Thread of Doubt Read online

  I checked my rearview mirror. The minivan let another car slide over. He apparently knew none of us were getting anywhere fast.

  Patrick's relationship with Erin had also deteriorated, mainly over how she perceived he wasn't being honest with her. I didn't think there was any question that she cared about him, but I understood what she said about not being able to fully trust him. My guess was that he also felt that. No relationship was going to survive those hurdles.

  I pulled the sun visor down, trying to cut the late day glare that was causing me to squint at the traffic in front of me.

  Patrick had significant stressors in his life, ones that would've weighed anyone down. There was no denying that he was feeling pressure from his band mates and Erin. There was pressure just to stay clean. His anger toward Erin and his sequestering himself from the band seemed to indicate the pressure was getting to him.

  So no matter how much Mike and Cleo and everyone else didn't want to believe it, it seemed to me that his suicide was not just the most logical cause of his death, but also understandable.

  I thought about how I was going to present those things to Mike as I inched toward the west and closer to Coronado.

  By the time I got home, it was well after dinner and I was disappointed to find the house empty. I checked my phone and saw that Elizabeth had texted me during the drive, telling me that she was going out with a couple of friends. I texted her to let her know that I'd been driving and that I was home now. She responded a few minutes later, letting me know they were in the Gaslamp and probably wouldn't be home until much later. I didn't need to wait up.

  I pulled a bag of lettuce from the fridge and made a quick, uninspired salad. I scrolled through my school email while I ate standing at the counter. I left the dishes in the sink, then went to the bathroom to shower. I put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt after drying off and propped myself up on the bed, grabbing the television remote. I glanced at the shoulder bag that housed all of my school materials, knowing I had some things to grade and a lot more things to plan for January.

  I looked away from it and flipped through the channels, but nothing grabbed my interest. I finally settled on a movie I'd seen multiple times before, not to watch it again, but just so there'd be noise in the room and I wouldn't feel so alone.

  I checked my phone several times, but there was nothing of interest.

  I knew I wouldn't hear from Elizabeth unless she needed something.

  After a while, I drifted off, the noise of the television unable to keep me awake.

  I thought I heard the door open at some point in the night and I assumed it was Elizabeth getting home.

  But I didn't get up.

  I laid there in the dark, the television glowing in the room, trying to shut out the thoughts of Patrick Bullock and the other things in my life that were making so much noise in my head.

  EIGHTEEN

  Elizabeth and I took a different route for our run the following morning. Rather than heading toward the beach, we ran east out of the neighborhood, the San Diego downtown skyline to our left, and toward the bridge. We cut southward along the golf course and down toward the condos and townhomes across from the Hotel Del. We ran halfway down the strand before U-turning and heading for home.

  “You took it easy on me,” I said, still covered in sweat, as we walked up the driveway.

  “My recovery day,” she said, smiling. “You got lucky.”

  “Figured you were worn out from your late night.”

  She frowned. “I got home about midnight.”

  “That's late when you're my age.”

  “It's early when you're mine,” she said. “But we just hung out. Got coffee and then ice cream and walked the harbor.”

  I opened the front door and she told me about how her friends from high school were doing, catching me up on their boyfriends and college and the things that occupied most of your time when you hit twenty years old. While she talked, I mixed up waffle batter and poured the mix into the waffle iron. I cut up some fruit and threw it in a bowl and she put out plates and silverware while she talked. It was nice hearing her ramble. It reminded me that even with everything she had endured in her short life, she was still normal. Yes, she had things she was still dealing with, but she'd come out not that much different than any other young woman her age.

  She was far tougher than I was.

  As we ate, I told her about what I'd learned about Patrick Bullock the day before. She listened as she devoured one waffle, then a second.

  “So you think he did it then,” she said. “Killed himself?”

  “I don't see a path to anything else,” I told her. “Which is both good and sucks.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, it's good because there's closure,” I said. “Closure in the sense that his family and friends know what happened. There shouldn't be much mystery.”

  She stabbed at a strawberry with her fork. “Right.”

  “But it sucks because then you have to ask yourself all of the questions that come with that,” I said, sipping from my coffee. “The whys and the what-ifs. And sometimes, those are pretty painful.”

  She nodded. “For sure.” She reached for another strawberry. “I do that sometimes.”

  “Do what?”

  “The what-ifs,” she said. “What if I'd followed you into the house that morning. How literally everything else would've been different. For us. For Mom.”

  Something pinched in my gut. I took another sip of my coffee. “Hard not to think about those things. I thought about them the whole time you were gone. They ate me up.”

  “I don't mean they keep me up at night,” she said, glancing at me. “Just that sometimes I go down that rabbit hole and I just wonder.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “But it wasn't your fault for staying outside. Any kid should be able to stand outside in their own front yard for as long as they want, much less five minutes.”

  “I know.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Let's not turn this into Good Will Hunting,” she said, finishing her water. “I know it wasn't my fault. It's just something I think about sometimes.”

  I felt the pinching subside. “Fair enough. And like I said. I do, too. I think you can't help but do it. Even if you haven't gone through something like we have or what Patrick’s family is going to deal with, I think it's normal to think about the roads you could've taken and how that might change who you are.”

  She nodded, lost in thought.

  I'd done it the whole time she'd been gone and then again after Lauren was killed. I'd seen a million different paths that I hadn't taken and I did stay up at night, wondering why I hadn't taken them and angry with myself for not seeing them. It was a frustrating exercise, but one that was probably going to be with me forever.

  “So,” I said, wadding up my napkin. I couldn’t wallow. Not now. “What's the plan for today?”

  “Jenna asked if I'd go look at an apartment with her,” she said. “She needs to move. Her roommate is a nightmare. She doesn't wanna go by herself.”

  “Ah, okay.”

  “But maybe we could have dinner?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “I don't have anything going on tonight.”

  I nodded. “Okay, that works.”

  “What are you going to do today?”

  I gathered up her plate and stacked it on top of mine, my stomach tangling at what I had to do. “I'm gonna go talk to Mike.”

  NINETEEN

  Mike rotated his coffee mug. “Alright. I guess that's it then.”

  We were at a tiny grill and coffee shop on Orange, hunched over a small table at the front window. Christmas lights hung in the window frame, and tiny snowflake decals decorated the glass. I'd given him the rundown on what I'd learned talking to the guys in the band and to Erin. He'd listened, nodded occasionally, and seemed to be accepting the idea that Patrick had taken his own life.

  “I'm sorry,” I said. “I wish...well, I wish he was still alive
.”

  He drummed his knuckles against the tabletop. “Me, too, Joe. Me, too. But I appreciate you checking on it.”

  “Wish I had better news.”

  He shrugged. “Just a different kind of bad.”

  “Still.”

  He let out a long sigh. “My sister's a mess, though. Which means I've got some work cut out for me. Funeral, all that kind of stuff.”

  “Not fun.”

  “No, it won't be,” he said. “But it is what it is.”

  I watched an older man walk by with a tiny dog attached to a silver leash. “You ever see him play? With his band?”

  Mike shook his head. “Nope. I heard him play guitar when he was a kid, when he was just screwing around. But by the time he got serious, I was already creating some distance.” He drummed the table again. “I regret it now.”

  I nodded. I was sure that he did. Hindsight had a way of making one feel very stupid. When Elizabeth was taken, one of the things that kept me up at night was all of the times I'd been too tired to play with her. She'd ask if I'd come up to her room and I'd put her off, telling her I was too tired. She'd bring things downstairs and instead of engaging, I'd stay on the couch, half paying attention. Those moments became much sharper and clearer after she'd been abducted and they haunted me.

  He started to say something, but his phone vibrated against the table. He glanced at the screen and picked it up. “Excuse me for a second.” He tapped the screen. “Lorenzo.”

  I stood and walked to the counter. I flagged down the girl working the register and paid the check for our coffee. When I went back to the table, Mike had a funny look on his face.

  “Can you send that to me?” he said, his eyes focused on something I couldn't see. “Scan it and email it to me?” He nodded. “Yeah, yeah, that'd be great, Holly. I really appreciate it. Thanks for the call.” He punched off the phone, but kept his eyes on it, like he wasn't sure what he was looking at.

  “You alright?” I asked.

  He looked up at me, almost startled to see me standing there. “Um. Yeah. I need some air.” He stood and I followed him out to the street. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, his hands on his hips, his suit jacked flared out over his hands.

  “Mike?”

  He turned around. “Sorry.”

  “What's up?”

  “That was the tox results,” he said. “On Patrick. I have a friend in the coroner's office and asked her to call me as soon as it was complete. Actually, I asked for a rush and for her to call me when it was done.”

  I stepped closer to him to let a kid on a skateboard get by. “Okay.”

  “Here it is,” he said, tapping his phone. “Hang on.”

  I waited, watching the cars move back and forth on Orange, a steady crawl to and from the beach.

  “Shit, she's right,” he said, after a minute. “I thought she had it wrong, but she didn't.”

  “Mike, what's going on?” I asked.

  He scratched at his head for a second. “Okay. So on the screen, he had a bunch of shit in his system. Benzodiazapenes and alcohol. Definitely enough to kill himself. But guess what wasn't on there?”

  I shook my head, still not following.

  “Heroin,” he said, squinting at me. “He had a fucking needle in his arm, but there's none of that shit in his system? How's that?”

  “It showed nothing?” I asked, surprised.

  “Just a trace,” he said. “Barely registered. So he had a needle in his arm, but nothing in his system.”

  “That's odd,” I said.

  “You think?” he said, scratching at his head again. “So, what? He took a bunch of pills and booze, then got ready to shoot up and just passed out?”

  “It's possible,” I said, though I wasn't sure it was.

  “Yeah. Except I asked about the needle,” he said. “It was empty when they tested it. So I assumed he'd already shot it into his arm.”

  “But that would've showed in his system. On the tox screen.”

  “Uh huh,” he said, nodding. “Makes no sense.”

  It really didn't.

  We stood there for a few minutes, neither of us talking, both of us thinking.

  “I'm gonna go see Holly,” he said, then held up his phone. “My friend that just called. I'm gonna ask her to look at a couple other things. Then I'm gonna check with the guys who wrote the report again.” He shook his head. “Has to be a mistake. Somebody goofed somewhere.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Except they don't usually screw those things up.”

  “Except for that,” he said. “Hey, uh, Joe. You wanna—?”

  “I'm already on it,” I said, backing down the sidewalk toward my car. “I'll go talk to some people.”

  TWENTY

  I drove back to Cleo Bullock's home. I didn’t know why, but starting with her again seemed like the most logical place, maybe because she was the person I’d started with. I called her and asked her if I could stop by just so I could finish up my notes and she told me she'd be home for the next few hours. I wasn't yet sure what I was going to tell her and I didn't want to dissuade her from what Mike had already told her about Patrick's death being a suicide, but if the toxicology report was accurate, something was off.

  Cleo greeted me with swollen eyes. Her entire body looked gaunt and tired, like she hadn't slept in weeks. She had morphed from a woman with hope to someone completely devastated since I'd last seen her.

  She ushered me into the living room where we'd sat before.

  “I talked to Mike yesterday,” she said, her voice dry and hoarse.

  “I'm sorry about Patrick.”

  She sniffed and nodded. “Yes. Thank you. My understanding is you were the one that found him?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded again. “Thank you. For finding him. That couldn't have been easy.”

  I didn't say anything.

  “Mike said you spoke with his friends. The boys in the band?”

  “I did,” I told her. “Yesterday. I think they were still in shock, for the most part.” I paused. “They really looked to Patrick as the leader of their band. I'm not sure they'll know what to do without him. They all had kind things to say about him. Each of them made a point to say he was their friend, not just someone they played in a band with.”

  She studied her hands for a moment. “Yes. I think he was their...leader.” She looked up from her hands. “I probably should've seen them play more often. Patrick believed in them. He really did.”

  “They believed in him, too,” I told her.

  She nodded, then looked at me. “And you spoke to Erin, as well?”

  “I did,” I said again. “She was just as shocked.”

  Cleo chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. “Erin. She and Patrick...it was a bit of a rollercoaster.”

  “That's what she indicated,” I said.

  “Did she?” she said, her eyes twitching in my direction. “I'm surprised she didn't blame it all on Patrick.”

  As I thought about it, she had placed most of the blame on Patrick for the tempestuousness of their relationship, but not in a way that felt like she was angry about it. She'd presented it a fairly pragmatic way.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  She chewed on her lip again before answering. “She didn't seem to be able to believe he could stay clean. My son loved her, and her opinion mattered to him.” Her voice cracked, and she took a deep breath. “The fact that she was always skeptical about where he was in his recovery was a source of tension in their relationship.”

  “I think that's reasonable,” I said.

  Her eyes flickered in my direction. “Have you had much experience with addiction, Mr. Tyler?”

  “No,” I said. “And it's Joe.”

  “When someone you love is recovering, it's vital that they feel supported,” she explained. “They need to know they'll be accepted unconditionally. No matter what happens.”

  “Meaning that even if there's a slip-up...”


  “...that they'll have a person's unconditional love and support,” Cleo said. “I'm not sure he and Erin ever reached that point in their relationship.”

  I shifted my weight, my back stiff from my run with Elizabeth. “If you don't mind me saying, I gather you weren't in favor of their relationship.”

  “I wasn't in favor of Erin,” she said, her gaze fixed on me. “No.”

  “So it was personal?”

  She pursed her lips for a moment. “I didn't think that she and Patrick were a good match. And I know that when their relationship suffered, Patrick took it very hard.”

  “How so?”

  “He had down periods,” she said. “He'd have trouble writing. When he fought with her, his mood darkened.” She wrung her hands. “She was not a positive influence on him.”

  I thought she was seeing things from a very biased point of view, but I wasn't sure how else a mother was supposed to see it.

  “Did you talk to Patrick about that?” I asked. “About your disapproval?”

  “I made it known to him that I thought he'd be better off with a fresh start,” she said. “In every area.”

  “But he disagreed.”

  She smiled bitterly. “When a young man is in love, it's very hard to reason with him.”

  I nodded. “It can be, yes.”

  “I firmly believe that if he'd broken up with her, we would not be having this conversation,” she said.

  “You blame her?” I asked. “For his death?”

  “Their relationship weighed on him,” she said, leaning ever so slightly in my direction. “Her opinion weighed on him. Her lack of trust weighed on him. All of that was a lot for him to...digest.” She sat up straight. “I think it makes sense that she wasn't making him happy.”

  I thought that was harsh, but, again, I understood trying to place blame. Grief was an unruly animal, and it rarely was logical or reasonable. Cleo Bullock needed to place blame somewhere and Erin was a natural target. Because she certainly didn’t seem willing to blame her son.

  “And she wanted him out of the band,” she added.