Chapter 11

Brogan straightened his tie as he rode the elevator to the eleventh floor in the Arlington, Virginia, office building owned by Thompson Energy. After exiting the elevator, he made his way through the double glass doors into a plush waiting room. Water bubbled down a small rock waterfall, and numerous green plants created an atmosphere of peace.

After giving his name to the young male receptionist wearing an aquamarine dress shirt, he moved to view the framed photos lining one wall. Each image featured Quentin Thompson poised with federal and state senators and representatives, as well as numerous celebrities and even a former president of the United States. Impressive.

Brogan had done his homework on Quentin and Thompson Energy, which had been founded by Quentin’s great-great-great-grandfather, Charles Thompson, in the 1820s with a coal mine that straddled what became the West Virginia-Virginia border. Charles had expanded his coal empire to include some twenty mines in Appalachia stretching from Virginia to Pennsylvania. Each generation had at least one son who carried on the family tradition of carting the black fuel out of the depths of the earth. Quentin’s father, Richard Thompson, expanded the family holdings to include permits for fracking and natural gas, along with precious mineral deposits. By all accounts, Quentin continued the family practice of taking no prisoners when it came to prying energy from the bowls of the earth. A man used to getting his own way by any means, even those on the wrong side of the law. While Brogan managed to track the scent of potential scandal related to some of Quentin’s business dealings, he’d not had time to find concrete proof the man had crossed any unethical lines.

“Mr. Gilmore?”

Brogan turned to a middle-aged woman wearing a stylish tailored skirt suit standing beside the receptionist’s desk. “Yes?”

“I’m Ms. Budner, Mr. Thompson’s executive assistant. If you’ll come this way?” She didn’t give him a chance to respond but started walking.

Puzzled by her frosty greeting, Brogan followed her down a short hallway. But it wasn’t Ms. Budner’s opinion he needed to worry about, it was her boss’s. She paused at a door and pressed her thumb against a pad, then pushed the door open, holding it for Brogan to walk through.

“Right this way.” With a sweep of her hand, she indicated another hallway. He obediently followed her, taking in the muted sounds of a busy office. No one looked up as he passed offices on his right and cubicles on his left. Finally, Ms. Budner opened a door on her right.

He went after her into a large anteroom with a comfortable seating group off to one side surrounded by more plants and a desk with a laptop and phone. Ms. Budner marched straight to a frosted glass door, knocked once, then opened it.

“Mr. Thompson, Mr. Gilmore is here for your eleven-thirty appointment.”

Brogan stepped into the office as Quentin moved from behind his desk.

“Thank you, Anna. Please buzz me a few minutes before noon.” As his assistant nodded and left the room, Quentin held out his hand to Brogan.

Brogan shook the older man’s hand, then took the chair indicated as Quentin returned to his seat behind the desk. “I appreciate your making the time to see me.”

Quentin smiled, but Brogan detected a calculation behind his expression. He had prepped for the interview fully expecting Quentin to have done the same. By all accounts, the businessman was formidable in pushing his own agenda, and Brogan had no doubt Quentin would attempt to control the interview—and the direction of Brogan’s story. Which likely meant Quentin would know about Brogan’s past missteps and try to use it to his advantage.

“I apologize for the incident the other evening. That can’t have been pleasant for someone unfamiliar with our family tragedy.” Quentin relaxed into his plush leather executive chair.

“It was interesting.” Brogan crossed his ankle over his knee and pulled out his notebook and cell phone. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

Quentin narrowed his eyes for a second before smoothing out his countenance. “What exactly is your story about?”

“At this point, I’m just gathering background information.” True as far as it went. No need to tell Quentin that Brogan suspected there was a chance justice hadn’t been served in the disappearance of Jesse.

“I see. I’ll answer some of your questions with the understanding that this is for background information only.”

The words, though courteously spoken, carried an undertone of warning. Brogan nodded his agreement. He hit the record app on his phone and crisply related the date, time, location, and his and Quentin’s names. “How did Melender come to live with you and your wife?”

Quentin didn’t answer right away, as if considering how he should respond. “My wife, Ruby, was the younger sister of Melender’s father. Bobby Ray died when Melender was fifteen. Melender went to live with her great-grandmother, Sudie Harman, who was Ruby and Bobby Ray’s grandmother. When Sudie died a year or so later, social services contacted Ruby about taking in Melender.”

Brogan had learned all of that from newspaper accounts of the trial. “How did Melender fit into your household?”

“Not very well.”

Brogan’s curiosity piqued by the clipped response. “Why was that?”

“For one thing, her father had turned over the raising of Melender to Sudie, who allowed Melender to run wild with very little supervision or restrictions. Then there was the obvious disparity between Melender’s upbringing in the mountains and life here in McLean.” Quentin swiveled his chair slightly away from Brogan. “To say she experienced culture shock is an understatement.”

“In what way?”

“When she first came to live with us, it was early spring, and we often found her sleeping on the deck wrapped in a blanket. She was always climbing trees and staying outside. Plus, she rarely wore shoes, even in the wintertime.”

That jived with what Tim Nash had told him. Brogan looked up from his notebook. “How did she get along with the other members of your household?”

“Ruby left when Melender was only a preschooler, so they had no relationship prior to the girl’s arrival. We only took Melender in because she literally had no place to go. Besides, at sixteen and a junior in high school, the arrangement wouldn’t be for long.”

The coldness of that statement shouldn’t have shocked Brogan, but it did. Melender, grieving for the recent loss of her father and grandmother—and the only home she’d ever known—tossed into a foreign household where no one wanted her. Pity for the uprooted teenage girl stirred in his heart. “How did Melender get along with your kids?”

Quentin tightened his jaw. “Jared was nineteen at the time and attending community college. Jillian was a baby when Melender came.”

Unspoken was Jesse’s name, with whom Ruby must have been pregnant around the time of Melender’s arrival. “And what did Jared think about her?”

“I doubt he thought much about her at all.” The phone on Quentin’s desk buzzed, and he hit a button. “Yes?”

“Mr. Thompson”—his assistant spoke crisply—“five minutes until your lunch appointment.”

“Thank you, Anna.” Quentin released the button, then stood, signaling the interview was over.

Brogan closed his notebook, hit the stop button on his phone’s recording app, and got to his feet. He held out his hand to the older man. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“My pleasure.” Quentin gripped his hand hard before releasing it, the tone in his voice indicating anything but pleasure. “Mr. Gilmore, I strongly encourage you to be very careful. This story is old news, and raking up the past generally isn’t a good idea.”

Brogan stayed silent, sensing the man had something else to add.

“I’ve read your work. You’re a talented writer. I’m golfing with the publisher of the Washington Leader later this week. He’s always on the lookout for reporters.”

“The Leader is a fine newspaper.”

“I’ll mention that we chatted.” Quentin picked up his smartphone from his desk. “Anna will see you out.”

Quentin’s last comment echoed in Brogan’s ears as he left the man’s office. He understood perfectly what was being offered—a chance to work for the Leader if he dropped looking into the disappearance of Jesse. The fact that Quentin had made such a statement quickened Brogan’s interest in digging deeper. A man like that didn’t do favors without strings attached. There must be something about the case Quentin didn’t want to come to light. Might be something that would embarrass the family. But it might be something that would point to another culprit in what happened to Jesse.

* * *

“What doyou mean there’s only a hundred dollars in the account?” Melender stared at the bank teller as a knot hardened in her stomach.

The teller, a young man wearing a powder-blue dress shirt with a magenta tie whose name plate identified him as Marvin Demaris, visibly wilted at her question, making Melender realize that she’d shouted at him.

“Sorry.” She rubbed her forehead, then reached into her purse. “Here’s the last statement I received from the bank.” She handed him the paper.

Mr. Demaris glanced at it, then back up at her. “This is dated six months ago.”

“And it shows I should have a little over twelve thousand dollars in the account.” Ruby had suggested opening a savings account with the insurance money her grandmother had bequeathed to her. Melender had readily agreed, too grieved over Sudie’s death to marvel that her grandmother had taken out a small life insurance policy on her son with the intention of leaving it to Bobby Ray’s only child.

Mr. Demaris frowned. “Let me check.” He turned to his computer.

As she waited, Melender stifled a yawn. She hadn’t slept well, her nightmarish dreams tangling her mind with images of the past. Jesse reaching his little hands toward her, a huge smile on his toddler face. Jillian and Jesse nestled against her on the porch swing as she sang mountain folk songs to them. The last time she saw Jesse, mac-and-cheese smeared on his cheeks as he sat in his highchair.

“Ah, I see what happened.” Mr. Demaris swiveled his computer screen toward Melender. He pointed to August 26. “You transferred $12,850 on Monday.”

Melender gasped. “No, I didn’t.”

“That’s what happened.”

“Where did the transfer go?” Her head began to ache as her stomach clenched tighter.

“Let’s see.” The teller moved the monitor back into place in front of him and clicked a few keys, then narrowed his eyes.

She crossed her arms on the ledge and leaned her weight forward. The wall clock read 4:15. Maybe she should try to take a quick nap before clocking in at seven. Her mind drifted to Brogan. He’d texted her yesterday that he would be meeting with Quentin this morning but hadn’t indicated when he might call her with any updates on his progress.

“Ms. Harman, your account co-owner made the transfer.”

“Co-owner!” She lowered her voice. “The account’s only in my name.”

The teller pointed to his computer monitor. “Actually, Ruby Harman Thompson is listed as the co-owner on this account.”

Now the missing money made perfect sense. Ruby was waging an all-out war in the hope that Melender would reveal the whereabouts of Jesse’s body.

Melender drummed her fingers against the counter. “Please show me when Mrs. Thompson was added to the account.”

The teller accessed another screen. “You opened the account as a minor and therefore needed an adult to be designated on the account.”

“Why didn’t her name show up on my statements?”

Mr. Demaris clicked on his keyboard for a few minutes. “Looks like she’s only listed with her initials. May I see your statement?”

She handed it to him, and he pointed to the letters RHT underneath her name with the word “custodian” next to them. Melender didn’t say anything for a moment as she digested the information. She vaguely recalled accompanying Ruby to open the bank account for the insurance money but hadn’t realized her aunt’s name would stay permanently attached to the account. “But I didn’t authorize her to take my money.”

The teller averted his gaze. “I’m sorry, but since Ms. Thompson is a designated user on the account, she could enact the transfer. You’ll have to ask her to return the funds.”

She could, but she might as well save her breath. “There’s nothing else I can do to get the money back?” Melender tried not to let panic creep into her voice.

Mr. Demaris shook his head. “She had full authority to transfer funds from the account.”

“How do I remove her from my account?” Not that it would help her recover the money, but she didn’t want Ruby to have access any longer.

“You both have to come to the bank.”

As if her aunt would agree to that. “That’s unlikely to happen. Can I just close the account?”

“Yes, you can certainly do that.” The teller tapped his keyboard. “Do you want the one hundred dollars in cash or cashier’s check?”

“Cash.” Melender shifted her feet. Ten minutes later, she walked out of the bank. The heat and humidity greeted her with a sticky embrace. After starting the car and blasting the air conditioning, she sat motionless. Dear God, please help me. I’ve struggled for so long on my own, and every time I think I see a little bit of light, everything goes dark again.

Her ringtone startled her. Brogan’s number flashed on the screen. Her heart suddenly lighter, she answered. “Hello?”

“Melender, it’s Brogan.”

At the sound of his strong, male voice, the words of greeting stuck in her throat. She swallowed hard. She still wasn’t sure she should trust a reporter, but Brogan was her best bet for getting to the bottom of what really happened the night Jesse disappeared.

“Are you okay?”

“It’s not been a good day.” Rotating her shoulders, she attempted to ease tension from her body—and hopefully, her voice too. The words came out more sorrowful than she had meant.

“What happened?”

The bank visit tumbled from her lips. “Ruby nearly drained my savings account. It’s not only that the money is gone, it’s, I feel...”

“Like someone kicked you in the gut.”

The succinct phrase resonated. “Exactly.” She blew out a breath. “I don’t expect Ruby to invite me over for family dinners, but I didn’t expect this level of, well, I’m not sure what to call it.”

“Vindictiveness.” The matter-of-fact way he spoke soothed her tattered nerves. He might not be one hundred percent in her corner, but he wasn’t fighting hard for her opponent either.

“I suppose it is. Not that I blame her. She’s still grieving for the loss of her son. I can’t imagine how that feels.” She eased on her sunglasses. “But you didn’t call to listen to me have a pity-party.”

“It’s okay to be upset.” Brogan paused. “But that might change when I update you on my interesting meeting with Quentin this morning.”

She lowered the A/C. “Learn anything?”

“More than I think he meant to reveal.”

“That sounds cryptic.” Her dashboard navigational screen dissolved from the outside temperature reading—a sultry ninety-one degrees—to the time. 4:53.

Brogan laughed. “I didn’t mean to be. Are you working tonight?”

“Yes, seven to seven.”

“That’s a long shift.”

“Just on Wednesdays. I work Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays nine to five. The extra hours on Wednesdays means twice a month, I have an extra day off.” Melender rolled her eyes at her babbling. The man hadn’t asked for her work schedule, for goodness’ sake.

“How do you feel about breakfast?”

“Breakfast?” She wished she hadn’t parroted him.

“Bacon, eggs, pancakes. Breakfast.”

“You had me at bacon.” Was he asking her out? Brogan’s only interested in you as a story. Repeating that phrase in her mind a few times calmed her racing heart.

He chuckled. “A woman after my own heart.” The faint sound of a keyboard clacking captured her attention. “Would you be available to meet me tomorrow morning at seven-thirty at the 29 Diner on Fairfax Boulevard?”

Since her social calendar had no engagements whatsoever, it was an easy answer. Whether this was solely for a story or because he wanted to see her personally, she didn’t care. Meeting a man for a meal would be a novel experience either way. “Sure.”

“Great, see you then.”

Melender said goodbye. As she disconnected the call, her stomach fluttered. This was most certainly not a date, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t make sure she looked her best.