She had been a star basketball player at her school. Her skill on the court was so extraordinary that at the age of twelve, her school counselors had predicted that she would go to university on a full athletic scholarship. That is, until the night thirty years ago when Verraday, his mother, and his sister were returning from an evening of Christmas shopping and Officer David Robson of the Seattle Police Department ran a red light and broadsided their car. The police cruiser rammed into the driver’s side door, killing their mother instantly. Penny had been sitting directly behind her. The force of the impact crumpled the family’s sedan in on her, crushing her legs and pelvis and irreparably injuring her spinal cord. She had been paraplegic ever since. It had taken two years of physiotherapy for Penny to have even a semblance of physical independence. But though she managed to accomplish a surprising number of everyday tasks on her own, she had never managed to escape from the wheelchair that the accident had put her in. And barring some medical miracle yet to be devised, she never would. Somehow, despite the fact that the crash had robbed her of a scholarship and the use of her legs, Penny was more stoic and accepting of her situation than her younger brother, who had been sitting farthest from the point of impact and so had received only cuts and bruises.
Verraday was rushed along with his mother and sister to the emergency ward at Harborview. His mother was pronounced dead upon arrival. Verraday was kept overnight for observation and released into his father’s care the next day. Penny however, stayed in the hospital to begin the long rehabilitation from her grievous injuries. Though arduous, the rehab regimen had also given her years to talk through her feelings with therapists and work through not only her physical traumas but her emotional ones as well, with the aid of sympathetic and knowledgeable adult ears. But because Verraday didn’t have any physical injuries, he never needed to see a doctor again and received no counseling on how to cope with the loss of his mother. His situation was aggravated by the fact that the city, the police department, and their lawyers circled the wagons and did their best to discredit Verraday’s memory of the accident, shifting the blame away from their officer and onto his mother, who, being dead, was conveniently unable to speak for herself.
Even as an adult, the memories of the cajoling and bullying by police and their legal counsel in the weeks after the crash were enough to provoke an adrenaline response in Verraday, raising his blood pressure and making his muscles tighten involuntarily. After a police lawyer had repeatedly failed to find a flaw in Verraday’s recounting of the events during cross-examination, the counselor had told the judge in a faux-compassionate tone that “a child that age, having been subjected to such a distressing event, can’t be expected to recall it accurately. To place that burden on the boy would be cruel to him and grossly unjust to the accused.” The judge agreed. The case was thrown out of court for lack of evidence and Robson was allowed to keep his job on the force.
Verraday sat down in front of the fire with his wine and the Dalai Lama’s book. Penny, he knew in his heart, was rational and wise to a degree that he never would or could be. She didn’t feel rage about injustices the way he did. She just made her personal corner of the world as uplifting as possible and seemed to accept the rest as an inevitable part of the human condition. Verraday knew that Penny’s tribulations far exceeded his and continued to affect every moment of her waking life. Yet here she was, as far as he could tell, full of grace and laughter. He loved and respected his sister enough that normally, he would at least try to take her advice. But not tonight. He skimmed a few paragraphs of the Dalai Lama’s book and found it singularly unhelpful.
“Sorry, Penny,” he said as he set the book aside.
The only thing that would bring him any inner peace tonight would be to find out who had tortured and killed Rachel Friesen and Alana Carmichael and make sure the son of a bitch never had the chance to do it to anyone else.
He finished his wine and switched off the gas fireplace. The heat dissipated immediately and the chill air began to close in around him once again. Verraday went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of brandy, and headed for his study, resigned to the darkness that awaited him there.
CHAPTER 9
Verraday set his brandy and the two envelopes down on his desk. He opened his filing cabinet and pulled out the crime scene photo of Rachel Friesen that Maclean had given him the previous day. Then he sat down, reached into the center drawer, and took out the Boeing letter opener that his father, a lifelong machinist with the company, had given him as a graduation present. He slit the seals and laid the contents of the envelopes out in two separate piles, one for Rachel Friesen’s case, the other for Alana Carmichael.