Before He Finds Her Read online

  “Because I think you did,” she continued. “She was a beautiful woman, and you were in love with her.”

  “What are you—”

  “And on the night of September 22, 1991, when everyone had left the Miller house, you went there, and she rejected you, and so you killed her.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “You strangled her and threw her into the fire pit and let Ramsey Miller take the blame. But it was you.”

  “I want my lawyer here right now!”

  “Fine. I’ll get you a phone,” the detective said. “But know that I’m seconds away from reaching for those business cards. Every slimy journalist—their numbers are all in a drawer. And I know you understand exactly what will happen to your career when the world learns that David Magruder is suspected of killing Allison Miller and now, fifteen years later, of trying to murder her daughter.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “And this will drag on a long time. I personally guarantee it. We’ll start tonight with a warrant to search your home. A dozen police cars will park out front with their lights flashing. It won’t take long for the news helicopters to start circling. And I’ll take as much time as I need to build my case, and eventually I’ll have enough evidence for a homicide charge. By then, the David Magruder brand will be long defunct.”

  “Why are you doing this?” David looked wounded, a child unfairly punished by his teacher.

  “Because you murdered a woman,” Detective Isaacson said. “And now the daughter returns, and it makes you have to remember—it makes you feel that woman’s throat in your hands all over again. It makes you smell her burning flesh.”

  “Stop it.”

  “You killed Allison Miller, Mr. Magruder. Admit it.”

  “I didn’t,” Magruder said. “I swear it.”

  “You swear it?” The detective lowered her voice. “Did you order Bill Suddoth to assault and threaten Melanie Denison?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “Either you tell me the whole truth about this morning or else the world finds out in the next hour that you’re the prime suspect in the murder of Allison Miller.” She lowered her voice. “That’s how it has to be. If you admit to ordering the assault, we’re probably talking probation and a fine. If you didn’t murder Allison Miller, then tell me the complete truth about the assault. Prove to me you can say something truthful. Now. Not later.”

  “I only asked Bill to convince her to leave town.”

  “What—specifically—did you ask him to do?”

  “I didn’t say,” he said. “I didn’t say, ‘hurt her.’ I didn’t even tell him to threaten her. I left it vague.”

  She nodded. “But you knew he might not be very diplomatic.”

  “Yeah. I guess I knew that.”

  “Because you knew he had a criminal record.”

  David looked at the detective. His shrug was barely detectable.

  “So you were lying when you said you didn’t know about that.” When he didn’t respond, she asked, “Why did you want her to leave town so badly, David?”

  Silence.

  “What were you so worried about that you were willing to jeopardize your precious career over it? And why in the world would you put your fate in the hands of a man like Bill Suddoth?”

  More silence.

  “You panicked, I get that. But why?” The detective waited a long moment before apparently reaching her limit with David’s irritating silence. “I’m giving you ten seconds,” she said. “Then I’m out the door and you’ll have your lawyer and I’ll have your face on the ten o’clock news on every TV in America.”

  She stared him down, and Melanie was certain that more than ten seconds passed. When David finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost meek. “Can I tell you something off the record?”

  “Off the record?” She shook her head as if in pity and closed her file folder. She stood up. “I’m a cop, pal, not a journalist.”

  She was almost to the door when he said, “What if I saw a crime happen and didn’t report it? How bad is that?”

  Detective Isaacson closed the door all the way and returned to her seat at the table. “How about you start talking and we let the D.A. decide.”

  25

  Barely able to breathe, eyes glued to the small computer monitor, Melanie listened to David Magruder tell the detective about the night of September 22, 1991, when a distraught Allison Miller came to his house, suggesting that they leave their spouses and give their friendship a chance to become something more. How he’d rejected her—rudely, cruelly—because his wife was about to give him a shot at the big time. He spoke slowly, his tone flat, and Melanie recognized his frequent pauses as attempts to control himself and fight back waves of emotion and probably nausea.

  Allison Miller left his house. He called after her, but she kept walking home. An hour or so later, he was sitting on his front stoop, brooding, when Ramsey Miller’s car drove by on its way out of the neighborhood. At that time, David decided to walk over to the Millers’ house.

  “She’d been so angry,” he said to the police station wall. “I never saw her like that before. I wasn’t going to change my decision, but I had been a bastard and I wanted to apologize.”

  He went around back—for all he knew, the party was still going on—but everything was dark outside and quiet, lit only by the smoldering fire pit. The gate was ajar, and through it he saw movement near the rear of the property. When his eyes began to adjust, he spotted Allie, kissing someone.

  “My first thought was that she and her husband had made up, and I’d been mistaken about it being Ramsey’s car. But... no. It wasn’t right.”

  “What wasn’t right?” asked the detective—gently nudging him along but otherwise staying out of the way.

  “How they moved.” He was looking beyond her, describing his past as if watching a movie. “Their bodies. It wasn’t an embrace. It was something else.”

  “Did you witness the murder of Allison Miller, Mr. Magruder?” But he wasn’t listening to her. He was seeing into the past, fifteen years. “Mr. Magruder?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You did nothing to intervene?”

  “I got there too late to stop it.”

  “Are you sure? Was she already dead when you arrived?”

  “No, just that... it was too late. I knew I couldn’t have...”

  “All right. You did nothing afterward, either. You could have called the police at any time.”

  “I was afraid.”

  “Afraid of what, David?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “Do you mean physically afraid?”

  “Yes,” he said. Then: “No.”

  “Which is it?”

  “I know how people are,” he said. “If it got out that I was at the scene of a murder, it would’ve been too much.”

  “Too much? I don’t understand?”

  He kept looking at the wall. “It would’ve been too much. They’d have chosen the other guy.”

  “What other guy?”

  “It was down to the two of us—me and another guy, some former jock out of California. One of us was going to get the job. It was the New York market. I had to get it. That was the only thing that mattered. It was never going to come around again.”

  “And that’s what you were thinking about while you watched your friend get murdered? It’s the New York market?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “So then what did you do?”

  “I went home.”

  “What did you do when you got home?”

  “Planet of the Apes was on TV. I watched it.”

  “Mr. Magruder, who killed Allison Miller?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut as if zooming in on the picture in his mind, then opened them again. “That’s just it—it was hard to see in the backyard, and my night vision was never any good. But Ramsey Miller, he was a smallish man. The man in the backyard with Allie, he was big.”

  “Do you mean obese?”

  It was Eric, Melanie thought. Eric
returned to the house and—

  “No,” Magruder said, “not that kind of big. Tall, I guess. Broad. You know. Big.”

  “Who do you think it was?” the detective asked.

  Melanie’s teeth chattered. Her hands trembled.

  “I’m not positive,” Magruder said, “but I think it was one of the musicians on stage. The young one on guitar.”

  26

  September 22, 1991

  Allison paced the house, muttering to herself. Oscillating between humiliation and self-righteousness.

  If you have needs that aren’t being met.

  How dare he. Balding weatherman for a two-bit local station. Well, she’d been dead wrong about him. God, and she would have done anything for him—stripped right there in his living room, screwed him on his leather sofa, on the carpet. She was his. All he had to do was admit what he felt. Admit the connection between them. That it all meant something. So either she’d been wrong about the connection or wrong when she thought he might have a little courage.

  But all that was over now, leaving her with a marriage that was also over. Her whole body hurt, thinking about it. Better not to.

  She went to the kitchen for trash bags, stepped outside to the backyard, and began picking things up—paper plates, balled-up napkins, plastic ware—from the grass, the tables, the porch railing, the bushes. People were slobs. She emptied beer from plastic cups into the grass and threw the cups away. Same with the soda cans.

  She took her time. At one point she poured herself a beer from the keg, drank it a little too fast, and threw the empty cup into the trash. The yard was quiet at last. Peaceful. The air was warm with a gentle breeze. The only light came through the kitchen window. She kept cleaning up. Twice, she almost stepped in pony shit, but otherwise she was glad to be outside. She felt exhausted, worn through, but knew she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, and cleaning gave her something to do.

  In the fire pit, a few last chunks of wood smoldered. She would have to throw dirt over it before going in for the night.

  She was carrying a full trash bag across the yard toward the garage when she heard: “Hi, there.” She started and turned toward the side gate.

  Wayne was tall, over six feet, but the way he stood—hands in his pockets, bad posture—he looked smaller. And embarrassed, as if he’d caught her doing something shameful.

  “What’d you forget?” she asked, more rudely than she meant. Not his fault that he was good enough on the guitar that shitty musicians latched on to him.

  “Ma’am?” He glanced around, like maybe she knew something he didn’t. “No—I just came by to see...”—he made a pained expression—“...how things are.”

  “Things? Things couldn’t be better.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” he said. “Where’s Ramsey at?” He looked around, as if Ramsey might’ve been hiding behind a tree.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Oh.” He picked up a plastic cup in the grass that she’d missed. She opened the bag, and he tossed it in. “Need some help?”

  “Actually, I could use some help moving these chairs.” Before the party, Ramsey had carried rented folding chairs into the yard as well as several chairs from inside the house. Together, Wayne and Allie moved them all into the garage. Wayne carried four at a time. When they were done, back in the yard, Allie looked around. “One more favor?”

  “Sure thing, Mrs. Miller.”

  “Will you cut the Mrs. Miller shit and just call me Allie?”

  He said nothing. Too dark to see his face turn red.

  “All this extra wood,” she said, nodding toward the fire pit. “You mind helping me move it all back to the tree line? If we don’t do it now, I know it’ll still be here in a year.”

  “Okay, Allie,” he said.

  Several trips back and forth between the pit and the back edge of the yard, where the tall trees were.

  “You’re not much of a talker, are you?” Allie asked him after their fifth or sixth trip.

  Wayne shrugged. “I don’t always know what to say.”

  “Since when has that stopped anyone from talking?” she asked.

  He smiled. No—definitely not a talker.

  It was sweet, him checking up on her, but Wayne obviously wasn’t the brains behind this particular operation. “So why didn’t Eric come himself?” she asked.

  He stacked some of the wood so it wasn’t so haphazard. “Him and me and Paul were over at Jackrabbits, and I said I’d do it. I don’t know. I guess I’m trying to be better.”

  She looked at him in the dark. “Better at what?”

  He seemed to consider the question. “Just better. Like what Ramsey did.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Used to be, he was a sonofabitch, the way he tells it. But he made himself better. Got himself a nice house and a family. He got you.” Wayne shrugged. “I want what he has.”

  In the dark, she couldn’t see where his own gaze fell. “Well, it was a decent thing to do,” she said, “coming by. And you can assure all interested parties that I’m fine.” Then she told herself to drop the phoniness. “Really, Wayne.” She forced a smile. “I’m okay.”

  Wayne picked up another load of wood, and in the rear of the yard he dumped the logs onto the stack.

  “You know, I skipped rehearsal on Friday because of you,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I get nervous when I’m here. I think about you, and...” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “You’re in my heart, Allie.” He coughed. “That sounded so dumb. Listen, can I ask you something?”

  You’re in my heart. Her whole life, men had said things like that to her. And Wayne was right—it was dumb. But it was she who’d invited talk. And undoubtedly, this day had been strange for him, too—between Ramsey yammering on about the apocalypse and the police showing up and then him having to return to the house to make sure Ramsey hadn’t beaten Allie senseless or drunk himself into a coma.

  “All right, Wayne,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

  He sniffed once and nodded toward the stage. “What song do you think we played best?”

  She laughed. “I thought they all sounded pretty good,” she said.

  “For real? Do you think?”

  Typical man—why settle for one compliment when you can hear it repeated?

  “I think you’re a guitarist with a future,” she said, and he looked away, embarrassed. “I think you’ve got big things ahead of you.” She stepped closer, slowly—she had his attention now. He was youthful and very handsome, and Just do it, Allie, for God’s sake, she said to herself, and put her arms around him.

  The sensation of holding on to him nearly took her breath away. Wayne was not only tall, he was deceptively muscular in the shoulders and back, a surfer’s body, and holding him was a wonderful, thrilling experience. He smelled like the outdoors, and he was boyish—not a kid, but a young man, and, yes, he reminded her a little of how it was with Ramsey when they were both so much younger and everything was full of possibility. She hugged him tightly, and it felt like exactly the right thing to do.

  So did kissing him. She searched for his face in the dark and found this beautiful, youthful mouth, and he might’ve been naïve but he wasn’t without experience, she discovered, because he kissed her back forcefully and without shame, his one hand on her cheek, her neck, then his arms around her back, a hand on her ass. She pressed into him, and he pressed back hard enough that she was pushed backward a step into one of the big oak trees, which provided support for her shaky legs. He lowered his head and bit her neck, and a soft moan escaped her.

  Wayne stopped cold.

  “This ain’t right,” he said.

  “What? No—” Her face was hot. Her whole body. “Keep going.” She stepped forward to kiss him again.

  He stepped back.

  “Wayne.” Her breathing was labored. “Listen to me.” Her eyes had adjusted to the dark
by now, and she focused on his face. “This night has torn me apart. I can’t handle another rejection right now. Can you understand that?”

  Conveniently, he was back to being wordless.

  “Listen,” she said, “I guarantee I need you more than he does.”

  He backed up more. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Miller.”

  That’s when she shoved him with all her might. He barely flinched.

  “Mrs. Miller!” he said—same words, different tone.

  The fucking nerve of this one. Innocent only when convenient.

  “I said don’t call me that!” She went to shove him again, but he was ready and blocked her hands. And she knew it was just him being nervous, but he smirked and laughed a little, and Allie could have killed him for it. She tried to punch him—anywhere: face, side, gut—but he was far too strong to be bothered and easily held his ground, and now with tears of shame her fury mounted, because it was so clear that she could neither hurt nor move him.

  The longer her rage lasted, the more pitiful it became, until finally Wayne pushed her away. To him, it must have felt like nothing at all—flicking away a bug—but the shove sent her backward, off balance, knocking the back of her head into the hard trunk of the oak tree.

  For a moment she was stunned. She worked to stay on her feet and make sense of what had just happened.

  “Mrs. Miller, I didn’t mean to.”

  She felt the back of her head: already, a large lump. “You son of a—” She blinked. Something wasn’t right with her vision. The outlines of everything were off. She felt frightened, but less of Wayne than of what she realized Ramsey would do when he came home and found her injured. “Ramsey’s going to kill you.”

  “No, he isn’t,” Wayne said. “Don’t say that to me.”

  “So help me God, he is.” This wasn’t a threat, so much as fact. Despite everything that had happened tonight, she knew that Ramsey would protect her, always—and with as little nuance as he did everything else. Her fists had inspired no fear, but her words, her words... “He’s going to make you pay.”

  “Shut up, Mrs. Miller. I mean it.”