The Good Lie by A.R. Torre
CHAPTER 43
TWO MONTHS LATER
A text message alert pinged in the middle of Lela Grant’s long and uninteresting recap of last night’s Netflix session. I glanced at my cell, didn’t recognize the number on the display, and returned my attention to her.
“So, the kicker is, the guy is actually her stepfather, but you don’t realize that until the very last scene, when he pulls out his gun and shoots her in the face!” Her eyes widened enough for me to see her shimmery purple eyeliner.
“Interesting,” I mused. “So, you’d recommend the movie?” I drew a decorative border around the film’s title on my notepad.
“Well, no. Now that you know everything that happens.” She looked crestfallen, then perked back up. “I saw that the LAPD is finally investigating Randall Thompson for molesting his students.”
“Yes, I heard that.”
“I think it’s pretty cool, how all the moms of the Bloody Heart victims got together and created a victims’ advocacy foundation. And they’re, like, investigating old crimes?” She fixed her eyes on me.
Unsure of the correct answer, I nodded. “Yes. It’s very nice.”
And it was. I had watched the press coverage closely and could see the powerful and positive impact the nonprofit group was already having—not just with victims, but among themselves. They had felt helpless during their sons’ abductions, then grieving and alone after their children’s bodies had been found. But now they were united in a common goal—helping those without a voice find justice. They were formidable, well funded, and had embraced the ignored accusers of Randall Thompson as their first pro bono clients.
“You know, Sarah went to Beverly High.”
Ah yes, Sarah. The horrible sister-in-law, worthy of killing.
“We’ve been watching the updates of the case together on social media.”
I waited for a comment about Lela torturing Sarah for information, or plotting to wrap a laptop’s extension cord around her neck, but she stayed silent.
“That’s nice,” I managed. “Together? Or—”
“Oh no.” She shook her head. “I mean, she lives way out in Pasadena. But we’ve been texting about it. She wants to come to the first hearing with me. She didn’t have him for a teacher, but she was a student there and saw him in the halls, like, every day. Plus, she knew Jamie Horace—who was one of his victims—like, personally. They were cheerleaders together, practically best friends.” She beamed. “I requested to be Jamie’s friend on Facebook, and because I was a mutual friend with Sarah, and not some random stalker, she accepted me.” She twisted a lock of her hair with one finger. “So it’s cool, because she has that connection, and I have my whole connection with you . . . so we’re both, like, really invested in the case.”
I digested that sugarcoated pile of garbage and managed not to react. “So, you’re getting along with Sarah?”
“Yeah. I think I’m over the ‘killing her’ thing.” She frowned. “I mean, not that I want to stop sessions or anything. I have other problems if that’s—”
I held up my hand. “I’m happy to be here for you, without the need for violence. We can talk about anything you want to talk about in your sessions.”
“Oh, good.” She bounced a little in her seat, and I fought the urge to smile. She was, however ridiculous, a pleasant burst of innocence in days now full of darkness. My professional reputation, which I had considered doomed, had actually grown in the months following the Bloody Heart unveiling. I had appeared on a dozen interview spots, turned down two book deals, and had a waiting list of clients, all anxious to speak about their inner aggressions. It was refreshing to sit here with Lela and talk about movies and celebrity gossip and her daughter’s improvements. Maggie was now in regular sessions with a therapist and progressing nicely.
A few minutes later, I walked Lela to the door and waved goodbye, passing her off to Jacob, who deserved a gold medal in ass-kissing. Returning to my desk, I picked up my phone and checked my messages. The text from the unknown number was short.
It’s been a while. Hope you’re well. —Robert
I stared at the message, unsure how to respond. After he’d left my house that fateful afternoon, he’d disappeared. No texts, no phone calls, and—when I checked the internet—his profile was off the firm’s site. When my curiosity got the best of me, I drove over to his office in Beverly Hills and rode the elevator up to his floor. Stepping off, I was surprised to see that his name had been removed from the sleek glass doors, a woman now visible through the open door to his old office.
I hadn’t driven by his house. I had gone too far already by snooping around his office. I had accepted that if Robert Kavin wanted to talk to me, he could call me. And now he had. Sort of.
I placed my cell on the desk and nudged it away from me. I didn’t know how to respond to the text, and the swarm of butterflies stealing through my chest was definitely not a good thing. The man had come to my house to kill me. Granted, he hadn’t—but what if I hadn’t convinced him of my innocence?
Sane individuals didn’t turn to murder. Then again, the death of a child could cause anyone to lose their mind. I didn’t blame him for killing John Abbott, and I didn’t blame him for turning his anger and hatred on me when he thought I had willingly let his son die.
In the last three months, an investigation had thoroughly dissected every moment in John and Brooke’s gruesome history. I’d turned over my files, as useless as I believed them to be, and sat through hours of questioning. Thankfully, the state believed my story and didn’t pursue any charges for obstruction of justice, their focus quickly shifting back to the growing horrors of John and Brooke Abbott.
The Bloody Heart killings weren’t their first crimes. The first had been a high school classmate of John’s who—if I had to guess—had sexually abused John Abbott. An audit into John’s pharmacy unveiled a massive number of misfiled and appropriated prescriptions, along with a connection among the victims. At least four of the six teenagers had had ongoing prescriptions filled at Breyer’s Pharmacy.
Picking up my cell, I considered responding. What harm was one simple text?
I’m good.
There. No one could call that flirtatious. I dropped my cell in my purse and rolled closer to my desk, vowing to return all my outstanding emails before I looked at my phone again. A slight buzz came from inside my purse.
Okay, four new emails. I clicked on one, read the first paragraph of it twice, then gave up and retrieved my phone. Settling back in my chair, I opened the new text.
We should have a drink and catch up.
A drink. It sounded so simple, so innocent. I typed a response before I could second-guess myself.
Sure. When?