The afternoon before she passed.
I glare at it with renewed understanding, the sight of my name printed across the front in Mom’s tidy handwriting weakening my knees.
This is why she mentioned Hal Fulcher’s name the night she killed herself. Not because she had been getting her affairs in order.
The hell if Hal doesn’t know what that letter is. Or at least suspect. And the somber look on his face says he strongly suspects.
He holds it out for me, but I’m frozen. There’s only one thing that envelope could hold.
Answers.
“I don’t want it,” I mutter, even though I do want it. I need it. I just don’t know if I can handle it. “What does it say?”
“She didn’t tell me to open it; she told me to hand it directly to you and to make sure you were alone when I did it.” His outstretched arm falls to rest on his desk. “Listen, I don’t hold envelopes for clients unless it’s a documented part of the will. This was a personal favor.”
“Why’d you do it, then?”
“Because your mom was the chief of police,” he says matter-of-factly, but adds in a softer tone, “and a friend.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that she’d leave this with Hal Fulcher. Mom was convinced that he was the only honest lawyer in existence—aside from Silas, of course. Plus, she’d never want such a private letter entered into evidence for all of her subordinates and colleagues—and God knows who else—to see. “Do I have to report it?”
“I’m not a criminal lawyer, so I can’t advise you on that. But . . . if this were me and my mother was the chief, and what’s in that envelope is what I think it is, then I’d consider if anyone else needs to see it. That’s not legal advice, though.”
The APD and the insurance company are convinced of suicide. The DA’s office reviewed the police report and are comfortable with the findings. The media sure as hell is. They’ve had a field day with this, everything from the somber albeit lean accounting from the respectable papers to the crude, almost barbaric retelling from the Texas Inquirer, a tabloid paper who must have stellar contacts in the department because it released details the police were trying to suppress. “Blown brains” made it into their piece. So did mention of Abe.
Would I want to submit this letter to the police, so it could end up on the front page of a newspaper? Hell no.
And it’s not like I’d be hiding crime scene evidence.
I eye the envelope, my name and the words Confidential. Open this in private scrawled across it. “What exactly did she say when she dropped it off?”
“That you’d be by to pick it up soon, and that it was important I give it directly to you. It was important that you opened it.” He stares at me for a long moment, like he can hear what I’m really asking. “There were no signs that I could see, Noah. She was her usual self. I did not see this coming.”
We didn’t see this coming. We’re so shocked. If I had a nickel . . . Of course, no one else saw Jackie Marshall at night, behind closed doors, drunk and rambling nonsensically. Only I did.
And I still didn’t see this coming.
With a shaky hand, I finally accept the envelope and turn to leave.
“Noah?” When I lift my head, he simply offers me a nod.
I leave his office quietly. There’s nothing left to say. You can offer your condolences only so many times. Three seemed to be the magic number for the majority of people, as far as my mother is concerned—once at first contact, the second time as they greeted me at her closed-casket funeral, and the third as they said their farewells at the cemetery before continuing on with their life.
It doesn’t matter how many times I hear it, though.
It’s been eight days since I leapt down the stairs at the sound of a gunshot, shampoo suds in my hair and a towel hastily wrapped around my waist, only to find my mother’s lifeless body.
That’s eight days of shaming myself for not putting her gun out of easy reach, for not forcing her upstairs to bed before taking my shower. Eight days of blaming myself for not doing something about her drinking sooner. Eight days of kicking myself for not understanding what she meant when she said that I was going to be “fine.”
“Fine” after she held a gun to her temple and pulled the trigger. That’s eight days for this festering guilt to build. Now it sits squarely on my chest, and it’s impossible to shake off, no matter how many people are “sorry for my loss.”
All that guilt coupled with a healthy dose of anger as I try to wrap my mind around how she’d go and do this. Why she’d do it. To herself.
To me.
And now I have those answers sitting between my fingertips.
Maybe.
I wait until I’m in my Cherokee before I dare look down at the envelope. I weigh my ability to handle reading my mother’s suicide letter while sitting in the parking lot of Fulcher & Associates under the shade of a blooming apple tree for a good ten minutes.
And then I set it on the passenger seat, unopened, and crank my engine.
* * *
I don’t notice the navy sedan parked on the street until I’ve pulled into the driveway and am stepping out of my SUV.
“Noah Marshall?” A blond guy in his early thirties, clad in cargo pants and a casual golf shirt, approaches me, his black-haired companion trailing close behind.
“Yes, sir.” I can tell before they’ve flashed their golden badges that they’re law enforcement, but the moment I see the eagle I grow wary. Why is the FBI here?
“I’m Special Agent Klein; my colleague is Special Agent Tareen. We have a few questions for you.”
“About?”
“Jackie Marshall.”
This is not good. I wish Silas were here.
His gaze drifts over the house. “Mind if we come inside?”
The last thing I want to be doing is answering the FBI’s questions about my mother, only steps from where she killed herself. I fold my arms across my chest, hopefully making it clear that I have no plans on inviting them into the house. “What do y’all wanna know?”
The two guys share a glance behind dark sunglasses.
“We’re sorry for your loss,” the other agent, Tareen, offers coolly. A formality, nothing more.
“Did she ever talk about work?”
“Like what?”
“Like cases, or trouble she was having with officers . . . anything like that.” Agent Klein grips a pen and notepad in his hand, poised to take notes.
“No.”
“Any internal investigations that may have left her unsettled?”
“She never talked about cases with me, internal or otherwise.” That, I can answer honestly.
“Did your mother ever mention anyone by the name of Dwayne Mantis?”
I frown. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. “No. Who is he?”
“The night she died, she spoke to you not long before. Is that correct?” Tareen asks, ignoring my question.
I clear my voice. “Yes, sir. Briefly. The police have my statement.”
“Yes. We’ve read it,” Klein says.
Unease slides down my back. If they’ve already read it, why are they asking? What does it say? Did Boyd make note of how I couldn’t stop my hands from fidgeting? That my recounting of the night seemed light, or that I seemed to be stumbling over my words?
Boyd asked me three times if I was sure she hadn’t said anything else. It was as if he knew I was lying.
I’ve been dreading the day when someone asks me about all the words hidden behind those pauses and caught in those stumbles, all the things I didn’t share.
I press my lips together and wait quietly, a trick my mother taught me when you’re in a situation you don’t want to be in. Too often, people feel the need to break awkward silences with words. You end up saying too much, showing cards you’d rather keep concealed.
Stay quiet and let the awkwardness stand. Eventually, someone will break. Don’t let it be you.
Unfortunately, these two play this game well.
The silence lingers on until I can’t handle it. “If there’s nothing else . . .” I take steps toward my door.