Cheryl turns up the volume and listens to the reporter give the highlights from the inquest. She hears it all. Erica Voss claims that she was having an affair with Patrick Kilgour, whose wife died in that car. She says Kilgour deliberately murdered his wife. She had his child. Cheryl works it out. That child is Devin. And his father is, quite possibly, a murderer.
The excruciating inquest is over. They have retreated to a nearby Italian restaurant for dinner. They’ve chosen a table at the back, which affords them more privacy.
Patrick had explained the fall down the stairs that night in a calm, convincing way. Lange seemed pleased with how he had handled himself, even patting him briefly on the shoulder when it was all over.
Stephanie orders a glass of white wine and tips almost half of it down her dry throat once it arrives. They now have to wait for the verdict. They’re all nervous. Stephanie is so wrung out that she’s simply glad the ordeal of the inquest is over. She can’t think about what happens next. Lange wants to discuss where things might go from here. She wants to scream.
They order food, but she can hardly eat. Her mind drifts to Jackie and Emmie. She longs to hold them close to her, to smell them, to feel their skin against her face. She wants to be home. They’re flying back first thing tomorrow morning, whether the jury has come to a decision or not, and regardless of the outcome.
She knows what the possibilities are. The jury might find that Lindsey’s death was an accident. This is what they all clearly hope for. But she now thinks it’s about as likely as winning the lottery. Erica was convincing, and there was that worrying fall. If they don’t return a verdict of accidental death, the current sheriff would likely undertake his own investigation. He might even arrest Patrick immediately. She realizes, lifting her now empty wineglass, that she might be going home alone tomorrow. Would that be such a bad thing?
She feels a sudden lurch in her chest. She can’t believe she’s even thinking that. But that fall down the stairs – and the fact that Patrick had hidden it from them – has changed things for her. She puts the wineglass down. She wants another, but she will resist. She feels like she’s secretly just crossed some kind of line, and she’s horrified at herself.
Of course he didn’t do it.
She loves Patrick, she tells herself. He’s the father of her girls. It’s just hard to feel it in the same way as before, given all the strain they’ve been under. She doesn’t believe for a second that he’s a murderer. That’s impossible. Too bizarre to seriously consider. He’s never shown any tendency towards violence to her at all. Lindsey must have fallen, the way Patrick said. He didn’t push her during an argument. He doesn’t lose his temper easily – she’s never seen it. He’s not greedy, or selfish. He’s not impulsive. He’s kind and patient and generous. All this is Erica’s fault. Erica is a vindictive liar, driven by her own selfish, twisted motives. She’s got no conscience at all. She doesn’t care who she hurts.
It’s quite possible the jury will return a finding of ‘undetermined’. That the jury will be unable to decide, on the basis of what they’ve heard, whether the death was accidental or intentionally caused. The jury can’t assign blame. It would be up to the sheriff then. He might investigate, he might not. He probably would. Stephanie doesn’t think she can live with this much uncertainty any longer without losing her mind. She needs to be a good mother to her children. She needs this to stop.
A cell phone pings and Lange reaches for his phone in his suit jacket pocket. She can tell by the look on his face that it’s what they’ve been waiting for. She freezes, watching his face. ‘The jury’s back,’ he says.
They quickly leave the restaurant, the meal finished, and drive the short way to the courthouse. They take their seats as the jury files in.
The judge asks the foreperson if they have reached a verdict. They have.
Stephanie feels like she’s going to pass out.
‘What is your verdict?’ the judge asks.
‘Undetermined, your honour.’
Stephanie looks at Patrick; she sees him actually flinch. She glances at Lange. His expression is grim.
The ensuing silence is one laden with terror. It’s not over, not at all. It might be just beginning. Stephanie stares at her husband. He’s gone bloodless. She realizes, watching him, that he expected a different finding. He expected to be exonerated.
Finally Patrick says to his attorney, his voice quaking, ‘What do we do now?’
‘It’s up to the sheriff,’ the lawyer says quietly, ‘and the district attorney. You go home and wait.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THAT EVENING, SHERIFF Bastedo sits at his desk in his office, in the dark, deep in thought. He’s not particularly happy that this mess has landed on his desk. He knows it’s an opportunity. And that’s what worries him. It’s an opportunity that could make or break him, and he would rather keep his head low. He’s steady and methodical – that works for him – but he can already tell that this case has all the makings of a circus. But he can’t just turn a blind eye. That’s what the last sheriff did, and it might have resulted in Patrick Kilgour getting away with murder.
He had watched the inquest with great attention, taking careful notes. When it was over, he was just as unsure as the jurors. He’s cautious by nature, but he’s aware of the pressure on him to do something. He must talk to the district attorney first thing in the morning.
Patrick struggles to wake the next morning when his phone alarm goes off at 5.30 a.m. He’d only got to sleep after 3 a.m. He feels like shit. Stephanie stirs beside him.
‘Come on, we have to catch a plane,’ he says and gets up and pads to the bathroom of their hotel room. He steps into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the cobwebs. But clarity is worse. He’s terrified of what might happen next. He tries to remember what his attorney said last night, but he was so distraught that some of it hadn’t really sunk in. His mind starts to spin out of control. If he’s arrested, and the case goes to trial, he probably won’t be able to get out on bail. He might have to spend months in prison, away from his wife and children. At trial, they would have to prove he murdered his wife beyond a reasonable doubt. But there is a lot of doubt in this case. There’s no dispute about the facts; they don’t have to worry about forensics. They know his wife got into the running car and that the exhaust was blocked with snow. ‘They can’t prove you stuffed the exhaust pipe yourself,’ the attorney said bluntly, ‘or that you let her sit in the running car knowing that it was blocked and that it would kill her.’ This is all about his intention, and surely there’s no way they can prove his intention beyond a reasonable doubt. This is what Lange told him last night, trying to reassure him as he felt his once-comfortable life slipping away from him on a tidal wave of fear. ‘They might feel they have to bring you in,’ Lange said. ‘But it shouldn’t go to trial. They haven’t got sufficient evidence.’
But the stigma – everyone will think he did it. He will be tainted by this for the rest of his life. There is no way for him to prove he didn’t mean to kill her.
No way to prove it – even to his wife.
This was not the result they’d hoped for. Stephanie won’t be able to go home now and put it all out of her mind – she’ll be waiting for the next thing to happen. There will be no chance for her to recover her equilibrium.
And Niall – his partner had been supportive when he heard about the coming inquest, but he hadn’t liked the optics. Patrick told him that he understood. But there has been a deepening rift between the two men since Patrick had told him.
Patrick knows that anything less than a complete exoneration won’t be good enough for Niall. And he didn’t get that.
Now – will Niall want to dissolve the partnership? How would Stephanie take it? Not well, he suspects.
They might have to live for the next while on Stephanie’s money. And the legal costs – they are going to be exorbitant, if this goes any further.
He goes back into the bedroom and Stephanie is up, getting dressed. She doesn’t speak. She’s said almost nothing to him since the inquest ended. He wants to know what’s going through her mind. ‘Steph?’ he says.
‘Yes?’ she answers, her back still turned to him as she pulls a shirt on over her bra. She doesn’t even look at him.
‘Stephanie,’ he repeats, ‘look at me.’ She turns slowly around, standing on the other side of the unmade bed, across from him. ‘It’s going to be okay. I didn’t do this, and they can’t prove that I did.’ She nods. He walks around the end of the bed and takes her in his arms. ‘Steph, I love you. You know that, don’t you?’ She looks up at him and there are tears in her eyes. One tumbles down her face and he wipes it gently away with a finger. ‘We’ll get through this, I know we will.’
She turns away.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Niall says. ‘I can’t fucking believe it.’