Could Michael have been in some way involved in Molly Smith's death? I didn't know, and that's why I'd asked Vincent to do some research on both Michael and his father. I just couldn't forget how Michael's face had paled when I had mentioned the death of Molly to him. There was something else, like an itch that just wouldn't go away. Michael knew I had killed that old guy and his family out on the road, so why hadn't he told me about the other member of that family falling into the well on his land? He would have made the connection, right? I mean, no one forgets a thing like that.
But was I putting two and two together and making five, like Michael said I was? Perhaps he just hadn't wanted to bring up the whole incident again about Molly Smith falling into the well. It had been a long time ago. Michael had been in the Army, his life had moved on. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to be reminded of his past life for personal reasons known only to him. Besides, I didn't even really know Michael. We had slept together - had a passionate fling - but did that really mean he had to share his life's secrets with me? Had I shared mine with him? We all had stuff lurking in the darkness which we would all rather forget.
I took the two empty teacups and Vincent's half-eaten sandwich into the kitchen. Maybe I had been wrong to ask him to snoop on Michael and his father. Shouldn't I be focusing my attention on who Molly had gone to meet that night? Who had she been in a relationship with? Michael? But wouldn't he have come forward if his girlfriend had fallen into the well? But then again, probably not. I remembered how his father had referred to the Smith family as vermin. If Michael's father disliked them so much, would he have confessed his love for one of them? But the girl had died, and to keep such a secret after that - to let the girl he had loved be remembered as a trespasser on his land - a criminal and thief, what sort of person could do that? Michael didn't seem a nasty person. He appeared better than that.
I switched out the kitchen light and flopped onto the sofa. Picking up the remote, I turned on the T.V., anything to try and clear my mind of the nagging thoughts which swirled there. It was no good - my mind wouldn't clear. When I thought I was some way to figuring it all out, another thought would enter my mind and throw everything into confusion again. It couldn't have been Michael that Molly was going to meet that night. Whoever she had gone to see was important enough for my father, Mac, Woody, and perhaps even Skrimshire to lie for. They had all changed their statements to protect someone - but who?
My father had got his friends to lie for me over the accident because I was his daughter. But who could have meant so much to my father that he would have risked everything for them? But not only would they have had to have meant a great deal to my father, but Mac and Woody, too. They wouldn't have risked everything for Michael or his father. So who had it been?
I switched off the T.V. and turned to my iPad. Picking it up, I hit the iBook icon and tried to engross myself in the book, Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos, which I was about halfway through. I just couldn't concentrate on it. Why didn't I just ask my father who he had risked everything for? Because I would drop Vincent in it. So? I hardly knew him. He was a nice guy and I'd asked him to bring that file to me. I'd promised him I would keep it a secret. Vincent was new at the station and it wouldn't have been fair to put him at odds with my father, Mac, and Woody so early on in his new career. I knew what the three of them could be like together. And would my father tell me? No. I knew in my heart he wouldn't. He wasn't going to reveal a secret like that to his hare-brained daughter who he thought would more than likely tell the world the next time she was pissed out of her skull.
I couldn't betray Vincent's trust. I would have to find out who Molly had met that night, but more importantly, who had pushed her into the well. For once in my life, I knew I wouldn't be able to rely on my father for help. For once, I would have to depend on myself.
Turning off my iPad, I climbed off the sofa and went to bed, secretly praying that my dreams wouldn't be haunted by Jonathan Smith again.
