Page 42 of The Secrets We Hide
Emmy didn’t buy it. “Gerald Clifton asked you to destroy evidence to protect Jonah Lang?”
“Naw, he didn’t give a shit about Jonah.” Reggie dragged it out another beat. “He asked me to kick the case because he didn’t want to burn a valuable source.”
Emmy shook her head. None of this made sense. “What source?”
Reggie basked in her confusion for a second longer. “Gerald really never told you?”
“Told me what, Reggie?”
“According to your dad, Woody was his confidential informant.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Emmy gripped the steering wheel with her hands to keep her world from spinning out of control. She had been parked outside the house for twenty minutes but couldn’t make herself go inside. Not because anyone was there. Cole was at the station watching videos. Jude’s rental Jeep wasn’t in the driveway. The only light came from the porch off the kitchen. Emmy couldn’t move because she couldn’t bear the thought of finding out that her father wasn’t just a liar. He’d been a dirty cop, too.
She used her sleeve to wipe her eyes. Gerald had spent the last year of his life training Emmy to take his place as sheriff. She hadn’t been happy with the thought of his leaving, but she’d paid attention to everything he’d passed along because she’d always been desperate to learn from her father.
He’d never told her about Jonah’s arrest for buying enough fentanyl to land him in state prison. He’d never mentioned anything about working with Woody or the Rawleys, let alone having an actual confidential informant.
There was a process for establishing a CI, a formal set of guidelines to keep everything above board. None of that had ever happened because Emmy had assumed it wasn’t necessary. Occasionally, Gerald would tell her that he knew a guy who would talk, or that another guy owed him a favor, but these were relationships that were out in the open—Cliftons, Coleman cousins, old schoolmates, business owners, people in town who’d known each other so long that no one could remember how or when they’d even met.
Not once had Gerald indicated that he needed to meet someonealone. Not once had he told her to give him privacy so he could make a phone call to a source. They had lived together. Worked together. Sat across from each other at their desks and at the kitchen table. They had spent hours driving around town in Gerald’s cruiser going over investigations, talking through possible motives, tossing around names of potential suspects. Emmy had spent years earning the right to be taken into her father’s confidence. She had assumed that they’d shared everything.
She’d been wrong.
Emmy made herself get out of the cruiser. She walked toward the equipment shed. Gerald had converted the space into an office after Cole and Emmy had moved back in and Myrna had refused to give up her reading room.
She had been inside her father’s office only once since he’d died, but she’d been too overwhelmed to stay for long. The smell of him had lingered. His prized possessions—his favorite pen, his collection of baseball cards, his vinyl records that dated back to before Tommy was born—had all felt like painful reminders of everything she had lost. There were so many questions she’d never had time to ask. Personal things. Things she could hold on to after he was gone. Whythispen? Whythesecards? Whythisrecord?
Whythatconfidential informant?
The key was still in its spot over the doorjamb. She twisted it into the lock, threw open the door. Her senses braced for the scent of Gerald’s aftershave, but all she could smell was damp. She left the door open to bring in some fresh air. Turned on the lights.
Everything was still exactly where Gerald had left it. Pen on top of a single file folder on his desk blotter. Chair pushed back where he’d stood up to leave, not knowing it was the last time. Filing cabinets lined one wall. Two framed photographs of his children were by the window. One showed Emmy at eight or nine holding a kitten. The other showed her three older siblings on the cusp of adulthood. They were all in swimsuits standing at the river basin with the falls in the background. Three years before Emmy had been born. Two years before Henry haddrowned in the river. One year before Jude had run off and Myrna and Gerald had told everyone in town that their oldest daughter had died in a car accident outside of Memphis.
It wasn’t like Gerald had never lied to Emmy about big things before.
She picked up the photo, wondering what else he’d hidden from her. As a child, the image of her older siblings had always made her feel left out, like she hadn’t been invited to a fun day at the river. Henry was lean and handsome, his skin more tanned than the others’, his body angled to the camera as he posed like an old Hollywood movie star. Tommy looked like what he’d always been: goofy and gangly. His long hair grazed the tops of his shoulders. He was holding his arms out, grinning, looking like he was having the best day of his life.
Emmy suddenly understood why Tommy was at the river basin when she’d called tonight. He’d taken the dirt from Myrna’s grave and sprinkled it into the same river that had taken Henry’s life.
Her eyes moved to teenage Jude’s face. She studied her older sister with renewed curiosity. Her hair was in a dated, textured cut that was only slightly longer than Tommy’s. Her bikini showed the kind of effortless curves you took for granted at sixteen. She had a snarky twist to her lips that had only become snarkier with age. Heavy eyeliner. Dark red lipstick. Blue eyeshadow. Clumped mascara. She looked like trouble—the kind of girl you didn’t want your son hanging out with.
So, not much had changed.
Emmy returned the photo to its exact place, lining it up to the thin layer of dust. She went to her father’s desk. Pulled up the chair. Sat down. The top was immaculate but for his silver ballpoint pen, an empty file folder, a small plastic trophy that Emmy had won for most improved soccer player in high school, and a photograph of Cole on the day he’d graduated from the police academy.
She looked down at the drawers. Her muscles froze.
The desk had been bought cheap at an auction from the high school and followed the classic 1960s design. Solid oak. One drawer in the middle. Three more stacked on the right-handside. Emmy didn’t feel good about this. Going through her father’s desk at the station was one thing, but it felt like a violation to rifle through his private belongings.
Especially because she was looking for evidence of his lies.
Suddenly, her lungs refused to take in a deep breath. Only a shallow gulp filled her mouth. Emmy had to clench her teeth to keep the sound from seeping out. She opened the top drawer. Blank stationery and envelopes. Pens. Paper clips. An index card with her mother’s scribbled, teacher’s scrawl. The unexpected sight of the card made Emmy feel like a hand had grabbed her throat.
As Myrna’s memory had started to slip, she had taken to placing index cards around the house to remind herself of her favorite words and their meanings:Insuperabletaped to the bathroom mirror.Gallimaufryon her nightstand.Mellifluousresting on the windowsill behind the coffee maker. Myrna had always loved making word puzzles, but there was no rhyme or reason to the choice of words or their placement, and even before the diagnosis, she had never explained herself about anything.
Emmy looked at the note card her father had kept:
