out under Noah’s breath.
The guy leans over to rest his elbows on his knees, his steely gray eyes shifting from Noah to me, and then back to Noah, amusement on his face. “How was your drive back from Tucson?”
Noah doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look the least bit pleased.
The guy studies me through a shrewd gaze. I’d put him in his early thirties. He’s decidedly attractive—his jaw hard, his nose sharp, his blond hair holding a wave. There’s a twinkle in his eye, and I can’t tell if it’s borne of arrogance or mischief, but I can tell that this guy is probably used to getting whatever he wants where females are concerned.
“Who the hell are you and why are you following us?”
“So you did see me.” He smiles easily, highlighting the small cut and bruising on his bottom lip.
“Hard not to notice such a terrible tailing job. Who are you?”
“Special Agent Kristian Klein. I work with the FBI.” He holds out a hand.
I simply glare at it. “Bullshit. You guys don’t creep around in Honda Civics and faded jeans.”
“You’d be surprised what we do.” Suddenly there’s a badge in Kristian’s hand, the golden eagle unmistakable and, just as quickly and smoothly, it’s gone again. “Ask Noah, if you don’t believe me.”
“You said forty-eight hours,” Noah grumbles by way of response.
Klein shrugs. “I also said I was bad with telling time.”
“Wait, when did you two talk?”
“Where’s Tareen?” Noah searches the grounds around us.
“He’s on the other side of the bush, listening while making sure no one else is listening.”
“How fucking clandestine of you.”
“So, which one of you spotted me?”
Noah nods to me.
“Nicely done, Grace Richards. Or are you going by Wilkes again, now that you’re back in Texas?”
“Okay, what the hell is going on?” How does the FBI know my name? And why does Noah know this guy? And forty-eight hours to what?
“I’m trying to figure out what happened to Abraham Wilkes and I’d love some help. I was hoping Noah here would tell me what he knows.”
I frown with realization. “Does this mean that the FBI is looking into my dad’s case?”
Klein leans forward and peers across to Noah. “Wow. You actually didn’t tell her.”
“Tell me what?” I demand, glaring at Noah as Klein casually taunts him.
Noah heaves a sigh, his face drawn with misery. “Klein is the guy who came to your mom’s hospital room. He came because my mom called him the night she died and told him that Abe had been set up. He was outside of our motel in Tucson on Saturday night.”
“And you weren’t going to tell me?” I hiss, my rage flaring.
He holds his hands up. “I was just about to when you noticed the car following us, I swear.”
“I don’t believe you.” Again. Noah was withholding from me again. I turn my back to him, to face Agent Klein. “What do you know?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “A bit. But first, I’m curious about what you know, Gracie.”
“It’s Grace. And I’ll tell you everything. Every last detail.”
A smile of satisfaction fills his handsome face. “That’s what I was hoping for.”
Klein snaps his notepad shut. “We’ll be by to collect that evidence.”
“And the picture of Betsy, right?”
“Give me all the names and birth dates that she may be going under and I’ll see what my people can find out.” His cool gaze drifts to Noah, who has been quiet, aside from a nod here or a grunt of agreement there. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you had anything to do with your mother’s death. I deserved this.” His gestures at his lip. “And I get why you covered for your mom with the cops in your statement. I’m not out to get you for that. But if I find out that you’re lying to me about anything—”
“Gracie’s told you everything we know about Abe’s death,” Noah says, his gaze locked on the agent’s.
“I believe you. Well . . . I believe her.” Kristian stands, and I see how tall he is. He’s lankier than Noah, but he has definition to his body. He gestures toward a man who suddenly appears next to him. “This is Agent Tareen.”
The dark-haired man nods once toward me, his near-black eyes skating over Noah with indifference, before handing Klein a letter-sized envelope.
“Have you seen the police report on your father?”
“No. I need to request it . . .” Wherever it is you request police reports. I’m not going to rely on Noah or Silas to get it for me.
“Don’t bother. It’s the one meant for the public. You won’t find anything in it of any use.” He scrawls something across the front of the envelope and then passes it to me. “Here’s the real one.”
Noah’s mouth drops open. “How did you get that?”
“A courier showed up at my house the morning after your mother died. She sent it to me. How she got hold of it, I don’t know, but she was the chief, so I’m sure it wasn’t too hard.”
The envelope in my hand feels like a brick. Is this truly it? Is this the tale of my father’s supposed fall from saint to criminal?
The report that’s full of lies?
“Why are you giving this to me?”
“Because you won’t get it any other way. And after what you’ve been through, especially with your mother”—pity flashes across his face—“you deserve to see it. And because this case isn’t going to be easy to solve. I need all the help I can get. So take a read. See if anything jumps out at you.”
I slide the stack of papers out and see my dad’s name across the top. A strange feeling sweeps through me. “So you are investigating my dad’s death.” Klein hasn’t actually admitted it yet.
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be in touch soon,” he drawls in a fake Texas twang. The two FBI agents stroll away, no one around us the wiser.
“Gracie, I—”
“When are you going to stop lying to me, Noah?” My voice cracks on his name, which only makes me more upset with him.
“I didn’t lie! I just . . . Klein blindsided me in Tucson. He played that message and . . . hearing her voice brought me right back to that fucking horrible night.” Noah swallows hard. “And then he basically accused me of killing her.”
Mixed in with my anger is unexpected sympathy. “Is that why you punched him?” It would probably take accusing Noah of murdering his own mother for his temper to erupt like that.
Noah nods. “I wanted to talk to Maxwell and Silas first, and I knew you wouldn’t be willing to wait. I’m sorry.” He settles those earnest eyes on me.
I’m forced to turn away from them before my anger melts. He’s right; I wouldn’t have been. I would have demanded we talk to Klein right away. Because why shouldn’t we? “And let me guess: your uncle told you not to tell the FBI anything?”
He chews his bottom lip, delaying an answer. Giving me the answer I need. “It’s all a moot point, now that you’ve told Klein everything.”
“You’re right, and I’m glad I did, because I have this police report and the FBI on my side, and I’m going to clear my dad’s name. Something you obviously don’t care that much about doing. But it’s all going to come out eventually.” I jump off the ledge and march in the direction of the parking lot, hugging the report to my chest.
Everyone keeps saying that this was an open-and-shut case. But there has to be something in these pages. Something that, if you knew the whole story—or at least what we now know about my dad and Mantis—would let you see it for what it actually is: proof of my father’s innocence.