Chapter 164
Ellie's POV
I was scrolling through my phone, trying to look occupied, when Kate Palmer emerged from the administrative offices. Early thirties, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, the exhausted compassion of someone who'd seen too many broken people.
She stopped in front of our little group. "Are you Samantha's friends from school?"
We nodded in unison.
"I'm trying to piece together her support system. Do any of you know much about her background? Her childhood?"
"Not much," I admitted. "She transferred to our high school junior year. Lived with her aunt—sorry, foster mother. She didn't really talk about her past."
Kate's expression shifted. Professional concern tinged with something sharper. "I'm finding some... irregularities in her records. There's a six-month gap when she was seventeen. No school enrollment, no medical visits, nothing."
Jackson leaned forward slightly. "Could it be a clerical error?"
"Possibly. But when I cross-referenced with the national database..." Kate hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. "I found records from a juvenile psychiatric facility in Bend, Oregon. Four months of intensive PTSD treatment."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
"PTSD from what?" Lucas's voice barely registered above a whisper.
Kate glanced toward the observation wing, lowering her voice. "The admission notes indicate she witnessed a traumatic event. Her parents' car accident. Both died instantly when their vehicle went off a mountain road."
Oh God. My hand found Jackson's automatically.
"There's more." Kate's expression darkened. "The police report from that accident was flagged. 'Inconsistencies requiring further investigation.' But the case was closed due to insufficient evidence and Samantha's age. She was sixteen at the time."
"Wait." I couldn't process fast enough. "Sixteen? But you said she was seventeen when—"
"The accident happened when she was sixteen. The psychiatric treatment was one year later, which means..." Kate met my eyes. "Whatever they suspected, whatever questions they had about that night, Samantha carried it alone for a whole year before she finally broke down."
By afternoon, the full weight of Margaret Grey's presence filled the psychiatric consultation room. I watched through the observation window as Dr. Morrison—a man who'd probably heard every story imaginable—visibly stiffened at whatever Margaret was refusing to say.
Jackson stood beside me, his hand warm against my lower back. Lucas had been relegated to the family waiting area; Dr. Morrison wanted to speak with Margaret privately first, then separately with those of us who'd witnessed Samantha's breakdown.
"She knows something," I whispered. "Look at her body language."
Margaret sat rigid, hands clasped white-knuckled in her lap. Dr. Morrison slid a document across the table—probably the consent form for psychiatric treatment. Legal pressure.
After a long moment, Margaret's shoulders sagged. She started talking.
We couldn't hear through the soundproof glass, but we watched her mouth form words. Watched Dr. Morrison's expression shift from professional neutrality to barely concealed shock. Watched him make rapid notes, underlining certain passages with forceful strokes.
"What is she saying?" Jackson murmured.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number—Kate Palmer.
You should know what's in the police report. Check your email.
I pulled up my inbox with shaking hands. The PDF loaded slowly: Oregon State Police Incident Report #04-17-2385. I scanned the document, each sentence worse than the last.
Statement from witness (S. Garcia, age 16): Observed father (Paul Garcia, 43) physically assaulting mother (Diana Garcia, 39) while vehicle in motion. Attempted intervention from rear passenger seat. In struggle, may have accidentally made contact with driver's seat adjustment or steering column. Vehicle lost control, departed roadway at high speed.
Investigator Notes: Brake pattern analysis suggests possible deliberate pressure applied during final seconds before impact. Witness demonstrated unusual affect—flat emotional response, lack of visible distress when describing parents' deaths. Psychological evaluation recommended.
Follow-up: Insufficient evidence to establish intent. Given witness age and potential trauma response, case closed pending no new evidence.
I handed the phone to Jackson wordlessly. Watched the color drain from his face as he read.
Through the glass, Margaret stood abruptly. Dr. Morrison tried to calm her, but she was already heading for the door. She burst into the observation room, not noticing us at first, and nearly collapsed against the wall.
"Mrs. Grey?" Dr. Morrison followed her out. "Please, we need to—"
"That girl has been lying to herself for years." Margaret's voice shook with something between anger and grief. "The detective told me—he told me privately, off the record—that the brake marks didn't match an accident. That her story about 'accidentally' kicking the steering wheel didn't explain the trajectory. But they couldn't prove anything. She was sixteen. Traumatized. And the only witness."
She finally noticed Jackson and me. Her eyes narrowed.
"I took her in because no one else would. Because she was family, however distant. And for three years, she's never once mentioned that night. Never cried for them. Never showed an ounce of remorse." Margaret's laugh was bitter. "She just... moved on. Like they never existed."
Dr. Morrison gently guided Margaret back toward the consultation room. "Dissociation is a common trauma response—"
"Or she's a psychopath who got away with murder."
The door closed. I stood frozen, phone still gripped in my hand, the police report seared into my brain.
Jackson pulled me close. "Jesus Christ."
"She was sixteen when she killed them," I breathed. "Maybe. Possibly. We don't actually know—"
"The brake marks, Ellie."
"Kids do terrible things when they're desperate. When they're scared." I was defending her. I didn't know why. "If her father was violent, if she was trying to protect her mother—"
"Then why show no emotion afterward? Why never talk about it?"
I had no answer.