“Ms. Quinn?” Delia Wofford was offering her a bottle of water.
Charlie almost snatched it out of the woman’s hand. She hadn’t realized she was thirsty until that moment. Half of the water was gone before the logical part of her brain reminded her that it wasn’t a good idea to drink so quickly on a sour stomach.
“Sorry.” Charlie put her hand to her mouth to cover the noxious belch.
The agent had obviously endured worse. “Ready?”
“You’re recording this?”
“Yes.”
Charlie peeled another wipe out of the packet. “First, I want some information about Kelly Wilson.”
Delia Wofford had enough years under her belt to not look as annoyed as she must have felt. “She’s been examined by a doctor. She’s under constant surveillance.”
That’s not what Charlie had meant, and the agent knew it. “There are nine factors you have to consider before ascertaining whether or not a juvenile’s statement is—”
“Ms. Quinn,” Delia interrupted. “Let’s stop worrying about Kelly Wilson and start worrying about you. I’m sure you don’t want to spend a second longer here than you absolutely have to.”
Charlie would’ve rolled her eyes if not for the fear of making herself dizzy. “She’s sixteen. She’s not old enough to—”
“Eighteen.”
Charlie stopped cleaning her hands. She stared at Ben, not Delia Wofford, because they had both agreed very early on in their marriage that a lie by omission was still a lie.
Ben stared back. His expression told her nothing.
Delia said, “According to her birth certificate, Kelly Wilson turned eighteen two days ago.”
“You’ve—” Charlie had to look away from Ben because their broken marriage took a back seat to a death warrant. “You’ve seen her birth certificate?”
Delia shuffled through a stack of folders until she found what she was looking for. She put a sheet of paper in front of Charlie. All Charlie could make out was a round, official-looking seal.
Delia said, “The school records back it up, but we were faxed this official copy from the Georgia Department of Health an hour ago.” Her finger pointed to what must have been Kelly’s birth date. “She turned eighteen at six twenty-three on Saturday morning, but you know the law gives her until midnight before she’s officially an adult.”
Charlie felt sick. Two days. Forty-eight hours meant the difference between life with a possibility of parole and death by lethal injection.
“She was held back a grade. That’s probably where the confusion lies.”
“What was she doing at the middle school?”
“There are still a great many unanswered questions.” Delia dug around in her purse and found a pen. “Now, Ms. Quinn, for the record, are you willing to give a statement? It’s your right to refuse. You know that.”
Charlie could barely follow the agent’s words. She placed her palm flat against her stomach, forcing it to calm. Even if by some miracle Kelly Wilson managed to avoid the death penalty, Georgia’s Seven Deadly Sins law would make sure she never got out of prison.
Would that be so wrong?
There was no ambiguity here. Kelly had literally been caught holding the murder weapon in her hands.
Charlie looked at her own hands, still bloody from the little girl who had died in her arms. Died because Kelly Wilson had shot her. Murdered her. Just like she had murdered Mr. Pinkman.
“Ms. Quinn?” Delia glanced at her watch, but Charlie knew the woman was exactly where she needed to be.
Charlie also knew how the legal system worked. No one would tell the story of what happened this morning without an eye toward nailing Kelly Wilson to a cross. Not the eight cops who were there. Not Huck Huckabee. Maybe not even Mrs. Pinkman, whose husband had been murdered not ten yards from her classroom door.
Charlie said, “I agree to give a statement.”
Delia had a legal pad in front of her. She twisted open her pen. “Ms. Quinn, first I want to tell you how sorry I am that you’ve been pulled into this. I’m aware of your family history. I’m sure it was difficult witnessing …”
Charlie rolled her hand, indicating she should move on.
“All right,” Delia said. “This next bit I have to say. I want you to know that the door behind me is unlocked. You’re not under arrest. You are not being detained. As I told you before, you’re free to leave at any time, though as one of the few witnesses to today’s tragedy, your voluntary statement could be instrumental in helping us put together what happened.”
Charlie noted that the woman had not warned her that lying to a GBI agent could land her in prison. “You want me to help you build your case against Kelly Wilson.”
“I just want you to tell me the truth.”
“And I can only do that to the best of my knowledge.” Charlie didn’t realize that she was feeling hostile until she looked down and saw that her arms were crossed.
Delia rested her pen on the table, but the recorder was still going. “Ms. Quinn, let’s put this out there that this is a very awkward situation for all of us.”
Charlie waited.
Delia asked, “Would it help you speak more freely if your husband left the room?”
Charlie smoothed her lips together. “Ben knows why I was at the school this morning.”
If Delia was disappointed that her ace had been played, she didn’t let on. She picked up the pen. “Let’s start from that point, then. I know your car was parked in the faculty lot to the east of the main entrance. How did you enter the building?”
“The side door. It was propped open.”
“Did you notice the door was open when you parked your car?”
“It’s always open.” Charlie shook her head. “I mean, it was when I was a student there. It’s quicker from the parking lot to the cafeteria. I used to go to the …” Her voice trailed off, because it didn’t matter. “I parked in the side lot and went through the side door, which I assumed from my previous time as a student would be open.”
Delia’s pen moved across the pad. She didn’t look up when she asked, “You went directly to Mr. Huckabee’s classroom?”
“I got turned around. I walked by the front office. It was dark inside, except Mr. Pinkman’s light was on in the back.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“I didn’t see Mr. Pinkman, just that his light was on.”
“What about anybody else?”
“Mrs. Jenkins, the school secretary. I think I saw her go into the office, but I was way down the hall by then. The lights came on. I turned around. I was about thirty yards away.” Standing where Kelly Wilson had stood when she murdered Mr. Pinkman and the little girl. “I’m not sure it was Mrs. Jenkins who entered the office, but it was an older woman who looked like her.”
“And that’s the only person you saw, an older woman entering the office?”
“Yes. The doors were closed to the classrooms. Some teachers were inside, so I guess I saw them, too.” Charlie chewed her lip, trying to get her thoughts together. No wonder her clients talked themselves into trouble. Charlie was a witness, not even a suspect, and she was already leaving out details. “I didn’t recognize any of the teachers behind the doors. I don’t know if they saw me, but it’s possible they did.”
“Okay, so you went to Mr. Huckabee’s classroom next?”
“Yes. I was in his room when I heard the gunshot.”
“A gunshot?”
Charlie wadded the Wet Wipes into a ball on the table. “Four gunshots.”
“Rapid?”
“Yes. No.” She closed her eyes. She tried to remember. Only a handful of hours had passed. Why did everything feel like it had happened an eternity ago? “I heard two shots, then two more? Or three and then one?”
Delia held her pen aloft, waiting.
“I don’t remember the sequence,” Charlie admitted, and she again reminded herself that this was a sworn statement. “To the best of my re
collection, there were four shots, total. I remember counting them. And then Huck pulled me down.” Charlie cleared her throat. She resisted the need to look at Ben, to gauge how he was taking this. “Mr. Huckabee pulled me down behind the filing cabinet, I assume for cover.”
“Any more gunshots?”
“I—” She shook her head because again she was unsure. “I don’t know.”
Delia said, “Let’s back up a little. It was only you and Mr. Huckabee in the room?”
“Yes. I didn’t see anyone else in the hall.”
“How long were you in Mr. Huckabee’s room before you heard the shots?”
Again, Charlie shook her head. “Maybe two to three minutes?”
“So, you go into his classroom, two to three minutes pass, you hear these four gunshots, Mr. Huckabee pulls you down behind the filing cabinet, and then?”
Charlie shrugged. “I ran.”
“Toward the exit?”
Charlie’s eyes flicked toward Ben. “Toward the gunshots.”
Ben silently scratched his jaw. This was one of their things, the way Charlie always ran toward danger when everyone else was running away.
“All right.” Delia spoke as she wrote. “Was Mr. Huckabee with you when you ran toward the gunshots?”
“He was behind me.” Charlie remembered sprinting past Kelly, leaping over her extended legs. This time, her memory showed Huck kneeling beside the girl. That made sense. He would’ve seen the gun in Kelly’s hand. He would’ve been trying to talk the teenager into giving him the revolver the entire time that Charlie was watching the little girl die.
She asked Delia, “Can you tell me her name? The little girl?”
“Lucy Alexander. Her mother teaches at the school.”
Charlie saw the girl’s features come into focus. Her pink coat. Her matching backpack. Was her name monogrammed on the inside of her jacket or was that a detail that Charlie was making up?
Delia said, “We haven’t released her name to the press, but her parents have been notified.”
“She didn’t suffer. At least, I don’t think so. She didn’t know she was …” Once again, Charlie shook her head, aware that she was filling in blanks with things that she wanted to be true.
Delia said, “So, you ran toward the gunshots, in the direction of the front office.” She turned to a fresh page in her pad. “Mr. Huckabee was behind you. Who else did you see?”
“I don’t remember seeing Kelly Wilson. I mean, I did remember later that I saw her, when I heard the cops shouting, but when I was running, well, before that, Huck caught up with me, he passed me at the corner, and then I passed him …” Charlie chewed her lip again. This meandering narrative was the kind of thing that drove her crazy when she talked to her clients. “I ran past Kelly. I thought she was a kid. A student.” Kelly Wilson had been both of those things. Even at eighteen, she was tiny, the kind of girl who would always look like a kid, even when she was a grown woman with children of her own.
“I’m getting fuzzy on the timeline,” Delia admitted.
“I’m sorry.” Charlie tried to explain, “It screws with your head when you’re in the middle of this kind of thing. Time turns from a straight line into a sphere, and it’s not until later that you can hold it in your hand and look at all the different sides, and you think, Oh, now I remember—this happened, then this happened, then … It’s only after the fact that you can pull it back into a straight line that makes sense.”
Ben was studying her. She knew what he was thinking because she knew the inside of his head better than she did her own. With those few sentences, Charlie had revealed more about her feelings when Gamma and Sam had been shot than she had alluded to in sixteen years of marriage.
Charlie kept her focus on Delia Wofford. “What I’m saying is that I didn’t remember seeing Kelly the first time until I saw her the second time. Like déjà vu, but real.”
“I get it.” Delia nodded as she resumed writing. “Go on.”
Charlie had to think to find her place. “Kelly hadn’t moved between the two times I saw her. Her back was to the wall. Her legs were straight out in front of her. The first time, when I was running up the hall, I remember glancing at her to make sure she was okay. To make sure she wasn’t a victim. I didn’t see the gun that time. She was dressed in black, like a Goth girl, but I didn’t look at her hands.” Charlie stopped to take a deep breath. “The violence seemed to be confined to the end of the hall, outside the front office. Mr. Pinkman was on the floor. He looked dead. I should’ve checked his pulse, but I went to the little girl, to Lucy. Miss Heller was there.”
Delia’s pen stopped. “Heller?”
“What?”
They stared at each other, both clearly confused.
Ben broke the silence. “Heller is Judith Pinkman’s maiden name.”
Charlie shook her aching head. Maybe she should’ve gone to the hospital after all.
“All right.” Delia turned to another fresh page. “What was Mrs. Pinkman doing when you saw her at the end of the hallway?”
Again, Charlie had to think back to find her place. “She screamed,” Charlie remembered. “Not then, but before. I’m sorry. I left that out. Before, when I was in Huck’s room, after he pulled me behind the filing cabinet, we heard a woman screaming. I don’t know if it was before or after the bell rang, but she screamed, ‘Help us.’”
“Help us,” Delia confirmed.
“Yes,” Charlie said. That was why she had started running, because she knew the excruciating desperation of waiting for someone, anyone, who could help make the world right again.
“And so?” Delia said. “Mrs. Pinkman was where in the hallway?”
“She was kneeling beside Lucy, holding her hand. She was praying. I held Lucy’s other hand. I looked into her eyes. She was still alive then. Her eyes were moving, her mouth opened.” Charlie tried to swallow down the grief. She had spent the last few hours reliving the girl’s death, but saying it out loud was too much. “Miss Heller said another prayer. Lucy’s hand let go of mine and …”
“She passed?” Delia provided.
Charlie squeezed her hand shut. All these years later, she could still recall what it felt like to hold Sam’s trembling fingers inside her own.
She wasn’t sure which was harder to witness: a sudden, shocking death or the slow, deliberate way that Lucy Alexander had faded into nothing.
Each existed in its own realm of the unbearable.
Delia asked, “Do you need a moment?”
Charlie let her silence answer the question. She stared past Ben’s shoulder into the mirror. For the first time since they’d locked her in the room, she studied her reflection. She’d dressed down on purpose to go to the school, not wanting to send the wrong message. Jeans, sneakers, a too-big, long-sleeved T-shirt. The faded Duke Devil logo was spattered with blood. Charlie’s face wasn’t any better. The red discoloration around her right eye was turning into a proper bruise. She pulled the wads of tissue out of her nose. The skin tore like a scab. Tears welled into her eyes.
Delia said, “Take your time.”
Charlie didn’t want to take her time. “I heard Huck telling the cop to put down his gun. He had a shotgun.” She remembered, “He tripped before. The cop with the shotgun. He stepped in some blood and …” She shook her head. She could still see the panic on the man’s face, the breathless sense of duty. He had been terrified, but like Charlie, he had run toward the danger instead of away.
“I want you to look at these photographs.” Delia rifled through her bag again. She spread three photos on the table. Headshots. Three white men. Three crew cuts. Three thick necks. If they hadn’t been cops, they would’ve been mobsters.
Charlie pointed to the one in the middle. “That’s who had the shotgun.”
Delia said, “Officer Carlson.”
Ed Carlson. He’d been a year ahead of Charlie at school. “Carlson was pointing the shotgun at Huck. Huck told him to take it easy, or something l
ike that.” She pointed to another photo. The name below said RODGERS, but Charlie had never met him. She said, “Rodgers was there, too. He had a pistol.”
“A pistol?”
“A Glock 19,” Charlie said.
“You know your weapons?”
“Yes.” Charlie had spent the last twenty-eight years learning everything she could about every gun ever made.
Delia asked, “Officers Carlson and Rodgers were pointing their weapons at whom?”
“At Kelly Wilson, but Mr. Huckabee was on his knees in front of her, shielding her, so I guess that technically, they were pointing their weapons at him.”
“And what was Kelly Wilson doing at this time?”
Charlie realized she hadn’t mentioned the gun. “She had a revolver.”
“Five shot? Six?”
“I would only be guessing. It looked older. Not snub-nosed, but—” Charlie stopped. “Was there another gun? Another shooter?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because you asked how many shots were fired, and you asked how many bullets were in the revolver.”
“I wouldn’t extrapolate from my questions, Ms. Quinn. At this point in the investigation, we can say with a high degree of certainty that there was not another gun and there was not another shooter.”
Charlie pressed together her lips. Had she heard more than four gunshots in the beginning? Had she heard more than six?
Suddenly, she wasn’t certain of anything.
Delia said, “You said that Kelly Wilson had the revolver. What was she doing with it?”
Charlie closed her eyes to give her brain a moment to reset back to the hallway. “Kelly was sitting on the floor like I said. Her back was to the wall. She had the revolver pointed at her chest, like this.” Charlie clasped her hands together, miming the way the girl had held the gun with both hands, her thumb looped inside the trigger guard. “She looked like she was going to kill herself.”