Deceit

with the name “Ann” written on top. Inside were sheets of blank computer paper.

Even to the last, Baxter had tried to out-deceive the deceiving Melissa.

Eventually, however, he’d broken down and confessed his complicity in Linda’s and Cherisse’s deaths. And he’d led police to Linda’s grave in the forest. But that was after weeks of legal machinations, threats from law enforcement, and promises of lighter sentencing if he cooperated. Even though Baxter didn’t kill Linda, due to his conspiracy to kill Melissa and me, a shadow still hung over him regarding his second wife. “What are we going to find if we disinter Cherisse’s body?” Dan had pressed. “Some other wound not consistent with falling down the stairs?”

Meanwhile Trovky stood more than ready to testify against Baxter in exchange for his own lighter sentencing.

The further Baxter had been backed into a corner, the better the promise of reduced punishment appeared. That’s when he agreed to talk. And there was no way to tell his story without including a confession of abusing both his wives.

And so Baxter Jackson finally told the truth—to save his own skin.

His hatred for Melissa Harkoff poured out amid his confession. How manipulative and self-serving she was, feigning sincerity, empathy. “I’m convinced she killed her mother,” he told police. “I think she pushed her when the woman was drunk, made her fall and hit her head. Melissa told me she had recurring nightmares about her mother’s death. Now I know those dreams were from guilt.”

When I heard the accusation, I wasn’t surprised. Nothing about Melissa would surprise me anymore. But now the truth of her mother’s death would never be known.

Baxter pled guilty to two counts of solicitation to commit murder plus involuntary manslaughter of Cherisse. Charges for his cover-up of Linda’s murder were dropped in exchange for his taking authorities to her body. Baxter could have received twenty-five years for his crimes, but the plea bargain reduced his sentence to a mere eight years. For his part in the solicitation scheme, Trovky received three years—also a reduced sentence.

I ran my finger over the pink and white flowers at Linda’s grave, feeling their velvety strength. “I didn’t know what to expect when I went to that meeting.”

At the San Benito county jail check-in, I showed my driver’s license and stowed my purse in a locker provided in the lobby. I was not allowed to carry anything with me into the visiting room. Each step of security wound invisible bindings around me until I felt I could hardly breathe. Only then did the dark reality of what Baxter faced hit me. How very far the proud had fallen.

Baxter slumped into a seat opposite me at a table, looking nothing like the man I knew. His hair had been cut short, his eyes were dulled. Gone was that pulsing power, the confident arrogance. In their place hovered shame and brokenness.

I straightened in my chair, arms folded. Remembering his “sincerity” in front of Pastor Steve at my house that fateful day.

Baxter leaned forward, hands laced upon the table. His shoulders were stooped. “Thanks for coming.”

I nodded.

Baxter watched his thumbs rub over one another. He cleared his throat. Looked at me. “I just wanted to tell you in person how sorry I am. For…everything. Linda. The fear I put you through. The chase I sent you on. The lying.”

The rawness of his expression and tone, of him, left me flailing.

Surely he couldn’t be telling me the truth. He had to have some angle.

But what would be his reason for now playing the penitent? He was in jail, far away from the church and town.

I filled my lungs with dusty air. “Okay.”

One side of his mouth curved the slightest bit. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

How does one know when a liar stops lying?

“I don’t know what to believe.”

Baxter dipped his chin. “That’s understandable. It may take a long time for people to believe I’ve changed.”

“Why, Baxter?” The words burst from me. “What happened to you and Linda? She was so happy when she married you.”

He swallowed and looked away, as if wanting to turn from the memories. I waited him out. He wanted forgiveness? I wanted answers.

“I never hit Linda until after we were married.” His voice ran low, pained. “I grew up watching my dad hit my mom. Thought I’d never be that way. Especially as a Christian. But one day this rage just welled up. And I lashed out. I was horrified. I apologized all over the place. Promised it would never happen again. And then it did.” He paused. Sighed at the table. “After awhile I couldn’t control it. Fear built up inside me. Of who I was becoming. That Linda would tell someone. That I’d lose my reputation. The more fearful I became, the more I lashed out. Then the more I had to hide. Around and around we went. Linda…” Baxter’s voice caught. “…was a saint.”

My own throat tightened. Yes, she was.

If only I’d reacted differently the day she came to me. Once I missed that opportunity, Melissa arrived, and Linda and I had no more private time together.

Baxter shifted in his chair. Blinked a couple of times. “The ironic thing is, Linda wanted a foster child because she believed having a third person in the home would stop me.” He shook his head. “She had me believing it too. And I tried. I really did.”

“You obviously didn’t try hard enough.” I couldn’t keep the accusation from my voice.

He lowered his eyes. “No.”

“You could have prevented all of it, you know.” My anger spilled out. “That very first time you hit Linda—did you ask anyone for help? Confess to our pastor, go for counseling? Did you ever ask God to forgive you? To help you change?”

Baxter could not raise his eyes to my face. “I was too ashamed to pray.”

I made a disgusted sound in my throat. “Too ashamed, that makes a lot of sense. Like God didn’t know the truth.”

Baxter raised a hand, palm out. “Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I’ve been over this a thousand, million times? I stepped off the path. It wasn’t that far to step right back on, with God’s help. But I didn’t. And then I just got farther and farther away…”

I couldn’t stand to look at Baxter a moment longer. My head snapped to the side, my eyes glaring at the wall. Emotions raged through my veins like floodwaters. I wanted to strangle the man for his arrogance. I wanted to rage and cry. Turn back time, like Superman. Everything that happened—it was all so avoidable. So totally, completely stupid.

Why hadn’t I forced Linda to tell our pastor, the police? Why did I let her get away with her silence?

“I’m sorry, Joanne.” Baxter’s words were a mere whisper. “I wish I could change everything.”

“Me too, Baxter. Me too.”

My eyes burned, and the tears fell.

Now at Linda’s grave I reached out to slide my palm over the smooth top of her headstone. “I still don’t know if Baxter’s ‘change of heart’ is real. I know God can change people. He can. But I just…”

Out of nowhere, Melissa’s sneering voice surfaced in my head. “Miss Lying Christian…”

I closed my eyes.

“God’s changing me, Linda. That I do know.” I aimed a wan smile at her flowers. “I have some things to sort out.”

Like willing myself to forgive Baxter—whether he was still lying or not. I hadn’t been able to say the words yesterday as we parted. But I needed to get to that point, or bitterness would overwhelm me.

And I needed to look within myself, through God’s eyes, and root out any deceit that lingered in me. I didn’t know what that would do to my work. How do you skip trace without pretexting once in a while? (Pretexting—such a benign word for lying.) Perry said I was “catching the bad guys,” so it shouldn’t bother me. “Cops lie during interrogations,” he told me. “Sometimes they