spot, stretched beneath Sharon’s feet. Snoring gently.
Sharon hadn’t been part of his life back then. He had been on his own, his first wife having stormed out of his life in the middle of the case, taking their infant daughter with her. Ashley had been in way over her head as the young wife of a brand new detective. While Green waded hip-deep in human depravity and despair, she had been overwhelmed and self-absorbed, leaving Green without the support and safe haven he hadn’t even known he needed.
Until Sharon. Now she was sprawled amid pillows, with her head resting on his shoulder and her tiny feet propped on the coffee table. Her diminutive frame had more curves now and her rich dark curls were shot through with silver, but she still stirred him. Although her eyes were shut, he knew she was listening, and he felt a twinge of guilt for burdening her. But no one had better insight into the contortions of the human mind than Sharon. No one listened better, and no one knew him better.
She nodded drowsily. “The trial was probably her only reason for getting up in the morning. Once the killer was convicted, her work was done.”
He took a sip of wine, his mind replaying the memories. “Not quite. The jury took four days to reach a verdict. Arguments must have been fierce, because they finally brought down a compromise verdict of second-degree murder. The Crown was going for first.”
“That wouldn’t be punishment enough for her,” Sharon said. It was a statement, not a question. Opening her eyes, she ran her finger down her daughter’s plump, pink cheek.
For a moment he found it difficult to speak. His inexpertly laid fire sputtered and he disentangled himself to prod it back to life. “The jury split over the notion of premeditation. The Crown argued that Rosten had strangled her in the course of a sexual assault gone wrong. Murder committed in the course of another crime is automatically first degree. But the evidence for sexual assault was pretty flimsy. The post-mortem found signs of sexual activity, but no lacerations or semen. It was enough for the defence to drive a small wedge of reasonable doubt into that argument.”
“Evidence of sexual activity wasn’t enough?”
“A condom was used. Rapists don’t usually bother with such niceties.”
“They might if they’re a biology professor familiar with DNA.”
“The Crown tried that argument. But she had a boyfriend too. Marilyn was furious. ‘How can they say it wasn’t rape,’ she said. ‘Jackie was half naked! Her hands were bound and a gag stuffed into her mouth! And how can they say it wasn’t premeditated? She was way out in the country on a remote logging road that wasn’t even on the map. She wouldn’t even have known that road existed, and in any case she had no car. He drove her there! If that doesn’t show planning, what the hell does it take?’
“I kept trying to explain how the law and juries’ minds worked. A first-degree conviction carries a mandatory twenty-five to life sentence, which is almost as brutal and final as an acquittal. Second-degree allows the hope of parole at the discretion of the judge.”
“So he gets to walk free some day, while her daughter never does.”
“More or less. The judge gave him eligibility after fifteen years, which is pretty stiff, although almost the whole world wanted at least twenty. We’d just had a high-profile sex killer get off on a technicality because his previous rape history was excluded. So the public was in a lynching mood. But the judge was afraid of giving the defence more grounds for appeal.”
“Was that likely?”
“Oh yes, and they took every goddamn ground they could get. The case was largely circumstantial. The victim was last seen walking across campus with Rosten. One of her long hairs was found on the passenger headrest of his car. A car matching his was spotted in the vicinity the afternoon of her disappearance. The dirt in its tire treads was consistent with the dirt in the woodlot where she was killed. Rosten had dirt on the knees of his jeans and a small cut on his forehead. But there was no tissue under her fingernails and no evidence she’d fought her assailant before being bound and gagged, and as Rosten’s lawyer pointed out, the dirt could have come from his cottage near by.”
“So the mother hit a brick wall.”
“The whole thing finally wore her down. She hung on through all the appeals and motions, which dragged on for years. But I don’t think she had a restful night’s sleep or ate a full meal for years, and by the end she was a wraith. When she was finally admitted to hospital in complete collapse, every organ in her body had rebelled. For a few days, even her survival was in doubt.”
Green fell silent, reliving those days sitting in the ICU waiting room during his off-duty hours, fending off Julia’s anxiety and Lucas’s drunken tears. Gordon was already overseas and not inclined to return home for his mother’s latest drama. Call me if she dies seemed to be his message.
Green knew he should have seen the collapse coming. Marilyn had been fighting Rosten and the justice system with the fanaticism of someone running for her life. As indeed she was. Running from her own loss and impotence, from the image of her daughter’s last terrified moments on that remote logging road. But he had been young and as yet unbowed by the emotional cost of his job. Mentally, he had long ago shoved Jackie Carmichael’s death into the closet and moved on to other cases.
The fire crackled in the silence. He felt Sharon’s hand on his, her gentle squeeze.
“If you’re worried, honey, go see her,” she said.
“She may see that as an intrusion,” he said. “She clearly didn’t want to talk.”
“Then don’t go visit her. Just worry.”
He turned his head to look at her. Her deep brown eyes were sympathetic, but a little smile twitched the corners of her lips. As a psychiatric nurse, no one cut through crap better than Sharon.
He breathed deeply. Chuckled. “Put that way …”
“The worst that happens is she runs you off her property. A moment of humiliation is a small price to pay for peace of mind.”
“I’ve been run off worse places,” he replied. The baby cooed and snuggled more deeply into the crook of Sharon’s arm. Aviva was nearly eight months old now and a crawling speed demon most of the day, but they both cherished these rare moments when she was still an infant in arms.
He leaned over to plant two kisses on the women he loved. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Do you want me to put her to bed?”
“That would be lovely. And on the way back, can you bring me an itty bitty glass of something stronger than tea?”
Chapter Four
Facing yet a third drive out to Navan in as many months, Green used the Internet to discover a backcountry route that circumvented the infuriating traffic of the Queensway, which alternated between parking lot and NASCAR racetrack. The route did not end up being any faster, but he arrived with his pulse and blood pressure below incipient coronary levels. The farm country was just awakening to spring. Fields still wallowed in mud, and leaf buds gave the merest dusting of green to the skeletal grey trees. The cows were out in the pasture, however, nibbling the dried grass and basking in the April sun.
Marilyn’s SUV was in the drive, which was now a muddy swamp, but her friend’s pickup was gone. To avoid outright rejection, Green had not called ahead, but he had chosen the late afternoon when she was most likely to have tea. He hoped she’d be ready to relax.
The house was quiet and still, the curtains drawn. Just as he was approaching the front door, however, a scream shattered the silence. Alarm shot through him as he pounded on the door. No answer. He knocked again, shouting. Tried the handle and shoved his weight against the door. It gave way, bouncing off the wall with a crash, and he blinked to adjust to the gloom.
Before he could move, Marilyn came running up the basement stairs. Dirt smudged her face and her clothes looked as if they’d been dragged from the bottom of the basement closet. She stared at