This is the book she was writing, the one Daniel Chandler was going to help her publish.
I stop. For some reason I feel like I’ll be violating her privacy. But this is her voice, her master work, what she wanted to share with the world.
Plus, she’s dead.
Yeah, there’s that.
So I read. Or at least, I skim. Most of the book is dedicated to creative exercises, guided drawing with pencils or watercolors; journaling with prompts; collage and even cooking. Victoria has chosen a multitude of vehicles and tools that most people should have access to, nothing that requires a lot of expense. It’s all designed to help people get in touch with their feelings to better recover from trauma. But it’s the part where she talks about herself that I go over carefully, word by word.
She describes her childhood, her happy home with strict but loving parents. I barely recognize the literary portrait of her mother. And then I read about her interactions with the neighbor boy. Several years older than Victoria, he began drawing her, and teaching her how to draw as well. They played sketching games, completing each other’s work, or making comic book stories with a cast of characters. She looked up to him, and as they both got older he became more serious about his art and began to pose her. And then he began to touch her. When he was seventeen and she was twelve, they had sex for the first time.
The Harkness household was religious. Victoria was confused and thought what was happening was wrong, but she didn’t know how to make it stop. And she didn’t want to get her friend in trouble. Her fear of her parents’ disappointment kept her from opening up to them. And then her mother and father started fighting. They split up, and she believed it was her fault. When her mother took her away to Portland, leaving the rest of the family behind, Victoria believed she was to blame, that she was evil, and that nobody wanted to be around her. In one stroke, she’d lost most of her family and her best friend. It took her years of searching and following her inner muse to recover from the trauma. In a final chapter of self-healing, she returned to her childhood town to face the pain and look for healing. For both herself and her abuser.
I look up from the laptop. The inside of my cheek is sore where I’ve been biting it unknowingly. This explains everything. Why she came back to Astoria. How she could connect so well with the damaged members of her congregation. And it gives me the motive for murder. Not just hers, but Daniel’s as well. Because Daniel read the book. Daniel must have known. Because throughout the narrative are marginal comments from the bookkeeper. One of the last reads “Do you want to name names?”
It confirms what I already know. Eric North is a murderer. And an abuser. And unless I can do something, he’s going to get away with it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE VISITING ROOM at the Clatsop County Corrections Center hasn’t changed in the course of one day. It’s still frigid, and I leave my coat on. The acrid odor of smoke still wafts up from the material, reminding me uncomfortably of the fire. I wait for Claire, and when she finally arrives, escorted by a guard, I’m shocked at how haggard my friend looks.
My friend. Because Claire is my friend, not just my client. In any case, I mean to help her in any way I can.
“Morning, Claire.”
“Yes. It is.” Clair settles down in the chair opposite. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I know who killed Victoria.”
“Oh?”
Claire’s guarded expression isn’t what I had expected. “Yes. It was Eric North.”
A multitude of expressions cross her face, flitting by too quickly for me to interpret. But she seems surprised.
“He did it, Claire.”
She leans forward “Did he? For sure?”
“Yes.”
Her next question is barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t Daniel?”
“What? No.”
She closes her eyes and puts her head in her hands. “Oh, thank God. I thought…”
Sympathy, empathy, compassion, they all well up from some fissure beneath my cynicism. Because I understand, finally. That Claire has been afraid her husband was guilty. That she loved someone capable of murder.
She says, “Do you know who killed my husband?”
“It was Eric.”
“He murdered Daniel, too? But why?”
My reasoning for this is not something I can share, it’s so tenuous. But. “Your husband was helping Victoria with her book, the one about trauma from abuse. She was sexually abused as a child here in Astoria.” I lean forward. “I’ve read her book, Claire. She describes what happened. There’s no doubt. Her abuser was Eric North. And he didn’t want that fact to be published. His life would be wrecked if that happened.”
“Can you prove it? Can you get me out?”
“I’m working on that. I think I can get people to listen. I mean, what are the chances that two different murderers are operating at the Church of the Spirit at the same time?”
“But no real proof? Great. That means I’ll be accused of both crimes.”
“I’m going to get him, Claire.”
“You do that.” All the emotion seems drained out of her. She sits back, listless.
“Listen, Claire. I’d like you to contact your lawyer. Let them know I’ll be coming in to talk to them. Give him proof of reasonable doubt.”
She laughs. “My lawyer? Only rich white folks have lawyers on call. My public defender hasn’t even bothered to put in an appearance.”
I’d suspected this might be an issue when I’d asked Link for the address yesterday. “You haven’t had any contact with anyone?”
“Not yet. My bail hearing hasn’t even been scheduled.”
I say, “I’m going to find whoever has your case, and light a fire under them. Don’t give up, okay?”
She looks disbelieving. “Don’t give up? My friend and my husband have
