Accused

Chapter 1

Genny

G OLDEN CHILD MYSTERY DEEPENS.

Whoever had sent me this old article didn’t understand the concept of the word news.

What have you got there? My roommate Taylor appeared from the bathroom. She hand-combed her straight blond hair neatly to the side as if it wasn’t already perfect.

A clipping of an old case I got in the mail.

The piece of print had taken the place of my keyboard, which I’d rested upright along its length against the processor on which my computer sat. The wrist protector held it in position, allowing me enough desk space to work on printouts in A4 size.

Someone sent a newspaper article to a newspaper? She took a dejected glance through the window onto the winter wonderland I called home. Why?

No idea. Maybe they’re unhappy with the way I run this paper and long for the golden age of journalism.

I’d been owner and editor of the Colbridge Weekly News for nearly two years now, too long to take offense at criticism, but aside from the piece itself, the envelope hadn’t even contained a reproachful note.

Taylor shot me a look that made me grin. She had hundreds of these looks. Chin high with a deep frown meant she disagreed with me. One brow up signaled ‘You’re kidding.’ The one she did now was a double eye roll while scratching her nose: ‘There she goes again.’

No one had a more expressive face than Taylor.

She slipped into her thick jacket and grabbed the keys to her Dodge Viper from the corner of my desk. A classic car I should be more impressed with than I was, she kept insisting.

Are you off again? I shoved the cutting to the side and in its place arranged the spread-out articles from my reporters and editors, most of which I shared with two other newspapers in the area.

Just for the day. She rubbed her hands and peered again at the large window that was covered in frost flakes. I tell you this. If I’d known California could be this cold, I’d have thought twice about coming.

I laughed. Not everyone was as suited to these conditions as I. Up here in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, that’s a given. If you’re waiting for warmer temperatures, it’s gonna be a long wait, but we make up for it with kickass local events. You’ll really love our town’s spring disco. Everyone gets dressed up, and if you enjoy watching middle-aged dads dance, you’re going to have a blast. I twisted my hips and elbows to an inaudible tune, making my desk chair creak.

Taylor raised one eyebrow. This place and I have different ideas of how to have a good time.

She might have finally warmed up to me, but the town as a whole had yet to penetrate her wall. She was sassy, direct, with an air of New York about her. Colbridge folks had many good qualities, but we didn’t do sassy, direct, or New York. That said, I didn’t fit in any better, which might be why we got on so well. We were the beans in a pod of peas, the wasps in a hive of bees, or, more specifically, the snow elemental and the hip chick in a group of small-town humans.

Being different was isolating. You learned a hundred different coping mechanisms to keep people at arm’s length. Oddly, no one taught you how to build relationships. The subtleties of language through which you leveled up from acquaintance to friend, or from friend to girlfriend, remained a mystery.

Taylor understood that. Only, unlike me, she didn’t seem to care.

"I won’t be dancing, clearly. I defensively crisscrossed my arms. I only take pictures and write about the shindig, but it’s a town event and a huge deal. If you want to blend in, you’ll be expected to attend, too."

She lifted her head and frowned. We’ll see.

That was what I liked least about her. Her constant caginess and reluctance to be tied to one place. Always on the move.

Being around her made me dizzy.

So, what’s the news on your father? I asked.

She plunked herself onto the sturdy wooden table that stood next to my desk. "News is a huge exaggeration. The P.I. I hired sent me here on a ‘solid’ lead. She curled her fingers into air quotation marks. But so far, I’ve found nada. Still, it doesn’t hurt to canvass the surrounding area before I move on."

And you’re sure you were born in California?

"That’s what I was led to believe, but I don’t know where. My family isn’t concerned with the past. It’s all about the now with them."

I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. Sounds like a healthy attitude.

Taylor wiggled her head.

When she asked me to mobilize my contacts in the area to help with her search, I’d jumped at the task. Of course I wanted to help her, but I’d been just as eager to discover more about my mysterious new roommate. Why was she so skittish? At first, when she’d step back from my touch or evade my gaze, I figured she was on to me, knew I wasn’t as human as I pretended, but after a while, it became clear this was her nature.

Sadly, my efforts to dig up information had bagged me a big, fat zero. The only deets about Taylor that I knew had come from her own mouth. She loved action movies, ice cream, and her car. In every other respect, she remained a conundrum.

Anyway, once I was convinced I hadn’t accidentally rented a room to an ax murderer, I got off her case, but every now and again, the doubts returned. Why did she need to stay mobile at all times? Was she on the run?

What? She wiped her face with the back of her hand. Do I have something on my nose?

I shook my head. Whatever was chasing her, some shady government agency or merely her past, it wasn’t any of my business.

The office phone rang, and Taylor answered. She’s here. Hang... Yeah, I can do that, or you could tell her your— Fine. No problem.

Although I’d asked her not to give out my business details to her investigators and sources, she continued to do so. Since I was chained to my desk for most of the day, she believed I could take messages for her. This time, though, the call to my number had evidently been meant for me.

Go figure.

Taylor lowered the phone. That was weird.

I bundled the articles into a folder, ready to be filed. What’s weird?

That was Morris or Maurice.

Maurice. Old-school investigative journalist. I pulled my wrist protector and keyboard up and started typing. He covers toxic waste dumps, corruption, that sort of thing. Completely wasted on us locals, but he’s tied to the area. The world’s loss is our gain.

I checked off today’s task list on my computer’s calendar, before opening my inbox. No new emails. Another light day for me. Unfortunately, there had been too many of those lately.

I glanced up from the screen. What did Maurice say?

He says he was the one who sent you the article. There’s been a development in the golden child case.

Interesting. I pointed at the clipping next to me. Five years ago, a local kid, Jane Something, went missing for three weeks and was later found in an abandoned mine, her body covered in gold dust.

Taylor shifted her hands to underneath her butt cheeks, causing the table to rattle under her weight. That’s horrible.

It was. It occupied the front page of every newspaper in the area for ages. They never found who did it, though. A development would be great. Not just for the parents, but also for us.

For us?

Our town. I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. Everyone talked about it. Everyone had a theory. It bound us in our outrage. It also happened to be a great time for the paper, although that was before my time.

Her feet stopped swaying. That’s cold.

I picked up my chewing pen, which had run out of ink at some point during the Industrial Revolution, but had become my go-to oral fixation since I gave up caffeine three days ago. The way of the world, hon.

She didn’t know I’d cried over that girl when the story first broke. Everyone had been searching for little Jane, yet she’d ended up dead anyway. It was only by accident that the late Mr. Dewey had stumbled over her body in the first place.

Once upon a time, under not so different circumstances, no one had come looking for me when I’d been abandoned by my biological parents. Again it had been pure chance that old army man had found me one cold morning on the banks of a stream. I’d been a few months old at the time. He’d bundled me up, taken me home, and raised me alongside his real son. Not only had he saved me from certain death, but he’d also never made me feel like anything other than his daughter. What made me so special that fate had allowed me to survive and sentenced Jane to death?

For weeks I’d followed the progress on the golden child, at least whenever Uncle Oscar was careless enough to leave the paper lying about. But it was Dad who’d ultimately called an end to my obsession. Life was meant for the living, he’d said.

The shadow of a frown creased Taylor’s face. Anyway, I’m not sure this is the goldmine you’ve been hoping for. Maurice said the police retested DNA found on the body and now have a suspect. A Granger Bent or Bennett? That Maurice guy mumbles.

My pen snapped in half, and the top part missiled into the desk lamp before falling back onto my desk. Taylor’s mouth kept on moving, but her voice vanished against the buzz inside my head. My dad rarely mentioned Granger’s name nowadays. His death nearly three years ago had been like a kick to the stomach. It had taken me a year to manage to look at old photos of us as kids, and another to do so without thinking the ache in my chest was going to kill me.

Genny? Taylor swayed forward. Are you all right?

I stared at the broken pen in my hand, then lifted my head. Granger didn’t do that. I don’t care about DNA, but he didn’t do what Maurice said.

You know the suspect?

Yeah, I know him. I all but spat my words. Granger Bennett. He’s my brother. Was my brother, I mean. No way was he involved in this.

Shit, I’m sorry. I should have made the connection from the surname. He’s dead?

I nodded.

Explains why Maurice didn’t want to talk to you himself. Taylor scoffed. Does he know about your relationship to Granger?

Yeah.

Maurice knew lots of things. The indiscretions we chose to hide and the secrets we buried. No doubt he also knew more about my brother’s murky past than me.

What are you going to do? Taylor softened her tone. About the story, I mean. Are you going to run it?

I clicked at an icon on my screen to open the digital version of this week’s paper. Although my small team had worked hard to put it together, most of the stories weren’t time-critical. No reason the reunion of separated-at-birth sisters couldn’t wait until next week. Besides, Pete, my print guy, didn’t