Nine Murder Mysteries

By Robert Trainor

The following nine full-length novels, which were published separately between 2009-2019, are included in this anthology. What follows are brief descriptions of these novels.

Blood and Blackmail: Did Justine Evans murder the man who raped and tortured her daughter? The physical evidence at the scene tends to implicate her, but her boyfriend provides the police with an interesting alibi.

The Murder of Marabeth Waters: The midnight murder of a prostitute appears to be an easy case to solve. But in this dark and satirical tale, a drunken, sex-starved detective becomes ensnared in a web of his own making.

Destroyed by Malice: Barker Drule, the world's most famous novelist, is gunned down in his driveway in this mocking tale of the modern best seller. The police are convinced that Barker was murdered by a member of his family, but was the murderer one of his two angry daughters, his drug-addicted son, or his very cranky father?

The Real Meaning of Life: Patrick Devlan, who has published a number of murder mysteries, becomes entangled in a real-life murder mystery. Neurotic and somewhat chauvinistic, Patrick skitters around on the edge of events as Nick, his best friend and roommate, is arrested and convicted of murdering his girlfriend. But it isn't really clear who murdered her, and when Nick is sentenced to death, Patrick's world begins to fall apart.

Hallucinations: A mysterious death at a party where numerous people attempt to drink themselves into oblivion leads to a tale of twisted love and broken dreams. The victim's wife is suspected of poisoning her husband, but the detective investigating the case can't work up any enthusiasm towards charging her with murder. Eventually, the solution to the crime comes from a most unusual juxtaposition of competing animosities.

The Fatality Game: A series of bizarre, almost humorous break-ins that take place in a wealthy neighborhood becomes the ominous prelude to something much more sinister. It isn't long before someone is murdered, but it is only when a second victim appears that a number of clues begin to point towards a person that no one investigating the case had ever suspected.

The Road Map to the Universe: An exceptionally devious and intricate tale begins when a husband is convicted of murdering his wife. But later, an informant convinces the police that the murder was committed by the father's son. Two trials of the son ensue and even when the jury in the second trial comes back with its verdict, the outcome is still not clear. Because, amazingly, during the polling of the jury after the verdict has been read, no less than three jurors change their verdicts. What could possibly have compelled them to do that??

The Murder of Nora Winters: On Christmas morning, Nora Winters is found shot to death in her bedroom. The previous evening, she had been talking about suicide, and since she was shot in the head at very close range, her family assumed that she took her own life. However, the police quickly discover that the gun that killed her is fifteen feet away from where her body was found. The detective investigating the case is baffled because after thoroughly examining the room where Nora Winters died, he is unable to discover any way that the murderer could have left the room. So this murder becomes a classic locked-room mystery, and the real challenge for the reader is to discover how the murderer left the room without leaving a trace.

Some Things Are Sweeter Than God: A female public defender runs into some obvious moral dilemmas when she defends a man who is accused of the brutal murder of his ex-girlfriend. However, it is an unseen moral dilemma that eventually catches up to this highly competitive lawyer and brings her world crashing down around her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Trainor
• Release date: Mar 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393409151

Robert Trainor

Over the past twelve years (since I retired at the age of 59), I've written nineteen novels, four novellas, four non-fiction books, and seven anthologies, all of which you can find in the Kindle Store. Instead of writing a biography of myself, which seems rather irrelevant, I would prefer to write a biography of my books. Here, in the order in which they were written, is a brief sketch of the plots, themes, and subject matter of these books.1/ The Voice of the Victim describes a series of murders in a small city. I've always felt a great deal of empathy for the victims of violent crimes, especially those who are murdered by guns. What, I wondered, would these people say to us if they could speak? When reading this book, it is important to remember that my intention, from first page to last page, was to present the voice of the victim. And, to me, this voice is not a straight-line accusation of weapons and murderers but tends to veer to a pervasive mockery and total indictment of modern culture. This novel is much different than anything else I have written, and there will be many who will object to what the "voice" is saying.2/ Some Things Are Sweeter than God is somewhat along the lines of a classic murder mystery but is certainly not one of those books where the conclusion is some wild revelation that no sensible reader could ever discern beforehand. The protagonist is a forty-year-old woman lawyer who, in her role as a public defender, is required to represent a man who is accused of brutally murdering his ex-girlfriend.3/ The Road Map to the Universe is a well-constructed novel--at one time, I was a tournament chess player, and this book required a great deal of planning and analysis. Essentially, it's a highly unusual murder mystery, but the perceptive reader may be able to identify a standard plot theme lurking in the background. The Road Map also examines an interesting philosophical question: In a universe of four billion galaxies, what relevance, if any, does the human being have?4/ The Great Barrington Train Wreck, a truly offbeat social commentary, includes a unique type of murder mystery and is one of my favorite novels. Although I almost never include anything from my own life experience in my books, I was, just like the protagonist in the Train Wreck, homeless for many years. So I'm familiar with the lingo and attitude that some of the homeless have. This is a catchy, captivating book where the plot seems to materialize out of thin air until it becomes the elephant in the room. Also, to my mind, this tale could describe what happens to Holden Caulfield, the anti-hero of the Catcher in the Rye, as he approaches forty. It's not all peaches and cream! Especially when he falls in love with the daughter of a millionaire, and even more especially when he ends up on death row.5/ Your Kiss Is Like the Sweetest Fire describes a teenage romance between Jaime and Renee, who were adopted at a young age into the same family. It seems illogical to me, but in almost all states, the law views a sexual relationship between adopted siblings who live in the same family as a crime of incest--exactly as if they were related by blood. So Jaime and Renee have this difficulty to contend with, and also, their mother and father are both rather repulsive characters who are totally incapable of helping them. Wait until you meet Renee--I love her.6/ Requiem for the West is partially based on an apocalyptic poem that I wrote during the 1990's. Ten thousand hours is a lot of time to spend on a seven-hundred-word poem! Requiem is also an examination of some apparently abstract themes that seem highly relevant to me: 1/ The pervasive role of explicit sexuality in our culture and the very different ways that people react to it; 2/ The often farcical, Dilbert-like nature of the modern workplace, in this case a college; and 3/ Is doomsday just around the corner? The 1960-2000 version of myself considered a nuclear apocalypse to be inevitable, but nowadays, I'm ambivalent.7/ Frontier Justice was easy to write because once Adriana Jones arrived on page 10, she took over the book, and all I had to do was keep up with her as she overpowered every obstacle that crossed her path. I hadn't intended for that to happen, but that's the way life goes sometimes. Do I agree with, support, condone, or advocate Adriana's way of doing things? Difficult questions. Adriana is my creation, so I have to take some responsibility for her, I suppose, but I look at it this way: To be true to a character, one has to let the person speak and act in a way that is appropriate to his or her personality. I just can't legislate them into political correctness! Adriana didn't just overpower the other characters in Frontier Justice--she also overpowered me. I really like this book--I wish, as a writer, I could think of more characters who are as dynamic as Adriana.8/ A Tale from the Blackwater River is a novella that is meant to be a satire on a certain kind of story that is showing up far too frequently nowadays, but on another level, it's just kind of a humorous tale that was a lot of fun to write. This book is written in the first person by a forty-two-year-old woman named Alanda Streets. I almost published it under the pen name Alanda Streets because I thought some people might say that no woman would ever write a story like A Tale from the Blackwater River, but for those who feel that way, I hope you will ask yourself this question: If the name Alanda Streets had been on the cover of the book, instead of mine, would you have felt that a woman couldn't have written it?9/ The Blackwater Journal is another Alanda Streets novel--this time, she is only sixteen. I couldn't seem to get away from Alanda--she does have a spunky survivor's attitude towards life that appeals to me. In this book, she has to call on all her resources when her evil father imprisons her in a room and tells her that she has only a week left to live. As the days pass by, the terror mounts on her own personal death row. Does Alanda escape? Maybe so, maybe no.10/ Love Letters (Soaked in Blood) is another murder mystery that has a humorous undertone, which many will probably miss. The problem with writing a murder mystery is that anything that can be thought of has already been done about a thousand times. The only original idea left would be to have the most obvious suspect turn out to be the murderer. Think of it--that's probably never been done! And so...maybe you can guess the rest.11/ The Book of the Dead is about a man who goes to his 25th reunion and meets his high school sweetheart. The two of them embark on an impulsive twenty-four hour car ride that will take them through three southern states and bring them face-to-face with death. This is a tale where the boundaries of ordinary reality are stretched out a little bit! I'll leave it to you to decide whether The Book of the Dead is a fantasy or a reality.12/ Destroyed by Malice sees the return of a character who played a minor role in The Voice of the Victim. He's the world famous novelist Barker Drule, but unfortunately, he (and his wife) exit the book on page 1 when they are gunned down in their driveway. It isn't long before detective Jeff Willard is convinced that the murderer is a member of the Drule family. Perhaps it's Lenore, the older daughter, who was, years ago, secretly raped by her father; perhaps it's the beautiful Raylene, who wrote a novel about a rape victim that her father managed to have the publishing industry blackball; perhaps it's Ricky, the cocaine-addicted son who is desperate to get his hands on his father's money; and perhaps it's Dalton Drule, Barker's irascible eighty-two-year-old father who just happens to own the gun that was used to murder his son. In the end, when the truth finally comes out, there will be very few left to tell the tale.13/ How to Write an Imaginative Novel takes you through the whole process of writing a novel and then uploading it to Kindle. Among the many things covered are: Where will you find a plot? What is the best way to find names for your characters? How important is it to punctuate your book correctly? Is there a quick way to learn punctuation and sentence structure? What is the best way to write dialogue? What kind of things should one avoid in a novel? What is the significance of the first draft and why is it so important? How does one begin a book so that it immediately commands the reader's attention? How does one revise and edit a novel? Is it possible to create the cover for your book without spending any money? How does one convert a book to the correct format so that it can be uploaded to Kindle? And finally, how does one upload a book to Kindle?14/ I Ching 2015 contains a complete translation (minus the Confucian commentaries) of this ancient Chinese classic. Also included are detailed instructions on how to consult the I Ching using either yarrow stalks, coins, or dice. (For those who have been using coins, one should be aware that a significant error has crept into the method that many people use to cast an omen. This error, which involves using either three or four similar coins will seriously affect the accuracy of the omens you receive.) Additionally, there is extensive advice on how to interpret an omen. By using the correct method of interpretation, you will be surprised at how much clearer omens become. As part of this advice, I have posed a number of questions to the I Ching and have then interpreted the omen I received. Finally, for each hexagram, as well as many of the lines in each hexagram, I have included my own observations as to the essential meaning of these hexagrams and lines.15/ Blood and Blackmail is an elegant murder mystery with an unusual plot twist that took me some time to piece together. For those readers who enjoy the challenge of solving a crime before the final chapter arrives, this novel should provide you with a truly interesting puzzle. I doubt many people, if any, are going to see the underlying deception that runs throughout this tale because...if I say anything else, I might help the reader unravel this mystery, and I certainly wouldn't want to do that!16/ Fairy Tales by Martians takes a humorous look at the theory of evolution. Science, of course, claims that the human being originated from an amoeba that eventually became a tadpole that eventually became a frog and so on and so forth. However, I just can't conceive of the fact that ten million years ago, two frogs mated in a swamp and because of that event, I eventually arrived on the scene. What kind of a genealogy chart is that? Neither does the seven-day religious version of events appeal to me, so what I'm left with is a very cynical view of both the religious and scientific theories concerning the origins of our existence.17/ The Book of Dreams repeats a very old idea that has been used in many a novel. But here, in this murder mystery, the idea is taken to another level entirely and contains a twist that not many will see coming. The clues are there, starting with the poem in the Preface.18/ The Dark Side of the Moon is a tale about an attractive high school teacher who falls in love with one of her students. However, Carolyn Black is nervous that her sexual liaison with the student will ruin her career. Eventually, she tries to break off their relationship, but when he threatens to commit suicide, Carolyn is faced with an excruciating dilemma.19/ The Murder of Nora Winters was inspired by John Dickson Carr who wrote a number of locked-room mysteries. In this type of mystery, the murder victim is found in a room that does not allow the killer any means of exit. The doors and windows are all bolted from the inside, and it's considered very poor form for the author to create a room where there are sliding walls or secret panels. The solution to the murder of Nora Winters is, I think, relatively simple, but I've woven in enough deceit and misdirection to confuse all but the most astute readers.20/ The Vanishing Victim is a tale of a psychiatrist and a troubled woman who comes to him for counseling. What she reveals to him proves to be a confession to a brutal crime, but he is unable, because of the doctor/patient privilege, from revealing this crime to anyone, including the police. But even more troubling is that the woman's confession, although it contains a number of factual inaccuracies, turns out to have a terrifying reality of its own.21/ The Fatality Game follows a series of innocuous crimes in a rich neighborhood that seem to be more pranks than anything else. But when a woman is murdered in her bed, Detective Cody Barnes realizes that there is something evil lurking under the placid veneer of swanky mansions that are inhabited by millionaires. And when Cody becomes romantically involved with one of the earlier victims, the beautiful Lucinda Kane, the case begins to take on a life of its own that will eventually lead to the deaths of three more people.22/ How to Write an Intelligent Murder Mystery describes some of the adventures I encountered while I was writing murder mysteries (of my twenty-one novels, thirteen are murder mysteries.) This is a somewhat unusual instructional book that attempts to relate the problems encountered in the writing of a murder mystery to the more general problem of writing fiction in today's market where any new novel is almost instantaneously buried under an avalanche of new novels.23/ The Real Meaning of Life is definitely one of my favorite books. It's written in the first person by Patrick Devlan, a twenty-seven-year-old guy who writes murder mysteries. But his father, who is dying of pancreatic cancer, wants Patrick to write something that will take his readers to a "better place." Patrick decides to follow his father's advice, but a few days later, his roommate's pregnant girlfriend is murdered, and Patrick becomes entangled in a real-life murder mystery. Eventually, after his roommate is convicted of the crime and sent to death row, Patrick is faced with a dilemma that will lead him to the discovery of the real meaning of life.24/ Flight 9525 is a non-fiction book that attempts to answer the question as to why there is so much suffering in the world. For the most part, this book bypasses the usual political, psychological, and social reasons for suffering and examines the following: If God is real, then why do human beings suffer? Why would an all-merciful, all-loving, and all-powerful Being permit its creations to suffer? The usual explanations, such as the hypothesis that God granted man free will, don't answer the question at all. In fact, this is a question that's never been answered satisfactorily.25/ The Scriptwriter is the tale of a man who becomes entangled with three different women. There's the incredibly beautiful woman, the incredibly rich woman, and the incredibly homeless woman. Which one will he choose? Events, mishaps, and character flaws lead him to an interesting decision.26/ The Murder of Marabeth Waters contains a considerable amount of subtle black humor and describes the investigation that ensues after a prostitute is found strangled to death. Detective Devin Driver is quickly able to focus on a suspect; not only did this man send a threatening note to Marabeth, but also, her blood is found in his car. As it turns out, the real murderer lurks elsewhere, and unfortunately, Devin isn't a particularly perceptive detective, so it isn't surprising when the wrong person is convicted of the crime. However, even if Devin had been Sherlock Holmes on steroids, he undoubtedly wouldn't have solved this murder.27/ The Trial of Shada King--a district attorney in Hartford, Connecticut, is charged with manslaughter in the shooting death of the man who had raped her ten days before the shooting. Shada claims that she acted in self-defense, and since she was wearing a recording device at the time of the shooting, her claim of self-defense seems to be valid. But why was she wearing the recording device? The prosecuting attorney is convinced the crime scene was an elaborate stage production that was intended to deceive those who would be listening to the tape and that the victim was murdered in retaliation for the rape.28-34/ Finally, I have seven anthologies on Kindle that combine complete versions of many of the books listed above: Four Novels, 5 Novels, Four Murder Mysteries, The Blackwater Novels, Dark Tales, Six Novels, and Five Murder Mysteries. The purpose of the anthologies is that it gives the reader a chance to buy, for instance, five novels of mine at the rock-bottom price of $2.99.I spend a great deal of time revising my books. After finishing the first draft, I go through the book at least eight more times--first page to last page. Each journey through the book is slow and painstaking--no less than three hours and no more than thirty-five pages a day. From my experience, the kind of errors that pop up on some of the later readings can be rather surprising, if not downright alarming! I particularly look for inaccurate punctuation, lackluster sentence structure, and inaccurate or repetitive vocabulary. I also do not permit confusing sentences to stand--I can't imagine that any reader will want to read a sentence twice because I couldn't find a way to explain myself clearly.Finally, I would ask you all to keep an open mind about novels by an author who has no brand name. I am quite unusual because I do not advertise myself in any way, shape, or form (outside, I guess, of this little biography). My books are well-written, entertaining, and thought provoking, but they are often truly original, and I worry about the page-six syndrome. That's the point where some readers abandon a book by an unknown author because of a single sentence, idea, or attitude that seems amateurish to them. Have faith that there are some genuine diamonds in the Kindle arena and have faith that your instinct to buy one of my books was a good instinct. If you read any of my books to the finish, I think you'll feel that your time was not wasted because these novels are not cheap imitations--they are real creations.

Book preview

Nine Murder Mysteries

Robert Trainor

Published by Robert Trainor, 2021.

Also by Robert Trainor

6 Courtroom Dramas

Six Novels

Six Imaginative Novels

Flight 9525

Six Deadly Dramas

Blood and Blackmail

Nine Murder Mysteries

Seven Novels of Murder and Madness

Crimes From the Heart

Justifiable Homicide

The Black Swan

The Book of the Dead

The Great Barrington Train Wreck

How to Write an Imaginative Novel

The Trial of Eugene Bishop

The Trial of Shada King

Four Murder Mysteries

The Road Map to the Universe

The Blackwater Journal

The Voice of the Victim

Four Novels

Midnight on Death Row

Your Kiss Is Like the Sweetest Fire

The Blackwater Novels

Dark Tales

The Real Meaning of Life

Annabel Poe

Five Murder Mysteries

Hallucinations

How to Write an Intelligent Murder Mystery

A Tale from the Blackwater River

Destroyed by Malice

Four Courtroom Dramas

Requiem for the West

The Dark Side of the Moon

Eight Novels

The Scriptwriter

Some Things Are Sweeter than God

The Book of Dreams

The Fatality Game

The Murder of Marabeth Waters

Frontier Justice

Presumed Dead

The Future Memoirs of a Zone Nine Zombie

The Murder of Nora Winters

Fairy Tales by Martians

The Book of Lost Souls

The Vanishing Victim

Love Letters (Soaked in Blood)

The Great Path to Nowhere

I Ching 2022

NINE MURDER MYSTERIES

COPYRIGHT 2017

BY ROBERT TRAINOR

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Blood and Blackmail

The Murder of Marabeth Waters

Destroyed by Malice

The Real Meaning of Life

Hallucinations

The Fatality Game

The Road Map to the Universe

The Murder of Nora Winters

Some Things Are Sweeter Than God

Blood and Blackmail

Copyright 2015

By Robert Trainor

PREFACE

People find it very difficult to analyze something that is equal parts genius and equal parts fool.

She’s such an odd person—part lunatic, part master manipulator, part court jester, and above all, a superb actress. 

PART ONE: THE BYSTANDER

CHAPTER ONE

I’ll always remember that day, the day I met Justine. Recently divorced, I had begun walking along the beach in an aimless, depressed way. It was the first week of April, so the temperature was only in the fifties, and on most days, the wind blew onto the shore in strong gusts that caused the waves to be as high as seven or eight feet.

Around noon on a dreary and chilly Saturday morning, I was about to turn around and head for home when I saw a figure ahead of me who was sitting in the sand about twenty feet from the edge of the water. I couldn’t be positive, but I thought the person was a woman—all I could see was her head because the rest of her body was shrouded in a large brown blanket that was completely wrapped around her body.

Curious, I kept walking until I was only a few feet from her. By now, she had noticed me, and as our eyes met, I could see that tears were streaming down her face. I hesitated and then stopped, not knowing what to do. Would I be interfering if I went up to her? She had probably come down to the beach to be alone, so I might be an unwelcome presence. 

Moved by her grief, I took one step towards her, and at the same moment, she held out her hand towards me, palm up. Walking over, I sat down next to her, and after drawing the blanket tightly around her, she leaned her head on my shoulder and began to sob. I say sob but that’s only because I can’t find a better word to describe the intensity of the anguish that this woman was expressing. All I could think of was that one of her children must have died.

Five minutes went by. Finally, she took her head off my shoulder, looked at me, and said, Would you mind walking me back to my car? It’s not far from here. She stood up, and as we began walking away from the beach, she reached out and took my hand in hers. There was nothing romantic in her grip—it was, I imagined, the way that a person at a funeral might hold the hand of someone while the casket was being lowered into the ground.

When we reached her car, she said, Do you need a ride somewhere? I lived within walking distance, but I was interested in this woman and wanted to find out what was causing her so much grief.

We sat down in the front seat, and she took the blanket that was still wrapped around her, and after disentangling herself from it, she threw it in the back seat. What’s your name? I said.

Justine, Justine Evans.

Justine had auburn hair, blue eyes, and was wearing a stylish black leather jacket over a long dress that was covered with a rose-based flower pattern. Everything about her gave off a sense of elegance, good taste, and at least moderate wealth. What happened? I said. What’s the matter?

After a very long pause, she said, It’s not something that I feel comfortable talking about. Whereabouts do you live?

I gave her directions to my house, and we drove there in silence. She had stopped crying before we left the beach, but I noticed that her hands were shaking as she gripped the steering wheel. I’m sorry to have troubled you, she said, as she pulled to a stop in front of where I lived. Casually, she peered past me so that she could see my house. Nice place. Do you have a family?

I used to, but about six months ago my wife moved out, and now that we’re divorced, I only see my two kids every other weekend.

She seemed to be hesitating. Justine, I said, why don’t you come inside and tell me what happened to you? Maybe I can help, but even if I can’t, you look like somebody who needs a friend or at least somebody to talk to.

It was odd that you appeared on the beach just then. At first, I was terrified because I thought you might be Trent.

Who’s Trent?

I’d rather not drag you into this—that’s why I’ve never asked you your name.

It didn’t seem right to let her drive off without knowing more about what was troubling her. Justine, let me help you.

No, it wouldn’t be right. Listen, I have to be going—thanks for letting me cry on your shoulder.

I got out of the car, but before I walked away, I leaned in through the window and said, If you change your mind, you know where I live. Don’t be afraid to ask for help, OK?

She nodded her head to show that she had heard me, and then she drove away.

Around seven o’clock that evening, Justine appeared at my door with a young woman who was probably fifteen or sixteen.

I’m sorry to bother you, said Justine, but can my daughter and I come in to talk to you for a few minutes?

I led them into a large room that had three stuffed chairs and a couch. Justine and her daughter sat on the couch, while I sat across from them.

This is my daughter Memphis, said Justine. Memphis was dressed entirely in blue—blue jeans, a dark blue sweatshirt, and a blue jean jacket.

And my name is Jesse Barnett, I said.

Jesse, said Justine, I’m not sure how much to tell you about our predicament.

Mom, said Memphis, why are you acting so ashamed about this? Anybody listening to you would think that this was all your fault.

It’s just that I don’t like to impose on someone who is really a total stranger.

Memphis looked at me and said, My Mom has a lot of hang-ups.

Justine sighed. Jesse, I don’t know who else to turn to right now—otherwise, I wouldn’t be here. What happened is that this morning, I found out that my husband, who is Memphis’s stepfather, raped her. That’s why you found me crying on the beach—you happened to come upon me less than an hour after I confronted Trent.

Have you been to the police station yet? I said.

Jesse, I can’t do that because Trent has threatened to kill Memphis if she tells anyone about what he’s done to her.

But if you don’t tell the police about this, I said, then he’ll never be punished for what he did to her. When did this happen?

It was about a week ago while I was away on a business trip, said Justine. Memphis was so frightened by his threats that she only told me about it this morning.

The longer you delay going to the police, the more difficult it will be for you.

Probably so, said Justine, but before that can happen, I need to make sure that Trent won’t be able to find Memphis. He and I move in the same circles and have many of the same acquaintances, so Memphis has to stay at a place where he would never consider looking for her.

Mr. Barnett, said Memphis, I really couldn’t handle talking to the police about this right now. Maybe later, but only if I was really sure that my stepfather wouldn’t be able to harm me.

Although I believed what Justine and Memphis were telling me, I couldn’t help but be nervous about being caught in a situation like this. Lurking in the back of my mind was the fear that Trent might become violent to the man who was harboring his stepdaughter. If he was making death threats towards Memphis, then what was I supposed to do if he suddenly appeared on my doorstep? So you’d like Memphis to stay here? I said to Justine, in a doubtful tone.

Just for a couple of days until I can settle some things. I wouldn’t leave her here alone—she and I will sleep in the same bedroom. I know it’s a lot to ask of somebody, but it won’t be for long.

Don’t you think it would be better to talk to the police about this and see what they have to say? Based on what you’ve told me, I would think that they’d arrest Trent.

Jesse, it’s OK if you don’t want to help us, but I can’t go to the police until I’ve made some kind of permanent arrangement for Memphis. She won’t be safe until I can do that because even if Trent were to be arrested, that doesn’t mean he’ll be put in jail. He has way more money than he knows what to do with, and it would be no problem for him to come up with the bail money.

And you’re really afraid that he might try to harm Memphis?

I have no idea what he’s capable of, said Justine, but I’m not about to take any chances. What I’m planning on doing is sending Memphis to where my aunt lives, but it’s going to take me a couple of days to arrange that because she’s vacationing in Mexico with her husband. 

Mr. Barnett, said Memphis, you don’t know what my stepfather is capable of. I always told my mother that I didn’t trust him. If you’re worried about me staying here, I promise you that I won’t cause any trouble. I’m really frightened of my stepfather—the night before last, I had this awful nightmare where he was trying to strangle me.

I wasn’t about to turn a mother and her daughter out into the street, so I agreed to let them stay. Within minutes, they had brought two suitcases in from Justine’s car, and I set them up in one of my extra bedrooms. I offered to let them each have a bedroom, but Justine said no. I’ll feel safer if Memphis and I are sleeping in the same room, she told me.

The next morning was Sunday, and since Justine and I didn’t have to go to work, the three of us ate breakfast together. After some idle chit chat, Memphis went back to the room she and her mother were sharing. After pouring herself a second cup of coffee, Justine said, Tell me a little bit about yourself, Jesse. What do you do for a living?

I’m a sales manager for a local computer firm. What do you do?

I’m a case worker for the state. We deal with troubled families and kids who usually come from broken homes. And now, here I am! A refugee from a broken home.

How long have you lived with Trent?

I met him about three years ago, and Memphis and I moved into his house after I’d known him for a couple of months. He’s a free-lance photographer who sells his photos to the highest bidder, but most of his money comes from contract work that he does for a number of local newspapers around here.

You were married to someone else before you met Trent?

Yes, and I never should have left him. But Alex never wanted to do anything, like go out for a night on the town, so all we ever did was sit around the house and watch TV. I met Trent on one of my business trips to Richmond—I’m the one they usually send to the state capital to justify our expenses and beg for more money.

Did this thing with Memphis just come out of the blue? Were there any warning signs?

Not really. Everything seemed normal until yesterday. But after Trent left to have his car inspected, Memphis came into our bedroom and told me that he had raped her about a week before and had also threatened to kill her if she told anyone.

Justine, I’m just playing devil’s advocate here. It’s now over a week since Memphis was raped. What evidence will you have when you go to the police—other than Memphis’s word? Did she save anything like a torn dress?

No, unfortunately, there’s no real proof that he did this.

That means it will just be his word against hers.

I suppose so, said Justine.

From what I know of the law, that isn’t going to get you very far.

Yes, I realize that could be a problem, so I’m going to talk to a lawyer. Speaking of crimes, it’s a real crime that because I’m trying to protect my daughter, Trent might never be brought to trial.

CHAPTER TWO

Three days later, on Wednesday, Justine drove Memphis to her great aunt’s house in Essex, which was about thirty-five miles away. That night, Justine and I ate dinner together—I bought the food and wine, and she did the cooking.

When do you see your two kids again? she asked me.

This coming weekend—I pick them up after school on Friday afternoon and drop them off at school on Monday morning.

I guess I should leave by then, said Justine.

Do you have a place to stay?

No, not really, but I can always get a motel room until I find an apartment somewhere.

Justine, you don’t have to leave just because my kids are coming. We can make up the room on the other side of the dining room into a bedroom—that way, my two kids can sleep in their old bedrooms.

What about your ex-wife? How would she feel about it?

She’s already found another man.

And how would you feel about it? Maybe you’d like to have your space back. Aren’t you dating someone? It’s hard for me to imagine a handsome guy like you living alone for very long.

No, I haven’t dated anyone since my wife left.

If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?

I found out she’d been having an affair with a guy who was ten years younger than her.

It’s so tragic when a relationship turns sour, said Justine. My first husband was actually a very decent guy. We just gradually drifted apart because we became so bored with each other. Boring. So boring. Sometimes, I think there’s a real streak of wanderlust in me.

Did you ever have any trouble with Trent before?

Not as far as Memphis goes—that whole thing was like a bolt out of the blue. But I always suspected that he might be seeing someone else. That job he has as a photographer requires him to go to all sorts of places at all times of the night, so who knows what he was really doing. Plus, he was always making these three-day trips to Hollywood. I never discovered anything definite that I could confront him with, but I always had my suspicions.

It’s tough when people fool around behind your back, I said. They don’t have much choice but to lie about it, and there’s hardly a person alive who likes to be lied to.

Tell me, Jesse, what would you have done if you were Memphis’s father? Would you have gone to the police?

I think I would have.

Justine swirled the wine around in her glass and said, On TV, the evil ones always meet their comeuppance, but it doesn’t always work out that way in real life. He really did threaten Memphis’s life, Jesse, and that’s what makes me so reluctant to do anything.

So what are you going to do?

It’s not like I have a lot of options, Jesse. Like you said, it’s kind of a he-said, she-said thing, and I doubt there’s much that can be done after so much time has passed. Why do you think I was carrying on and weeping so much on the beach?

Justine! You just can’t let him walk away from this. It’s wrong!

Jesse, you may not be as familiar as I am with the criminal justice system and what they do to offenders nowadays. I deal with this on a daily basis because of my job, and it isn’t like the old days where people have to face some real punishments. What usually happens now is that the defense lawyer and the prosecutor cut a deal and a lot of people who should be sent to jail are allowed to walk.

So you’re just going to do nothing? 

There’s not all that much I can do. Trent’s loaded with money, and he’d be able to hire some fancy lawyer who would be sure to point out that there’s no proof a rape occurred. Maybe it would soothe my conscience if Trent was dragged into the police station, but I don’t think it would help Memphis any, and if Trent were to ever harm her, I would never be able to forgive myself. Meanwhile, Memphis is all for forgetting about it—the only thing that she really wants is to never see him again, and that’s something I can do for her. My aunt and her husband have plenty of money, so if Memphis stays with them, she’ll be well taken care of.

Does Trent know where your aunt lives?

No, thank God—all he knows is that she lives somewhere in Virginia.

He doesn’t know her last name?

No, Trent has never shown any interest in my family.

You are going to divorce him, aren’t you?

Of course—this afternoon, I talked to a lawyer about it. I doubt that Trent will offer much opposition—not with the sword that he at least thinks is hanging over his head. If anything, I bet he’ll be delighted to get rid of us, and since money isn’t a problem for him, I’m not really expecting much trouble as far as the financial settlement goes.

It bothers me the way that this is turning out.

It bothers me, too, said Justine. Anyways, what do you say about taking a walk with me along the beach tomorrow evening after I come back from work? I’d love to get away from all this for at least an hour or so. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, but I thought you might enjoy it. A change of scenery might do us both a lot of good.

We arrived at the beach around six, and Justine practically leaped out of the car and began striding up a sandy dune that lay between us and the beach. Hers was a beauty that grew on you. When I first met her, I thought she was attractive enough, but in a kind of plain way, if that makes any sense. She certainly didn’t go out of her way to glamorize herself, and in the six days since we had met, she had never worn anything but long old-fashioned dresses that had muted but elegant prints. The dresses were rather loose, or certainly not tight fitting, and gave no real clue as to her figure except that she wasn’t overweight. Her auburn hair fell in a gentle wave to her shoulders, and she had a lovely smile that accentuated her natural charm. Even though Justine didn’t present herself in a sexual way—she seemed more like a chaste librarian than anything else—I had begun to feel sexually attracted to her, especially since she seemed to trust me. For her to be living in my house simply because of a chance meeting on the beach seemed like enough evidence of trust to me, and I had long since passed the point about being nervous because a total stranger was living down the hall from me.

When we reached the edge of the water, Justine turned to the right and began to walk along the beach. She was still walking quite rapidly, and I decided to walk at my normal speed and let her pull ahead. Maybe she wanted to be alone, and besides, a strong wind was coming in from the Atlantic that caused the waves to come down with a crash that would have made any conversation between us almost impossible. Eventually, after walking for almost a mile and pulling way ahead of me, Justine turned around and began walking back towards me. When, we met, she laughed and said, Going my way? I turned around, and as I started walking with her, she took hold of my hand and held it in a light and playful way.

We were still holding hands when we turned from the beach and started back to my car. Sometimes, Jesse, she said, I think of you as my pal. You know, like when we were ten years old and didn’t have all these weighty problems that grownups face. It’s so horrible in a way. Here I am, thirty-seven, divorced, and my second husband raped my daughter and then threatened to murder her if she told anyone. I used to walk along this beach all the time when I was ten, and nothing could ever have prepared me for this. She paused for a few seconds and then said, I always looked through the world with rose-colored glasses when I was young. Let’s sit here for a couple of minutes—OK?

We sat on a small wooden bench that was near the edge of the parking lot—we were far enough back from the beach that the noise of the waves came to us as a pleasant backdrop to our conversation. What were you like when you were ten years old? she said to me.

Mostly, I just played sports with the other kids in the neighborhood. There was a large field near my parents’ house that we could use—it even had a basketball court.

It was so much better back then, said Justine. Once the hormones start to kick in, it becomes very confusing, almost traumatic. No more innocence, no more fun. For me, it was just a lot of arguments with my parents, along with one breakup after another with a long succession of boyfriends. I was so much different then than I am now. I probably shouldn’t admit to it, but I lost my virginity when I was sixteen, and it wasn’t until I was twenty-one that I began to calm down sexually. During my college days, I was practically a tramp, but eventually, after a lot of failed relationships, I decided that I had to settle on one guy, and I chose Alex. He was really a great help to me, at least at the beginning of our relationship.

Do you still see him much?

No, the last time I saw him was two years ago. It was the night before he moved to New York. He never really recovered from my leaving him—maybe he has by now, but not back then. For a while, I had a guilty conscience about it because he was always so considerate to me, and I know what he must have thought of Trent, who was a lot more flash and fire than substance. And now that this horrible thing with Memphis has come along, it’s made me feel like God is punishing me for the choice that I made.

You believe in God?

Justine laughed. No, not really. I just use the word God to describe what’s beyond my comprehension. Much as I might like to be, I’m not Miss Goody Two Shoes. I’ve done a lot of things in my life that have been based on what I would now call unreasonable passion. Act in haste, repent in leisure is practically the motto of my life. I’m just so impulsive sometimes! Trent is certainly a good example of that. How about you? Any regrets?

Not particularly—not in the sense that you’re using that word. I certainly regret that my marriage broke up, but it wasn’t because of anything I did.

Justine turned to look at me, and there was a captivating smile on her face. Ah! she said. The innocent one. But if your wife left you to have an affair, then you must have done something to displease her. Come on, Jesse. Fess up.

I guess I could have paid more attention to her—maybe I was too preoccupied with myself.

Aren’t we all? said Justine.

We sat there in silence for another couple of minutes and listened to the sound of the waves—so rhythmic, so reassuring. Finally, when the wind began to pick up and started to blow sand into our faces, we headed back to my house.

After we ate dinner, we sat in my living room. Do you have any candles? said Justine.

Not that I know of.

I think I may have brought one when I left Trent’s house. Let me go check—I’ll be right back.

Justine returned with a large circular candle that was about eight inches high and three inches across. After she lit it, she said, Do you mind if I turn the lights out? Candles help me relax, but they don’t work all that well if there are electric lights on.

Sure, I said. Are we going to have a séance?

Not quite, said Justine. She turned out the lights and sat down next to me on the couch, and we both stared at the candle for a couple of minutes. I’d never done anything like this before, and I could feel myself sinking into a pleasant, peaceful state of mind as I watched the flame burn brightly in front of me.

Softly, she said, You and I are like relationship victims. Justine wasn’t looking at me but was staring at the candle.

I guess that’s true, I said.

Fire is so beautiful...but it can burn—it can really burn. She turned towards me while I continued to stare at the candle. Do you desire me? she said.

The unspoken thing that had been lurking between us for the last few hours was suddenly out in the open, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. Nobody has ever asked me a question like that, I said. 

In a serious tone, Justine said, I kind of believe in coincidences and chance encounters. There I was, weeping on the beach, and from out of nowhere, you came along. It was just so strange for you to appear at that moment. At first, I tried to push you away, but the more I thought about it, the more I felt that our meeting was meant to be...so that’s why I arrived a few hours later with Memphis.

I turned my gaze from the candle, and our eyes met. I suppose it’s the same for me, I said. I’ve been feeling depressed since the end of my marriage—that’s why I was walking along the beach that morning.

Because that helps you to deal with the grief?

Yes—the sound of the waves and the wind are very soothing. I always feel better about myself after I leave the ocean.

Justine turned her gaze back to the candle and didn’t say anything for a minute or so. Finally, she said, If we put aside all the drama and pain that occurred with the rape of my daughter...if we go beyond that, even for just a little while, then our meeting...I’m just trying to figure out the whole thing. Is it that we just met so that Memphis and I could have a little shelter from the storm? Is that all it’s going to be? Is that all it should be?

I haven’t thought about it that much, Justine. I think I’ve kind of repressed any feelings I have for you because I understand your situation and where you’re coming from.

I’ve noticed that as I get older, I become more cautious, said Justine. And you’re probably hesitating because you’ve only just met me, and the first thing I did after I met you was to barge into your house and take over a room with my daughter. Justine laughed in a friendly way. That could be considered by many to be a red flag.

You’ve been here long enough to know that I trust you.

What would we do if we were both seventeen years old? said Justine.

The conversation would be a lot different—that’s for sure.

I’m not sure there would be any conversation, Jesse. You know what I mean?

Like the conversation would be with our hands and our lips?

Turning towards me and looking me in the eye, Justine said, I think I’ve become afraid of my own impulses because I’ve been burned so many times by them, but that’s not really a good way to live. Who wants to second-guess themselves all the time?

Maybe we’re just both afraid of committing ourselves to another person.

Especially on such short notice, said Justine. But I sense this is the moment, Jesse. Either we cross the line now, or we’ll never cross it—that’s just the way these things go sometimes. If we don’t seize the opportunity now—I mean tonight—then there may not be another opportunity. Life might interfere somehow, or the desire might quickly fade. You’re welcome to go to bed alone tonight, but what if I were to sleep with you? I’d like to, but only if you’d like me to.

I took her hand in mine and said, There’s your answer.

OK—why don’t you get into bed, and I’ll meet you there shortly. Please turn out the light because I’m shy about my body and don’t like to be gawked at. If all goes well, you’ll get to know my body well enough.

I turned to look at her, but just as I did, she blew out the candle, and we were left in total darkness. Go ahead, Jesse—we’ll meet in your bedroom for a lover’s rendezvous.

The next morning, we both called in sick to our respective employers. We were suffering from rapture upon rapture, even eternal vows of love, and didn’t leave the bedroom until noon. Everything had, of course, changed. We were no longer like two people trying to converse across a wide and noisy chasm, but suddenly, as if by magic, we seemed to be able to anticipate what the other would say. In less than a day, we had gone from having a distant, somewhat odd relationship to lovers who were on their honeymoon.

Later, after lunch, we drove down to the beach. It was, for once, warm and pleasant, and only a mild wind was coming off the ocean, so we were able to spend most of the afternoon there as we strolled around and danced with the incoming waves. Undoubtedly, the best day of my life. 

CHAPTER THREE

It’s difficult to talk about the beginning of a love affair without becoming trite and using a lot of overworked superlatives. The best I can describe it is that it was like heaven on earth for me, a kind of dream where I floated around in an intoxication that had no hangover. I’d never felt anything similar to this with my ex-wife, nothing like it at all. Sure, there had been moments of closeness and ecstasy but nothing similar to this.

I lived in a kind of constant adoration of Justine. She was, once we passed through the sexual barrier, so warm and open and giving. It didn’t take me long at all to realize that beneath the long dresses and demure way that she presented herself to the world, there was a woman of real passion and physical ardor. Maybe it was all infatuation on my part, but it was the sweetest infatuation I had ever experienced.

A week after we started sleeping together, Justine went to stay with Memphis for a couple of days. She left after work on Wednesday and was planning on coming back around noon on Saturday, but around one o’clock, she called and said that she wouldn’t be arriving until five or six. When she finally walked in around seven, she seemed distracted and upset. What’s the matter?" I said to her.

It’s just...it’s a lot of things, Jesse. To begin with, I had a terrible time sleeping at that place. My aunt’s husband likes to stay up until midnight watching TV, and since he’s hard of hearing, the sound is really loud. And then the bedroom they put me in was only about ten feet from the TV. But the worst part was this whole other thing that happened with Memphis—that’s why I was so late getting back.

What other thing? I said.

Abruptly, Justine started to cry, but as I looked at her, I could sense a great deal of anger. After wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her dress, she said, Trent didn’t just rape Memphis and threaten her life—he did something else. It’s just so awful, so perverted, so disgusting. We were sitting on the couch in my living room, and I moved as close as I could to her and put my arm around her. As she continued to weep on my shoulder, it felt very similar to the day when we had first met.

It was another two or three minutes before she could speak. Finally, she took her head off my shoulder and said, He...Trent—he took some photographs of Memphis.

Photographs?

Yes...this was after he raped her, just after. Memphis told me about it last night...what she said was that after he raped her, he made her pose for a number of sexually explicit photos. I don’t just mean that she was totally naked—it was much worse than that.

How did he get her to do that? I said.

This is just—I can’t imagine anything more evil than this, said Justine. What he did was he tied a nylon stocking around her neck and pulled on it until she couldn’t breathe.

Man, I said, somebody has got to do something to this guy.

I’ve been thinking about it all day, Jesse, and I’ve come up with something. It isn’t much, but it’s something.

What is it? I said.

"I might need your help, Jesse. No matter what, I have to get my hands on those photos. There’s no telling what Trent might do with them. I want those photos! And I don’t want anyone else to see them—not the police, not anybody."

But, Justine, if you showed those photos to someone in law enforcement, they would go a long way towards proving that Trent raped Memphis, and at the very least, they would show that he sexually abused her.

Justine thought about this for some seconds. OK, I guess that makes sense...but I just can’t imagine letting anyone else look at photos of my daughter in that condition.

I understand how you feel, Justine. So how can I help?

Those photos are like blackmail, Jesse. A permanent, never-ending blackmail because I don’t want my daughter to ever be subjected to having nude pictures of her posted on the internet or sent to her employer. Maybe you think I’m being paranoid, but on the day when I confronted Trent about what he had done to Memphis, he threatened to send some nude photographs he had taken of me a couple of years ago to the agency where I work. Now I know exactly what Trent meant when he said, ‘There are a lot of things that I can do to Memphis.’ Anyways, I talked to Trent before I found out about the photos, and he said that he was leaving town on Saturday morning—this morning—to go to California for a few days. That means there’s nobody in the house right now, and if we go over there tonight and search through the place, we might be able to find the photos.

You still have the key?

He told me that he had changed the locks, but we shouldn’t have any problem getting into the house because there’s a window in a small room next to the kitchen that is always unlocked—at least it was when I lived there. The reason I know about the window is because I kept it unlocked in case I misplaced my front door key.

You’re sure that he won’t be home?

No, he won’t be home—when we talked, I asked him if I could come over to pick up some of my things on Saturday, and he said that I wouldn’t be able to do that because he was leaving at 7 A.M.

I don’t know...it seems a little risky to break into a person’s house at night, even if he isn’t going to be there.

I won’t be breaking in, Jesse—it’s still my house because Trent and I are not even officially separated, much less divorced. But I’d really like you to come with me because I could use some help looking for the photos. They’re probably in the room where he keeps his two computers, and there are hundreds of places in that room where he could have stashed them. I just...I don’t know how to explain it, but I don’t want to be alone for hours upon hours in that house because every time I hear a noise, I’ll jump about a foot.

This seems so out of character for you, Justine.

"I’m not doing this for myself—I’m doing this to protect Memphis. I want those photos!"

I’d feel really uncomfortable going into Trent’s house, Justine.

It’s also, at least for the time being, my house, and I have a right to bring you into that house.

Does Trent own a gun?

He does, but he keeps it upstairs in a dresser in the bedroom. Look, here’s what we can do. Once we’re inside, I’ll go upstairs and make sure that Trent isn’t there. He’s not going to be there—I’m sure of it. There are no burglar alarms or anything like that, so this should be real simple and fairly quick—I think if we both search for the photos, it shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. I know it’s kind of a strange request, but I sure would appreciate your company.

OK, I said, with great reluctance. But if we find those photos, you should take them to the police. It would be crazy to destroy them, Justine. They’re positive proof that Memphis is telling the truth.

Jesse—can we not argue about this right now? Let’s just find the photos, and then we can decide what to do with them.

What time do you want to do this? I said.

I think we should wait until around two-thirty or three in the morning.

Three? Why so late? I said.

Just so we won’t be seen. I certainly don’t want to advertise that I’m going inside the house because if Trent finds out, it will only make life more difficult and dangerous for Memphis and me.

Even so, what if someone sees us going into the house?

Justine laughed. Jesse, this really isn’t what you’re making it out to be. It’s not like we’re the CIA and are trying to sneak into some foreign country where we’ll be executed if we’re caught. We’re going into my house! You’re a friend of mine, and I have a right to bring you into my house. My driver’s license and all my identification have Trent’s address on it. I even have a right to search for the photos—the only reason we’re being so secretive about this is that I don’t want Trent to discover that we’ve been there. That way, the photos will be like an ace in my hand that he doesn’t know about. He’ll think he’s the one holding the ace, but it will turn out that all he’s holding is a mirage.

Before we left around two-thirty in the morning, Justine brought out a pair of black gloves from her room. You should wear a pair also, Jesse. I really don’t want Trent to find out that we’re doing this.

What? He’s going to fingerprint the whole house after he comes back from California?

I don’t know, Jesse—I’m just being extra cautious. Maybe, when Trent gets back, he’ll figure out that someone broke into the house, and he’ll have the police investigate. Listen—I’m not going to leave any stone unturned when I look for the photos, so a few things might get displaced or knocked over or something. That’s why I think it might be a good idea to wear gloves.

Despite Justine’s assurances that Trent wouldn’t be home, I was very nervous about the whole thing. I kept imagining that the two of us would be rummaging around in Trent’s computer room when he would come bursting into the room with his gun. He’d undoubtedly be enraged that we were prowling around his house, and if he shot the two of us, he’d be well within his rights as long as he claimed that he hadn’t recognized Justine. As for me, I was fair game—with or without an explanation from Trent. But even though I wanted to back out of the whole thing, my attachment and love for Justine was too strong, and where she led, I felt bound to follow. 

Armed with a single flashlight, we left my house and drove the seven miles to Trent’s house. It was a cool, windy night, and the racing clouds often covered up the moon, which was about half full. We were using Justine’s car, and we parked across the street and one house down from Trent’s. For someone who was so confident that Trent was in California, I couldn’t help but wonder why Justine was acting like we were in a spy movie. She opened the driver’s side door slowly and cautiously, and when she closed it, she left it open about a half inch, so there would be no sound of the door closing. As soon as we were both outside the car, she put her index finger over her lips to indicate that we shouldn’t say anything—not that I was inclined to.

By the right side of Trent’s house, there was a stone path that led away from the street, went to the side of the garage, and then curled around to the back side of the house. Fortunately, there was a row of small pine trees that ran between the stone path and the neighboring house, so it wasn’t likely that anyone would see us from that direction. There was enough light coming from Justine’s flashlight so I was able to see where we were going, and I followed her down the stone path.

It was so quiet, ghostly quiet. To me, our footsteps sounded like the footsteps of baby elephants as we passed the side of the house and followed the stone path to the back door. Behind Trent’s house, there appeared to be a field and beyond that, I could see streetlights but they were a long ways away. Justine ran the beam from the flashlight from the back door to a window that was about six feet to the right of it. Walking over, she pushed the window up, and since the sill was quite low, maybe only three feet off the ground, she was able to enter the house without any difficulty. I followed her inside, and after the two of us passed out of a small utility room, we entered the kitchen. Justine walked over and turned on a small light that was over the stove. Wait right here, she said. I’ll go upstairs and make sure that he’s gone.

She left the kitchen, walked towards the front of the house, and in a few seconds, I could hear her climbing the stairs. She was going slowly, but just like in the movies, some of the stairs would creak, and I was really getting a case of the jitters as I stood there like an orphan waiting for my adopted mother to return. After what seemed a long time but was maybe only a half-minute, I guessed that Justine had reached the top of the stairs. I can’t say with any real accuracy how much time passed after that—maybe three quarters of a minute, maybe a minute, maybe a little over a minute. Suddenly, there was the sound of a thump as if a big book had fallen off a dresser. This was followed by a few seconds of silence, and then I heard someone, hopefully Justine, walking rapidly down the upstairs hallway. Seconds later, the person began to descend the stairs—by the sound of the footsteps, I was almost certain that it was Justine, and moments later, I could see her as she turned back towards the kitchen after reaching the bottom of the stairs.

Without saying anything to me, she walked by me, sat down in a kitchen chair, and after putting her head in her hands, she burst into tears. Completely puzzled, I walked over to the doorway in the kitchen that led to the front of the house to see if I could hear anything from upstairs. Don’t go up there! said Justine, who was still sobbing. Returning to her, I put my hand on her shoulder and said, What’s wrong, Justine?

She looked up at me with her tear-stained face and said, He’s dead.

Who’s dead? What are you talking about?

Trent! Someone shot him while he was sleeping in his bed.

There’s an expression called information overload, and that’s what swept over me. I must have had about thirty thoughts go through my mind at once. I’d just spent the last few hours worrying about what Trent would do if he discovered us in his house, and now he was supposedly dead. I couldn’t quite believe it. You’re sure he’s dead, Justine?

Yes, yes—he’s dead. Half his head is blown off. Don’t go up there—it will give you nightmares for the rest of your life.

We should get out of here and then call 911, I said.

I don’t know what to do, said Justine. I’m sure they’ll suspect me of shooting him, especially if they found out I was in here.

How long has he been dead?

I have no idea—I practically threw up when I saw him. I’ve never seen anything so horrible in all my life.

So what are we going to do? I said.

Justine had regained her composure somewhat, and in a determined voice, she said, I think we should just pretend that we were never here, but first, I’d like to look in the room where he has his computers and see if we can find the photos.

Justine, how do we know that the person who shot Trent isn’t still in the house?

"I would think that he’d have made his presence known by now. And anyways, no one stays around after they’ve murdered a person. You can leave if you want to, but I’m going into the computer room—that’s undoubtedly the room where he would have put the photos. Jesse, I know this is hard on you, but I’ve got to find those photographs."

I followed Justine towards the front of the house, but instead of turning towards the stairs, we turned in the other direction, and after Justine switched on a small lamp that was on a desk, I could see that we were in a fairly large room that contained two desks and that on top of each desk was a computer. OK, Jesse—let’s tear this room apart and see if we can find the photos. Now that Trent’s dead, this shouldn’t take us as much time because we don’t have to worry about concealing the fact that we were searching for the photos.

We spent well over an hour going through the room but couldn’t find anything. During that time, Justine seemed to be like a person possessed. Her face was flushed, and her hair, which was usually combed with great care, was flying around in all directions. She was also moving about the room in an impetuous, frenetic way as she emptied all the desk drawers onto the floor, tore apart a closet and heaved everything in it onto the floor, and even went around the room and pried up the entire edge of the rug, which was tacked down. Where could he have put them? she kept saying.

I spent much of my time looking through all the books that were in two large bookcases in the room. Look through those books carefully, Jesse, because I know that he used to put photos in them sometimes. Finally, when we had come up with nothing, Justine said, Maybe he put the photos onto one of his computers.

Do you know the passwords?

No, but it doesn’t matter—what we’ll do is take the hard drives out of the computers and destroy them when we get home.

Justine knew where Trent kept a tool box, and in another minute or so, she came back with a couple of screwdrivers. It seemed unlikely to me that the photos would be on one of Trent’s computers, and I thought it would be better to search for the camera on which the photos were taken, but Justine was in a fierce and determined mood, and I wasn’t about to argue with her. We had a difficult time prying out the hard drives, but once we had extracted them, Justine surprised me by saying that she wanted to go back to my house. What about looking for the photos upstairs? I said.

No, they wouldn’t be there, said Justine. If they’re not on the hard drives, I think he’s probably taken them out of the house and put them in his safe deposit box. He kept a lot of photographs there—at least that’s what he told me. 

We walked back out to the kitchen and left by using the back door, which was unlocked. That’s odd, said Justine, as she opened the door. That must be how the person who murdered Trent got in here.

Outside, the wind was blowing in fitful gusts, and the moon had disappeared. In the few houses that were around us, there were no lights on, and neither did any cars pass by us as we walked to her car. Fifteen minutes later, we were sitting at my kitchen table, and Justine said, I wonder who in the world killed him?

I, of course, didn’t have a clue and was totally baffled by everything that had happened. It was hard for me not to imagine that I was a puppet on a string and that the puppet master was Justine. I don’t know, I said. I’m exhausted. What time is it?

Five o’clock, said Justine. Why don’t you go to bed, Jesse. I’ll be there soon—I just want to destroy these hard drives and get rid of them before I go to sleep. 

CHAPTER FOUR

The next morning, I woke up later than Justine, and as I came downstairs, I heard her talking to Memphis on the phone. Just as I entered the room, Justine said, Alright, Memphis—I’ll be out there in a couple of hours. Justine shut her cell phone and said, I have to go see Memphis. She’s freaking out over the photos again—I’ll be back in time for dinner, and we can talk about this some more.

I spent the day walking the beach and watching a movie where a husband had murdered his wife. After the movie was over, I paced around my house and became obsessed with the events of the last few hours. Could Justine have murdered Trent? It wasn’t possible was it? She had said that he had been shot, and I hadn’t heard anything that sounded remotely like a gunshot, so if she had murdered him, how could she have accomplished such a thing? A knife? That idea was laughable—there wouldn’t have been enough time; she would have had blood on her; there would have been some kind of struggle.

Was it possible to cover up the sound of a gunshot by using a couple of pillows to cover up the barrel of the gun?  I looked that idea up on the internet, and apparently, pillows would do very little to muzzle the sound of a gunshot, so that was comforting. What wasn’t so comforting was that I had entered the house where a man had been murdered and that I had left without notifying the police. Justine seemed to have this never-ending attitude that bringing in the police wouldn’t be a good idea. What if someone found out, somehow or other, that we were there the previous night? Wouldn’t that practically guarantee our arrests? And by that point, the fact that I hadn’t heard any gunshots would be meaningless because everyone would assume that I was lying to protect Justine.

Maybe, for all I knew, Trent wasn’t even dead. Maybe Justine had just made the whole thing up. Man, what was I thinking? What would be the point of her doing something like that? Even so, I couldn’t help but feel that things weren’t quite what they seemed. It was such a strange coincidence that Trent would be shot just a few hours before we entered the house. Or actually...when had Justine said that he was leaving for California? Now I remembered—he was supposed to leave at 7 A.M. Saturday morning, and we had entered the house at 3 A.M. Sunday morning. And so, since Justine had found him lying in his bed, he would have had to have been shot sometime during the previous night. Which meant that Justine couldn’t possibly have shot him! Because if Trent had still been alive when Justine went up to see if he was in the house, then he had missed his plane to California. Or, to say it the other way around, he had to have been shot before he left for the plane, and Justine and I had entered the house almost a day after the plane left town. When I realized this, it gave me a great sense of relief—I hadn’t really suspected Justine of murdering him, but it was good to have some solid proof that my intuition was correct.

When I put that idea together with the fact that I hadn’t heard any gunshots, I began to realize that I was being too paranoid and was just caving in to some crazy murder plot like the ones they show on TV where the woman drags the guy down into the abyss. So the best thing for me to do was just relax and chill out because I might only make things much worse if I became ultra-paranoid and did something crazy. I had to laugh to myself because, in this case, ultra-paranoid meant going to the police station and telling them about Memphis’s rape and Trent’s murder.

Justine called in the afternoon and said that she wanted to stay with Memphis for another day, but she didn’t return until Wednesday evening after work. It was now over three days since she had discovered Trent’s body, but the local newspaper still contained no news that related to Trent. According to Justine, he wasn’t supposed to be back from California until Friday night, so it might not be until the weekend, or even later, that someone discovered his body.

That evening, after dinner and over wine, Justine began to express some doubts about waiting on the sidelines until someone else found Trent’s body. I can’t stop thinking about everything that’s happened, Jesse. I mean, for one thing, when someone finds Trent’s body, the police are going to discover that up until about three weeks ago, I was living with him.

Yes, I said, they’ll definitely want to question you.

What am I going to tell them, Jesse?

The truth, I guess.

That I was there with you at 3 A.M. on Sunday morning?

I don’t really know, I said. We’ve kind of dug ourselves into a hole by waiting so long.

While I was at work today, I began to wonder if we might have left something behind that might point to us.

Probably our footprints, I said. It was damp out that night because it rained a few hours before, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we left a few footprints after we climbed in through the window. We may even have tracked some mud into the kitchen and left our footprints there.

I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this, said Justine. Oh no! she said suddenly.

What is it?

I just remembered something. When I was taking apart Trent’s computer, I took off my gloves because I couldn’t get a grip on the hard drive. My fingerprints are definitely going to be all over that computer. And then, there’s the screwdriver I used while I had my gloves off—I didn’t put it back in the tool box, and...I’m sure I touched some other things in the computer room while I had my gloves off.

Now that you mention it, I said, I took my gloves off while I was searching through all those books.

You did? I’m just such an amateur about things like this, Jesse. I never even thought of things like fingerprints until now. Justine got up from the table and went over to a window and stared out at a beautiful late April sunset. Without turning around, she said, The police are going to look at this like we broke into the house.

Probably so, I said.

Justine returned to the table, and after finishing the wine in her glass, she said, I wish I had listened to you, Jesse. I’m sure the police will be mighty suspicious of me when they find my prints on the inside of his computer. And who knows? What if Trent lied to me about what time he was going to leave town? Suppose the plane ticket was actually for Monday morning?

But he did tell you he was leaving on Saturday, didn’t he?

He did, said Justine.

I think the best thing that we can do is to get out ahead of this and tell the police everything that we know.

"Let me think about it for one more day,