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Alkins had sounded so dejected that Rachel couldn’t bring herself to ask if he’d located Jenny Stills’s autopsy report or found out anything about the circumstances surrounding her death. He’d promised he would look into it, and she believed him. Once the trial was over, Rachel was certain that he’d follow through.
Hannah’s last email had troubled Rachel greatly. Remembering what had happened that night was clearly taking a terrible toll on her. Rachel could feel it in every word, every syllable. She’d briefly considered sharing the letters with Detective Cooper but decided against it. She didn’t have Hannah’s permission to share her story, and Rachel didn’t want to betray her trust.
Rachel brushed her teeth and prepared for bed, feeling restlessand sad after her nighttime walk with Kelly’s parents. Scott Blair would go free. His good name would likely be restored. He’d claim that he was the victim of a false accusation. Many would believe him.
Maybe he’d make it to the Olympics and win gold, as his father had proudly predicted that day when Rachel visited their house. Or maybe his name would be tarnished enough, or his confidence and fitness so damaged by his suspension from competitive swimming, that he’d never get back to peak athletic condition. Time would tell.
While Scott would never spend a night in prison, Rachel was certain that Kelly’s name would be mud forever, much like Jenny’s. The Blair supporters would smear her as a vindictive teenager who’d refused to be cross-examined to avoid being exposed as a liar.
As for Kelly’s supporters, they wouldn’t forgive Kelly for giving up. Deep down, they would resent her failure to stay the course, and they’d secretly blame her for making it harder for other victims to come forward in the future.
Kelly would never be free. Never fully recover. Her childhood had been irreparably damaged by that night on the beach. Her family was fleeing town like persecuted emigres. Their lives and livelihood uprooted so she could start fresh in a new town, a new school. Perhaps even with a new name. Christine was right. It shouldn’t rest on the shoulders of a young girl. But it did.
Rachel collapsed on her bed, lying on top of the covers and staring at the ceiling. She’d been so consumed with the podcast and the minutiae of the trial that she hadn’t had a chance to take a step back. To get perspective. As she lay on her bed, she was hit by a niggling feeling that she’d missed something. She’d had that feeling before and brushed it off. But this time she was certain.
Rachel scrambled through the pile of notebooks on her deskuntil she’d found the notebook filled with her own messy shorthand of Kelly Moore’s testimony. She flicked through the pages until she was three-quarters of the way through the notebook.
There was an old plaid shirt on me. It was a huge shirt. It was tucked under me like a blanket. I don’t know where the shirt came from because Scott hadn’t worn a shirt like that.
Rachel pulled out her file with Hannah’s letters. She lay flat on the bed and read the letters one by one. The green glow of the clock shifted its shape as time passed. As Rachel finished each letter, she tossed it on her bed and unfolded another one. And another. Until she reached the latest emails from Hannah. Rachel found something that made her jolt up in surprise. She turned on the lamp next to her bed to read the passage again. She wanted to be certain.
Jenny was trembling so badly I could hear her teeth chattering. I peered out from under the canvas sheet. Bobby was unbuttoning his shirt. It frightened me to see him get undressed. When he’d removed his shirt, he put it over Jenny and tucked it under her like a blanket.
Similar descriptions. Two rapes. Twenty-five years apart. In the same town. As she crawled under the covers of her bed, Hannah’s letters scattered across the sheets, Rachel told herself it was a fluke coincidence. It was only while she was drifting off that she remembered something that made her realize there was no coincidence at all.
It was still dark when Rachel rolled out of bed and dressed in running gear. Even though it was a good hour before dawn, it might as well have been the middle of the night when Rachel pushed through the revolving doors of the hotel and emerged onto the deserted street. The streetlights were on and the traffic lights were changing colors, but there was not a single vehicle on the road that ran parallel to the beach.
Rachel ran along the boardwalk, retracing the route she’d walked with Dan and Christine Moore the night before. By the time she reached Morrison’s Point, the sky was a lighter shade of dark blue. Dawn would break soon. Rachel didn’t stop at the jetty. She kept running, passing one beach after the next until her face was flushed and her breathing labored.
The boat sheds rattled in the breeze as she came onto the last beach. It was so close to the marine reserve that she could see the timber-and-stone visitors’ station with its maps and illustrations of local bird and marine life. Rachel moved between the boathouses quietly, sticking to the shifting shadows.
She pressed herself against a shed and waited. As dawn broke, a door slammed open. The hulking figure of Vince Knox—or whatever his real name was—pushed a small fiberglass boat out of the timber shed and down a sandy incline toward the water. The outboard motor was lifted up so it wouldn’t drag on the sand.
When the boat was on the edge of the water and would go no farther, he went into the water and grabbed the ropes, pulling the boat off the beach until it was floating.
Rachel ran down to the beach and waved to get his attention. He didn’t see her at first. He was arranging crab cages on the bottom of the boat so the weight was evenly distributed. When he raised his head, he looked confused and then angry to see Rachel waiting by the shore.
“You again! What do you want this time?” His voice was rough.
“How’s the bird doing?” Rachel asked.
“She’s drinking and eating,” he said. “I’ll release her in a couple of days.”
“That’s good news,” said Rachel, still standing her ground. He went about his work but glanced at her every now and again as if to ask why she was still there.
“I need to ask you about something important.”
“I don’t answer questions. Not yours. Not anyone else’s. Now get the hell off my beach,” he called back.
“It’s about the Scott Blair trial,” she said.
He looked at her in irritation. They’d already discussed that the last time she’d turned up uninvited. He jumped out of his boat and waded back onto the beach. Rachel thought he was coming to talk to her. Instead, he walked straight past her and kept walking up to the boat shed. When he returned, he was carrying a big white bucket for his catch, and a rusted pike. Rachel suspected it was to lift the crab cages out of the water, but he held on to it like it was a spear, and she got the impression that he was hoping it would intimidate her.
“You lied by omission on the stand. I want to know what really happened,” Rachel called out as he walked past her.
“I don’t have to tell you shit about nothing,” he said, tossing the bucket into the boat. He pointed the metal pike at Rachel as if to scare her off. Rachel kept her hands on her hips. Vince Knox didn’t scare her one bit.
“There’s nobody around except for you and me. If you were a smart lady, you’d turn around and get the hell out of here,” he warned her.
