“I need more time to sort out some things.”
“I’m begging you,” she said.
“Please.” That was the last time that they really spoke. She was seventeen, ashamed, and feeling as if the world was going to come to an end. She talked things over with her mother. She prayed to God. She’d done what every other teenage girl who became pregnant since the world made such things shameful did. She hid it from everyone. But the baby’s father. As she lay there next to Steven, she thought of how much the world had changed in the past fifteen years. Celebrities had babies without marriage every day. They even posed for magazine covers as if there was nothing wrong. The stigma had been washed away. Even in conservative Port Orchard, people had changed their thinking. And yet, Kendall had kept it a secret. She didn’t tell Steven, though there were many times when she could have. It was private and she wanted it to stay that way. As time progressed, she was able to set aside some of the emotion that came with her decision. I did what I had to do, she thought. I did what was the right thing at the time. Not the right thing for who I am today, but who I was back then. When Cody was diagnosed with autism, Kendall blamed herself. She felt that it was payback from God for the choice that she made. How many times can I say I’m sorry? she asked. She wrote a letter to Steven that she’d intended to give him, but never did.
When I dreamed of falling in love, I dreamed of you. I don’t know if you’ll ever understand, but I’m begging you to try. For the rest of my life, I’ll live with the shame of knowing that the mistake I made was only compounded by the lies that I’ve told, the past that I’ve swept away.
Years later, when cleaning out the bedroom closet of their Harper house, Kendall found a cache of letters in a cigar box that had belonged to her father. There were postcards, too, from trips she and Steven had taken before Cody was born. Paris. The Grand Canyon. Vancouver Island. Among the items was the “I’m sorry” note. She picked at it, not sure if she wanted to unfold it. The letters bled through the stationery like a ghost from a bad dream. She could make out some of the words, and her heart sank. So much to remember. So much to save. No review was needed, of course. Every word from that time had been etched in her memory. She unfolded it slowly, feeling the texture of the slightly rippled paper. She remembered she’d cried when she wrote it. The final words lay on the page like the message on a tombstone, destined to be forever. Forgive me, so I can forgive myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tacoma
If anyone passed him on the trail along the Thea Foss Waterway that morning, Eddie Kaminski would have conjured the image of an old steam locomotive. He ran through the chilly air, streams of warm breath following him step by step. Puff. Puff. Puff. His running was on autopilot because his mind was so wrapped up in his thoughts of what had transpired over the past few days. There was no denying that there had been some anomalies in the Alex Connelly case that made it of the twisty sort that detectives mull over. Sometimes obsessively so. Out running, in the car, or with his daughter as they shared a couple of calzones at a restaurant in Spanaway—any time, all times. Wealthy husband shot to death and a stunningly beautiful woman who seemed less concerned about her husband than the appearance of her own culpability. It was apparent to the investigative team that Darius Fulton had been obsessed with his neighbor and more than likely had been the triggerman. But had he acted alone? It was a question they were asking back at the Tacoma Police Department. In fact, a lot of questions were being asked. Nothing got cops talking like a beautiful and bloody blonde. The Connelly case was a far cry from a drug- or gangland-related murder, by far the most common in gritty Tacoma. A little digging by Cal Herzog had turned up one little nugget that suggested Alex Connelly might have had a girlfriend, possibly someone at work. And that affair, if true, had occurred before Tori slept with Darius Fulton. Had she done so to get back at her husband? The scenario was familiar. Kaminski stopped to catch his breath and rested his hands on his knees. Ten more pounds off the middle and a final run up and down the Spanish Steps downtown would be easier. He slowed his breathing a little and acted as if he was doing just fine when a young woman jogging with her Rottweiler ran by, the gravel crunching under the dog’s heavy black paws. As she disappeared around a corner, he resumed his labored breathing. Sweat streaked his back and the space between what he imagined should be well-defined pecs, but weren’t quite there yet. A moment later, composed, lungs no longer contracting, he went back to the office, showered, and dressed. He had an appointment at Alex Connelly’s office. The president of Pacific Investments had made the call himself.
When the elevator doors opened to the seventh floor of the Tacoma office building that was Alex Connelly’s place of employment, it was like the scene in The Wizard of Oz in which Dorothy opened the door of the tornado-hurtled Kansas farmhouse to reveal the shiny, colorful world of Munchkinland. Pacific Investments was an opulent place of white leather couches, a tsunami of colorful artwork splashed on the walls. Eddie Kaminski was duly impressed—as would any visitor to a floor accessible only by invitation. Or by detective’s shield.
“Detective Kaminski?” He turned around from a painting that held his attention. A young woman in stilettos and a dark blue suit had crept up behind him. She was pretty, so he smiled.
“Yes. That’s me.”
“I’m Daphnia. Mr. Johnstone and the rest of Alex’s team are in the boardroom. Follow me.” She led the way, Kaminski’s eyes embarrassingly, but unavoidably, riveted to her backside as they made their way past a row of rosewood desks and Eames chairs. She pressed a burnished nickel-plated button and a pair of frosted-glass double doors slowly opened. Three people—two men and a woman—occupied a conference room large enough to play a volleyball match. A Chihuly hung like a sheaf of glass bananas from the ceiling. The firm spared no expense. Eli Johnstone was a physically fit man of about sixty, with light gray eyes, a shaved head, and a tuft of white hair protruding from the front of his collar. The firm that his father had built from nothing was impressive—a multimillion-dollar portfolio that had made it through the junk bond years and the scandals that defined Wall Street in the first years of the new millennium. Johnstone was no Bernie Madoff. Eli sat at the head of a black walnut table in a conference room that looked out to the cold waters of Commencement Bay. At his right was a woman of considerable beauty. She had faded blue eyes and a short blond haircut that looked still damp from the shower. She seemed cold and indifferent—almost as if she had better things to do and couldn’t wait to get back to them. Next to her was a young man with the kind of eager-beaver attitude that Kaminski knew might come in handy. Overly helpful is always a plus, he thought.
“I’m sorry for the loss of your friend and colleague,” Kaminski said as he approached the group. Johnstone put out his hand and shook the detective’s like he meant to choke the life out of him.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Alex was an important member of our team here.” He motioned for Kaminski to sit as he introduced his colleagues: Lissa March was the ice-princess vice president of Human Resources, and Hank Wooten was Alex Connelly’s assistant, a trainee that he’d mentored for the past year.
“Thanks for seeing me.”
“Alex was very important here. Important to all of us.” Kaminski looked at the others, but none seemed broken up at all. They were young professionals on autopilot with their emotions.
“You said you had some information that might be helpful in the investigation of his murder,” Kaminski said. The company president acknowledged the remark with a quick nod.
“That’ll be your job to determine.” Neither of the other two said a word, though the younger man appeared to bobble-head with great enthusiasm.
“Ms. March advised me of a turn of events that we thought you might find of interest.” He turned slightly in Lissa’s direction and she immediately produced a black file folder. Kaminski looked at the folder.
“What do we have here?”
“Last year Mr. Connelly made a change to his life insurance policy,” Lissa said, her voice softer than her standoffish body language might have suggested it would be. Kaminski caught a faint accent, maybe North Carolina. Maybe Lissa wasn’t as tough as she wanted the world to believe she was.
“What kind of a change?” he asked.
“An interesting one,” she said, her tougher facade back in full force, “especially considering the recent tragic turn of events. Alex removed his wife as a beneficiary and left the sum of the policy’s payout to his son, Parker.” It was an interesting change, indeed.
“I see,” Kaminski said, reaching for the document that Lissa had excised from the
