Until Proven Innocent

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

AFTER
Detective Gerard Sullivan
Sunday May 21, 2016

I'm back at the crime scene – Rosella Collin's house – trying to put together this puzzle and figure out what exactly went on here. The crime scene unit is here as well, searching the house for anything that may be able to help us with this investigation. The life and death of Rosella Collins is an enigma I tend to solve.

"Any word on the kid?" I ask Robbins.
She puts her phone away and faces me. "Nothing."
"Dammit, now we have two children to find."
"Do you still think Weston killed her?"
"I have no idea what to think right now. She was pregnant with his kid, after all. And apparently was raising his other one."
"That is so messed up. How did he not know that they were sisters?"
I shrug. "It's beyond me, really. I guess Rosella never mentioned anything to him."
"Isn't that a bit suspicious on its own? I mean, your sister kills herself, you raise her child, and then eleven years later have an affair with the father of that baby?"
"None of this makes sense."
It's quiet for a moment, both of us thinking. "It's weird, right?" she says. "One of his daughter's goes missing on Thursday. The other one – who he didn't even know existed – goes missing Friday."
"She must have known who he was," I conclude. "There's no way that this is just one big coincidence."
"Did Antonia not tell him?" Robbins asks. "About the baby, I mean. Back at Northwestern."
"He seemed to be clueless on that aspect. Although, he did put two-and-two together about Clementine pretty quickly. So he must have known something."
"But it doesn't make sense – why would Weston take Emerald, kill Rosella Collins, and then take Clementine? If what he claims is true, he had no idea the kid was even his."
I nod, thinking this through. "You're right. So perhaps Weston isn't at fault here, although he is the only common denominator."
"And Cordelia,"
"What?"
"She's the only other piece of the puzzle that links everyone together."
"You think she knew?"
"Maybe. Perhaps she knew about Antonia, the baby, the affair – everything."
"And does what, exactly? Kidnaps her own child? Kills Rosella and takes Clementine?"
"Maybe."
"That's reaching."
"I've seen worse."
I shake my head. "None of this is adding up," I stop and look around the room. "We need to find that girl. Both of them. God only knows where they are at this point."
We both stand there, dumbfounded.
A voice calls from upstairs: "Found something!"
Both Robbins and I turn our heads and follow where the voice came from. I run up the stairs, two at a time.

When we get to the top, one of the crime scene analysts stands in the hallway, directing us to a bedroom at the end of the hall. Upon entering the room, my eyes immediately sweep the walls, taking in everything in front of me.

Photographs, newspaper clippings, maps, drawings, all spread out and pinned to the wall. I edge closer, walking up to the wall to read the text. I turn and look at the desk that sits adjacent to the wall. The analyst approaches me, hands me two plane tickets he discovered in the desk drawer, Chicago to Sacramento, for the passengers Rosella and Clementine Collins.

I return my gaze to the wall. My eyes immediately find a newspaper clipping of Weston from 2013 standing in front of his newly opened orthodontist practice: Waters' Orthodontics. Beside it, pinned to the wall, is a map of Davenport. There's a red sticker placed over the location where the Waters' home is.

I scan the paperwork posted across the wall, and finally, to the far left corner, an old, outdated newspaper clipping from 2005.

HOMICIDE RULED OUT: DEATH OF TWENTY-YEAR-OLD NORTHWESTERN STUDENT DECLARED SUICIDE.

Below the title is a photo of a young woman, blue eyes, light brown hair flowing over her shoulders. It's a class photo. She's smiling, looks happy. I don't need to read the article to know that this woman is Antonia Collins.

I walk back to the center of the wall, skimming over everything. But it's the calendar that catches my eye, the date specifically that's circled: Thursday May eighteenth. Emerald.

I turn around and see the analyst standing there, holding what looks to be a black book in his hands.
"What's this?" I take a step toward him.
"We found it amongst her things, hidden in the desk drawer." He extends his arm and hands it to me.
I take the book, which upon opening, discover is some sort of journal or diary. I flip it over in my hands, examining it.
"You may want to take a read, sir," the young man says to me.
I look up and meet his eyes for a moment, then nod.

I open the journal, scanning through the pages, gathering key words and sentences, stringing them together to form logical thoughts. Everything she has written in here over the past couple of years. Every single entry starts the same: Dear Toni.

I flip through the pages, aiming to get to the very last entry. That's what will help us put together the pieces.

I nearly reach the end of the small book when the writing stops. I flip back a couple of pages and find the very last entry that was written.

Friday May 19, 2016

Dear Toni,

Something went wrong. He didn't show at our drop-off location last night and won't return my phone calls. I know I'm not supposed to call him. He made that clear. But I couldn't just sit there, clueless. I'm afraid something might have happened to him. Or worse: he's done something to the baby. We were supposed to meet at the warehouse by the river last night and make the exchange. But he never showed. And now I'm worried.

I don't know what to do. I can't call the police because they'd know I had something to do with it. I've been seeing the Amber Alerts all day. Maybe I'll just leave it up to the police and hope they find him themselves. I'll pretend I had nothing to do with it. They can't trace it back to me, can they? No, I didn't even give him my real name. But he knows where to find me. Oh God, he could tell them where I live. Then they'll know. They'll make the connection through you.

I lift my head to see Robbins and the analyst standing there, staring at me. They're waiting for me to speak – to say something. But I'm not finished yet. I look down and flip back a page, to the entry right before the last.

Wednesday May 10, 2016

Dear Toni,

I feel so stupid right now. Stupid and used. I told him today. And do you know what he did? He left. Just as he always does. I can't believe I let myself get sucked into his trap. Did I really think that things could be different? I did. That just shows how stupid I am. Fucking stupid. Please forgive me, sister. I know how ridiculous this all seems. But it will all make sense soon. Then you will see. I promise you.

I flip through the pages, going back even further. Messy writing, sporadic thoughts. Journal entries dating back months ago. I flip to the very back again and stop when I see a page titled: Antonia's Story.