Her Last Word
Page 32
Kaitlin Roe has been stabbed.
INTERVIEW FILE #12
A RELUCTANT SAVIOR—JACK HUDSON
Thursday, March 1, 2018; 1:00 p.m.
When I explain the purpose of my podcast to Jack Hudson, he’s reluctant to talk to me, even though it’s been fourteen years since I showed up on his doorstep drunk, terrified, and begging him to call 911. It’s hard to blame him. My unexpected arrival propelled him into the spotlight and all the crap that comes with it.
Mr. Hudson is now in his late sixties, but he remains lean and fit. We sit at his kitchen table beside a large window that overlooks the bare trees and the river. “As soon as you said your name, I knew who you were. The media was camped out in front of my house for weeks. I hated that. I caught a few looking in my windows, and one went through the mail in my mailbox.”
The blunt assessment feels like an accusation. But atonement isn’t easy.
“I am sorry.” Silence lingers. He doesn’t accept my apology. “Can you tell me what you remember?”
He huffs out a breath. “It was a warm night. High humidity. I had gone to bed early. You woke me up out of a dead sleep. Startled the hell out of me.”
“Did you hear anything before I showed up?”
“As I told the cops, I went to bed early. I didn’t hear anything.”
Looking out his window, I can hear the rapids. How did he not hear me scream? “Do you remember Gina?”
“Sure. She was a sweet kid. I’d watched her grow up. She shouldn’t have died so young.” His cat jumps up on the table, and he strokes her head before gently placing her on the floor. “She wouldn’t have died if any one of the girls had shown any common sense.”
He’s right.
“Did the police talk to you about Randy Hayward?”
He taps his finger on the table. “Sure.”
“Did you notice anything different about him or his mother’s house the night Gina vanished?”
“Like what?”
“Sounds, a strange car in the driveway, shades closed when they were normally open?”
“The house was dark. No one appeared to be home. And as for Randy, he was always a weird kid. Sneaking around.”
“Doing what?”
“He liked to look in windows.”
“Whose window was he looking into?”
“Mine and a couple of my neighbors’. He didn’t disturb anything or do any harm. His mother cleared it up, so no charges were filed.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“No. I didn’t want any more trouble.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sunday, March 18, 2018; 6:00 a.m.
Kaitlin Roe was accustomed to pain.
Guilt, sorrow, and remorse were dull, consistent pains she endured, but the physical agony now jerking her toward consciousness was something she’d never felt before. Liquid fire scorched every cell and sinew, trapping her breath as she expanded her ribs and attempted to draw in air. Her heart raced, and she swallowed as she waited for the vise grip on her midsection to ease before she tried to breathe again.
When the pain dulled to a throb, she lay still until the screaming in her body stopped. Had the monster from fourteen years ago returned? Panic made her heart beat faster. A deep-seated urge to survive goaded her to open her eyes so she could get her bearings.
Instantly the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights smacked her square in the face. Her head throbbed. She closed her eyes and regrouped before she slowly reopened them. Her head still throbbed, but she adjusted to the pain.
The beep, beep of a monitor had her slowly turning her head left toward the machine’s green and red lights. An IV ran from a half-full bag to the thick blue vein in her arm.
Hospital. She was in a hospital? What had happened?
Her vision focused on the monitor, while she searched through the mental haze for her last concrete memory. She blinked while trying to scrape together the last images.
She had been at Erika’s house. She’d stepped inside . . . and then whatever happened next danced out of reach. She had no idea what happened to her.
“Welcome back.”
She turned her head toward the deep-baritone voice heavy with fatigue. Detective Adler sat in the chair by her bed. Dark stubble covered his chin, and his starched white dress shirt was wrinkled. Sleeves were rolled up, revealing hair covering muscled arms. His gun, as always, was holstered at his side along with cuffs and a phone.
He rose and leaned over the bed, staring at her with piercing gray eyes. Detective Adler. City of Richmond Homicide. But she wasn’t dead.
She swallowed, her throat dry. “Aren’t you early?”
“Early?”
“I’m not dead.”
“No.”
In the silence she felt the weight of worry, fear, and relief balled into a tightly coiled knot. He looked concerned.
She dug her fingers into the sheets, wanting to sit up and look him in the eye. She needed to prove to him, herself, and the doctors that she was fine. However, as soon as she engaged her core muscles, fire in her midsection flared, sending her collapsing into the sheets.
“You shouldn’t be moving,” Adler said.
She hissed in air between clenched teeth. “Just received that memo.”
He reached for a cup and straw and held it to her lips. She took a tentative sip, afraid swallowing would hurt. But her mouth and lips were so dry. She sipped, and cool water brushed over her lips and soothed her parched throat. She couldn’t remember when water had tasted so good.
“The nurse said only small sips.”
“How long have I been here?”
“You’ve been out of surgery about eight hours. I received the call from dispatch because my number was one of your last phone calls.”
She winced as she reached for a joke. “So people think we’re an item?”
Frowning, he set the glass down with deliberate care. He laid the back of his hand to her forehead before sitting and scooting forward so they were eye to eye. “You’re damn lucky to be alive.”
She was almost afraid to ask. “What happened?”
“You were hit on the head and stabbed.”
“Stabbed?” Her hand went to her belly, and fingertips gingerly felt gauze and adhesive. “I don’t remember.”
His eyebrows drew together, deepening his frown lines farther. “The doctor said you might have trouble with recollection,” he said. “You have a mild concussion. What’s the last thing you remember?”
She closed her eyes and drifted into the mist. “I was running a study session. The students were prepping for their exam project. Where was I found?”
The lines around his eyes deepened with a frown. “At Erika Crowley’s house.”
She met the gray eyes boring into her. “Why was I there?”
“She texted you.”
“She did?”
“Her number and the text are in your phone. Do you remember the text?”
“Sorta.” She ran her hand again over her stomach and felt the rough texture of the bandage. “I must have driven there.”
“Your car was parked out front, and you were lying in the foyer facing the door as if you were leaving.”
Erika. Puzzle pieces slid closer together. “I saw her on Friday. I went to tell her about Jennifer. She didn’t want to be interviewed. And then she texted and said she would talk to me.”
“That matches the text she sent you at 1:42 p.m. ‘I’m ready to be interviewed, but it has to be today. Come to my house. Now before I lose my nerve.’”
INTERVIEW FILE #12
A RELUCTANT SAVIOR—JACK HUDSON
Thursday, March 1, 2018; 1:00 p.m.
When I explain the purpose of my podcast to Jack Hudson, he’s reluctant to talk to me, even though it’s been fourteen years since I showed up on his doorstep drunk, terrified, and begging him to call 911. It’s hard to blame him. My unexpected arrival propelled him into the spotlight and all the crap that comes with it.
Mr. Hudson is now in his late sixties, but he remains lean and fit. We sit at his kitchen table beside a large window that overlooks the bare trees and the river. “As soon as you said your name, I knew who you were. The media was camped out in front of my house for weeks. I hated that. I caught a few looking in my windows, and one went through the mail in my mailbox.”
The blunt assessment feels like an accusation. But atonement isn’t easy.
“I am sorry.” Silence lingers. He doesn’t accept my apology. “Can you tell me what you remember?”
He huffs out a breath. “It was a warm night. High humidity. I had gone to bed early. You woke me up out of a dead sleep. Startled the hell out of me.”
“Did you hear anything before I showed up?”
“As I told the cops, I went to bed early. I didn’t hear anything.”
Looking out his window, I can hear the rapids. How did he not hear me scream? “Do you remember Gina?”
“Sure. She was a sweet kid. I’d watched her grow up. She shouldn’t have died so young.” His cat jumps up on the table, and he strokes her head before gently placing her on the floor. “She wouldn’t have died if any one of the girls had shown any common sense.”
He’s right.
“Did the police talk to you about Randy Hayward?”
He taps his finger on the table. “Sure.”
“Did you notice anything different about him or his mother’s house the night Gina vanished?”
“Like what?”
“Sounds, a strange car in the driveway, shades closed when they were normally open?”
“The house was dark. No one appeared to be home. And as for Randy, he was always a weird kid. Sneaking around.”
“Doing what?”
“He liked to look in windows.”
“Whose window was he looking into?”
“Mine and a couple of my neighbors’. He didn’t disturb anything or do any harm. His mother cleared it up, so no charges were filed.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“No. I didn’t want any more trouble.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sunday, March 18, 2018; 6:00 a.m.
Kaitlin Roe was accustomed to pain.
Guilt, sorrow, and remorse were dull, consistent pains she endured, but the physical agony now jerking her toward consciousness was something she’d never felt before. Liquid fire scorched every cell and sinew, trapping her breath as she expanded her ribs and attempted to draw in air. Her heart raced, and she swallowed as she waited for the vise grip on her midsection to ease before she tried to breathe again.
When the pain dulled to a throb, she lay still until the screaming in her body stopped. Had the monster from fourteen years ago returned? Panic made her heart beat faster. A deep-seated urge to survive goaded her to open her eyes so she could get her bearings.
Instantly the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights smacked her square in the face. Her head throbbed. She closed her eyes and regrouped before she slowly reopened them. Her head still throbbed, but she adjusted to the pain.
The beep, beep of a monitor had her slowly turning her head left toward the machine’s green and red lights. An IV ran from a half-full bag to the thick blue vein in her arm.
Hospital. She was in a hospital? What had happened?
Her vision focused on the monitor, while she searched through the mental haze for her last concrete memory. She blinked while trying to scrape together the last images.
She had been at Erika’s house. She’d stepped inside . . . and then whatever happened next danced out of reach. She had no idea what happened to her.
“Welcome back.”
She turned her head toward the deep-baritone voice heavy with fatigue. Detective Adler sat in the chair by her bed. Dark stubble covered his chin, and his starched white dress shirt was wrinkled. Sleeves were rolled up, revealing hair covering muscled arms. His gun, as always, was holstered at his side along with cuffs and a phone.
He rose and leaned over the bed, staring at her with piercing gray eyes. Detective Adler. City of Richmond Homicide. But she wasn’t dead.
She swallowed, her throat dry. “Aren’t you early?”
“Early?”
“I’m not dead.”
“No.”
In the silence she felt the weight of worry, fear, and relief balled into a tightly coiled knot. He looked concerned.
She dug her fingers into the sheets, wanting to sit up and look him in the eye. She needed to prove to him, herself, and the doctors that she was fine. However, as soon as she engaged her core muscles, fire in her midsection flared, sending her collapsing into the sheets.
“You shouldn’t be moving,” Adler said.
She hissed in air between clenched teeth. “Just received that memo.”
He reached for a cup and straw and held it to her lips. She took a tentative sip, afraid swallowing would hurt. But her mouth and lips were so dry. She sipped, and cool water brushed over her lips and soothed her parched throat. She couldn’t remember when water had tasted so good.
“The nurse said only small sips.”
“How long have I been here?”
“You’ve been out of surgery about eight hours. I received the call from dispatch because my number was one of your last phone calls.”
She winced as she reached for a joke. “So people think we’re an item?”
Frowning, he set the glass down with deliberate care. He laid the back of his hand to her forehead before sitting and scooting forward so they were eye to eye. “You’re damn lucky to be alive.”
She was almost afraid to ask. “What happened?”
“You were hit on the head and stabbed.”
“Stabbed?” Her hand went to her belly, and fingertips gingerly felt gauze and adhesive. “I don’t remember.”
His eyebrows drew together, deepening his frown lines farther. “The doctor said you might have trouble with recollection,” he said. “You have a mild concussion. What’s the last thing you remember?”
She closed her eyes and drifted into the mist. “I was running a study session. The students were prepping for their exam project. Where was I found?”
The lines around his eyes deepened with a frown. “At Erika Crowley’s house.”
She met the gray eyes boring into her. “Why was I there?”
“She texted you.”
“She did?”
“Her number and the text are in your phone. Do you remember the text?”
“Sorta.” She ran her hand again over her stomach and felt the rough texture of the bandage. “I must have driven there.”
“Your car was parked out front, and you were lying in the foyer facing the door as if you were leaving.”
Erika. Puzzle pieces slid closer together. “I saw her on Friday. I went to tell her about Jennifer. She didn’t want to be interviewed. And then she texted and said she would talk to me.”
“That matches the text she sent you at 1:42 p.m. ‘I’m ready to be interviewed, but it has to be today. Come to my house. Now before I lose my nerve.’”
