If She Heard

“In a small town like this, it’s where my mind automatically goes at first,” Kate said. “But until we can accurately look at any links between the two girls, that’s going to be hard to nail down. It’s the one reason I really wish the mother was still here.”

“Maybe we can call her tomorrow,” DeMarco said. It was more of a question, though—a veiled way to ask: Would we be total monsters if we bothered the grieving mother tomorrow?

“If nothing pans out tonight, we may have to,” Kate said.

“The thing that’s hanging me up is where Kayla Peterson was killed. Right there on her front porch. I mean, she even got the key in the door. Makes me think she had the guy with her.”

“Maybe trying to sneak him into her house?” Kate asked.

“Maybe.”

“There’s another possibility, too. Maybe he was there, waiting for her.”

DeMarco nodded gravely. “Neither one of those scenarios is particularly pleasant.”

As DeMarco drove to the address they had been given, Kate looked over the notes on the iPad DeMarco had been uploading all of the case files to. So far there wasn’t much to look at, but there were small things to pick up on here and there.

“Both victims went to the same high school,” Kate noted as she read through the notes. “Although in a town this small that’s really not too much of a surprise.”

“Different colleges,” DeMarco pointed out. “Kayla Peterson went way off to Florida for college. Mariah Ogden went to Western View Community College, just outside of Charlotte.”

“I would be curious to know if Jamie Griles knew Kayla. If so, that would basically be the only link between them.”

“And that wouldn’t be good news for Griles,” DeMarco said, thinking it over.

It was the last thing either of them said, though Kate was pretty sure DeMarco was feeling the same stirrings of excitement she was. They were on their way to question their first concrete lead and that was always am exciting moment. Kate allowed herself to enjoy it, though as they drove through the night she could not ignore just how badly she was starting to miss Michael.

She felt the old stings of feeling like a bad mother, of leaving her family behind. It was more than the guilt of any mother who went back to work after maternity leave, though. No, these were stings from the past, stings she had suffered through and thought she had managed to put behind her.

But these stings…these were fresh. And they seemed to be reiterating the same cries of her heart. Maybe this was her last hoorah.

Maybe she shouldn’t even be here at all.

They covered the rest of the trip to Jamie Griles’s residence in silence. When they arrived, they found themselves pulling into a small gravel parking lot in front of what appeared to be a four-plex. It looked like one large house, divided into four different living spaces or apartments. Each apartment had its own mailbox at the mouth of the parking lot. Kate noted that the one marked 3 held the name J. GRILES.

DeMarco parked beside a beaten-up old GMC pickup, parked slightly crooked in front of the third apartment. As they got out, Kate heard the rumbling of a stereo coming from one of the apartments. She was rather proud to find she knew the song as “Battery” by Metallica. Melissa had gone through a Metallica phase in her youth and had been both surprised and humiliated to find that her mother hadn’t outright hated the music.

As they approached the door with a bronze 3 in its center, she realized the music was not coming from inside. However, someone was home: a soft light filled the window, mostly blocked by lopsided blinds. As Kate stepped onto the stoop, DeMarco knocked.

“Yeah!” was the response from inside. “One minute!”

There was some brief commotion from inside and then, about twenty seconds after knocking, the door was opened. Jamie Griles was an average-sized man. His black hair was held up in a style that nearly reminded Kate of Elvis, held in place by stiff-looking product. He had small eyes and a chiseled jaw that was covered in five o’clock shadow. He wasn’t handsome, but he was far from unattractive as well. It didn’t take much effort for Kate to imagine impressionable young girls to give him some attention in exchange for beer or other things.

He smiled at the two women and said: “Can I help you ladies?”

DeMarco apparently took offense to the way he was looking at them. When she took out her ID and badge, she basically thrust them at him. “Agents DeMarco and Wise, FBI. Are you Jamie Griles?”

“I am,” he said. The smile was gone, replaced by what appeared to be genuine confusion. “But…FBI? What for?”

“We’re investigating a case here in Harper Hills and would like a word with you.”

He looked back and forth between them, maybe trying to figure out if this was some sort of prank. When it was clear that he had no intention of inviting them in, Kate took a single step forward. “Mr. Griles, can we come inside?”

“I mean…yeah, sure, but…what for?”

Kate noticed that DeMarco took him up on the invitation before explaining the purpose of the visit. It was a good move, as Griles would have surely become protective and defensive if he knew they were going to ask him about two recent murders in the area.

Kate followed DeMarco into a small and messy living room. The television against the far wall was tuned to a baseball game. There was a bottle of cheap whiskey on the coffee table and a still-burning cigarette in an ashtray next to it.

DeMarco started right away, before Griles even had time to close his door. “Mr. Griles, do you have any idea why we might be here?”

“No,” he said. He was clearly scared, but there was a growing irritation beneath it. He did not enjoy being questioned—to be made to feel as though he was less than. “And I don’t think you should make me guess.”

It was interesting for Kate to watch the back and forth, the cat and mouse. DeMarco had set a trap, and Griles had sidestepped it. Kate would have tried the exact same thing, though. The vague question from DeMarco had given Griles the opportunity to confess to buying alcohol for minors—which was a very serious charge in the state of North Carolina. But Griles had dodged it and put the ball right back into DeMarco’s court.

“Mr. Griles, it’s a small town,” DeMarco said. “Can I assume you’ve heard about the recent murders in the area?”

“I have. Word does get around.”

“You know their names?” Kate asked.

“Yes,” he said. He was being careful with the way he spoke. It was clear that this was not the first time he had been questioned by someone in authority. She could picture Griles and Sheriff Gates having this same sort of back and forth quite easily.

“Tell me, please,” DeMarco said.

“Why? Are you here because you think I had something to do with it?”

“I said no such thing,” DeMarco said. “But in investigating the murders, we discovered today that you were included in a small group of people who last saw one of the victims.”

Griles nodded at this and actually seemed a little relieved. “You mean Mariah?”

“Yes. Mariah Ogden. We have a witness that saw you with her and a group of other underage kids outside of Larry’s Lanes on the night she died. What do you say to that?”

“I say there are some nosy-ass people in this town.”

“You make a habit of hanging out with younger girls, Mr. Griles?” Kate asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “But anything I do is consensual. I’m not one of those rapist assholes.”

“Our witness says you were loud and a little off the hinge that night,” DeMarco said. “Had something been bothering you?”

“No. And I don’t recall being loud and out of control.”

“Had you been drinking?”

“A bit, yes.”

“We have it on good authority that you left that group and went somewhere else,” Kate said. “Could you give us a timeline of events after you left the Larry’s Lanes parking lot?”

“I can. And I have a few people that could back me up if…”

He paused here, sat down in a ratty old recliner, and looked at both women as if they had just hurt his feelings.

“Something wrong, Mr. Griles?” DeMarco asked.

“You do think I’m a suspect.”

“An older man who is known for trying to impress younger girls just admitted to hanging out with a recent murder victim on the night she died,” DeMarco said. “Yes. Any agent worth a damn would question you. So give us that timeline.”

He plucked the cigarette from the ashtray, took a drag, and settled into the chair. “I left the bowling alley with a buddy of mine, Gary. We went to Esther’s for a couple of drinks and some buffalo wings. After that, we went to a house party for a while.”