Free Promise You Won't Tell? by John Locke Page A

Kelli’s room, and may have been molested?
    And why would Lydia sleep in an upstairs bedroom anyway? The master bedroom’s on the main floor. Could she have moved upstairs because her husband’s gone and she wants to be closer to Kelli?
    You probably think I’m making too much out of the fact Mitch has been gone for at least five days. After all, lots of husbands travel, and Mitch has been gone less than a week, as far as I know. But if you could have seen the way Lydia and Kelli looked at each other when I asked about him, and the way Kelli muttered, “Thank God for that” when I mentioned him being out of town, and the way Lydia looked at me yesterday when she asked how I knew her husband—you’d understand why it gives me pause.
    Not that any of this matters, because Ethan Clark’s our guy.
    I’m sure of it.
    I’ve had a lot of “hands on” experience with predators. I’ve spent years evaluating them, following their trails of terror. Ethan Clark’s good-looking, wealthy, has a smooth rap, and his creep factor is off the charts. The way he boldly stared at my chest? I’m not exactly well-endowed, nor was I dressed sexily. I was wearing a nondescript business suit.
    Which is why I didn’t describe it to you earlier.
    And let’s not forget Ethan’s comment about how many hours he spent searching the internet for nude pictures of me.
    Nude pictures?
    Does that ring a bell?
    And another thing: every predator I’ve ever met or studied had a Jekyll and Hyde personality. During our brief meeting yesterday, Ethan Clark displayed a host of emotions. He was brash, condescending, angry, frightened, arrogant.
    Of course all these things and a nickel buys me a nickel’s worth of manure.
    I need the photos.
    They’re as critical as Monika Lewinsky’s dress. Without the dress, there was no affair.
    Am I saying I need a blue dress slathered in semen?
    In a way, yes.
    Which is why the whole time I was meeting with Mr. Roemer and the Underhills, Dillon was breaking into Kelli’s home, searching her bedroom, photographing every inch of it.
    What do we expect to find?
    Nothing.
    Something.
    Everything.
    We need any type of evidence that will give credence to, or dispute, Riley’s story.
    As I wait for Dillon to answer his phone, Roemer’s words play through my mind.
    Evidence must be credible, and legally obtained.
    Whatever Dillon finds might be credible, but...
    “You’re done?” Dillon says. “The meeting’s over already?”
    “It is. What have you found?”
    “Nothing. But I took lots of pictures.”
    “Can you tell if Mitch Underhill is still living there?”
    “To tell you the truth, pasting isn’t the only thing I suck at. I’m even worse at breaking and entering. I’ve only been inside for ten minutes.”
    “Well, we tried.”
    “I need to get out of here. My car’s a half-mile away.”
    “Come straight to the office, okay? I’d like to see what Kelli’s room looks like.”

We’re at my office, looking at pictures of Kelli’s bedroom on my computer screen. Riley’s with us.
    “You took these with a cell phone?” Riley says.
    Dillon laughs. “No way! Nikon D7000.”
    As I flip from one picture to the next, I ask, “Who brought you here today?”
    “My mom.”
    “She knows you’re meeting me?”
    “No, ma’am. She drops me off at the mall. I tell her I’m hanging out with friends. I go in the front, walk out the back. It’s only ten minutes.”
    I ask if she was wearing socks Saturday night (Yes). Slippers? (No). Did she pass out with her socks on? (Yes). I ask if she turned down the bedspread. (No). I ask if there’s any way she might have disrobed during the night, and was it possible she woke up for a few minutes when Ethan and Ronnie were in the room with her. (No and no).
    I ask if there’s anything she can remember about that night she hasn’t told us, or anything she can think of to help us prove her story.
    As expected, she’s got nothing new to add, so I say, “Tell