Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“Shit.”
“But before she did that, she said he killed both Grace and Anna while they were standing in the pond next to their house, then he drove their car down the road where he left it.”
“And she didn’t call the cops?”
“She claims he gets violent, and she didn’t want to be next.”
“You’re saying that, but your face is saying something different.”
“I don’t believe her. She’s too fucking calm. She told me the story like she was asking me to pick up eggs from the grocery store.” He looks toward the door. “Can I come in there and talk to him for a minute?”
“Yeah.” I open the door, and Tucker steps into the room, where Martinez and Kelly are now just staring at each other in silence.
“Officer Kelly, I’m Detective Beckett.” Tucker holds out his hand, and Kelly takes it. My brother pulls a chair around the table and sits, resting his elbows to his knees and cutting the distance between him and Kelly. “I just left your wife in the room next door.”
“My wife is here?” Kelly asks, looking toward the door.
“She is, and I gotta be honest with you, man. She lawyered up, but not until after telling me that you murdered Anna and Grace.”
“She said that?” His hands resting on top of his thighs clench into fists.
“She did,” Tucker says softly, then continues just as quietly. “I don’t believe her, so I want to give you a chance to tell me your side of the story.”
“Can I talk to her?” Kelly asks, looking alarmed.
“After you talk to me, I’ll bring her in,” Tucker says, and Kelly leans back in his chair, grabbing his hair and fisting it.
“I didn’t do it.”
“You didn’t kill Anna or Grace?” Tucker asks softly and Kelly shakes his head franticly.
“Cristy found out I was seeing Anna.”
“Then what happened?”
“I love my wife,” he mutters, leaning forward and dropping his face into his hands. “I thought…. I didn’t know what she had planned.” He lifts his head, his face pale. “I’m gonna be sick.”
“Hand me the garbage can,” Tucker orders, and Martinez grabs it from the floor and passes it over to him. When Tucker hands it to Kelly, he shoves his face half into it and pukes.
“What did she have planned?” I ask, watching him visibly shake as he continues to dry-heave.
“She told me that if I loved her, I should prove it,” he whispers into the trash can.
“And you did?” Tucker asks.
He looks up with tears in his eyes. “Yes.”
As he cries and tells us his story, I refuse to feel sorry for him. He killed two women who did not deserve to die, all because he couldn’t stand up to his wife or leave her like he should have before going out and starting another relationship. He doesn’t deserve my empathy.
Three hours later, Martinez walks him out of the room in handcuffs while a female officer places cuffs on his wife still inside the other interrogation room. Cristy Kelly might not have admitted to taking part in Anna and Grace’s murders to us, but an hour ago, while she was alone with her husband when we let him see her, she made statements that implicated her in their deaths.
Did she pull the trigger? No. But without her encouraging her husband to kill Anna and in turn Grace just because she was there, neither girl would be dead, so she is just as responsible as he is, and hopefully a jury will agree with us.
Leaving Martinez to deal with the transfer of both Kelce and Cristy to the jail, I head to my desk. Taking a seat, I pull up the number for Grace’s mother and grab the phone on my desk. After telling her we found her daughter’s killer and explaining what will happen next, I call Anna’s parents and tell them the same. And although everyone is relieved to know that the people responsible for the murder of their girls is off the street, they understand this is only the beginning of their journey toward closure.
Closing my computer for the night, I take my gun out of the drawer of my desk, shove my keys into my pocket, then head out of the building. When I get outside, I see Martinez walking toward his car, so I head across the lot to him.
“You good?” I ask, stopping a couple of feet from him, and he lifts the duffle bag he’s holding higher onto his shoulder.
“My mind is fucked up after that shit,” he mutters, jerking his chin toward the building, and I nod in understanding. A man killing two innocent women as a way of proving his loyalty to his wife is a lot to wrap your mind around. “Gonna go home and force my kids to go have dinner with me.”
“Good luck with that.”