The Night of the Crash

by Jessica Irena Smith

Genres: Small Town & Rural; Amateur Sleuth; Crime Fiction; Domestic Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Steppy Corner, voice of hit true crime podcast series All the Dark Corners, wakes in hospital with no memory of what brought her to Heartsick - the small Colorado town where her estranged family live - no memory of why she was racing up the mountainside to her parents' house late at night . . . or why she didn't make that bend.

All she knows is her mother has been brutally murdered and her brother is the prime suspect.

As Steppy begins to piece together events in the run-up to the accident, she discovers her brother's connection to another ongoing case, that of a missing girl last seen with him on Halloween.

Steppy knows better than anyone that the truth often hides in the darkest of corners, but as she races to untangle the web of secrets and lies, will it ultimately prove too close to home?

A twisting, claustrophobic and masterfully plotted thriller, with a breath-taking conclusion. Perfect for fans of Gillian McAllister, Claire Douglas and Lisa Jewell.

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Readers love Jessica Irena Smith:

'⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ One of the best books this year'

'⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ A tangled tale of dark secrets . . . a captivating page-turner'

'⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ Family secrets, small towns . . . Jessica has hit the nail on the head'

'⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ Just got better and better . . . And the ending? I never saw that coming!'

'⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ Gripped me from page one . . . A must-read'

'⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ Such a twisty plot'

'⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ Dramatic and full of twists . . . I really didn't want to put it down'

Release date: October 24, 2024

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 336

Sample

Now

Polystyrene ceiling tiles. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I come round, but when I do, that’s what I see. I’ve a feeling I must’ve been drifting in and out for some time now, because those tiles feel vaguely familiar. My tiny New York apartment doesn’t have polystyrene tiles, thank God; yet still, when I wake finally – properly – I’m certain that’s where I am. As my eyes trace over the contents of my would-be home – the generic prints on the walls, the wood-veneer furniture, the wall-mounted television – none of it mine, I somehow believe that it is, all of it: the bed I’m lying in, the cannula in my arm with the line coming out, the IV bag hanging from the stand beside me. My dad, asleep in a chair in the corner of the room.

Dad.

I do a double-take, such as my eyes will allow, for they throb with even the slightest movement.

Why’s he in my apartment?

I blink, feel more pain. ‘Dad?’ I croak, unsure if anything’s come out.

He wakes with a start, scrambles from his chair, the open book in his lap toppling to the floor, and I wonder again what he’s doing in my apartment – how’d he get in? – all the while knowing this is most definitely not my apartment.

‘Thank goodness you’re awake.’ He’s at my bedside now. For a doctor, he seems remarkably ruffled. His eyes are red-rimmed, like either he’s been crying – I’ve never seen Dad cry before – or up all night. The whole thing unnerves me.

I brace myself with my elbows, try to sit up. Don’t have the strength. ‘Where am I?’

‘Hospital, sweetie. You’ve been in an accident.’

I have? I try to remember, close my eyes – maybe that will help – but the pounding in my head only grows, and there’s something else too: voices, loud yet indistinct, like more than one radio station playing at once.

Shit-shit-shit-shit-shit . . .

Don’t-die-don’t-die-don’t-die . . .

I put a hand to my head and recoil when I feel stubble, have a sudden flashback: me and Garrett as kids, running through freshly harvested fields, shorn wheat, stubbly like plastic drinking straws . . .

Stay with me . . .

Jesus!

I can’t tell if the voice is male or female, one voice or many. I open my eyes again.

‘Where am I?’

Dad sighs, not impatiently. ‘Hospital. You’ve been in an accident.’

‘What kind of accident?’

‘Car,’ he says. ‘You were driving and, well . . .’

‘I was driving?’ I can drive, sure, but I don’t own a car. Not in New York.

‘A hire car.’

I close my eyes again – No-no-no-no-no . . . Stay with me . . . Christ! – open them just as quickly. A woman’s voice, I’m sure.

‘Where am I?’ I ask.

‘Hospital, sweetie.’

‘No.’ I feel like I’m on a hamster wheel. ‘Where where?’

‘Oh.’ Dad looks relieved: right. ‘The city.’

‘New York?’ Has to be.

He shakes his head. ‘The Springs.’

‘Colorado?’

‘You came home for Thanksgiving a few days ago. I had them transfer you here.’

‘Wait . . .’ My head’s splitting. ‘Home home? Heartsick?’

I have the sudden urge to laugh, probably would if my head didn’t hurt so badly, because I’m quite certain Heartsick’s the last place I’d choose to visit, especially on Thanksgiving. These days, my Thanksgivings are spent with Travis and his family. Then it comes to me, a little voice in my head, my own this time: not any more.

‘You lost control,’ Dad’s saying, ‘went off the road.’

That makes no sense. Crashing cars is something Garrett does, not me. I’m a careful driver. Bit rusty, sure, but careful.

‘This.’ I touch a hand to my head again, tracing my fingers along the jagged ridge that stretches front to back, held together by parallel strips of metal, like rungs on a ladder. It feels alien, like it’s a part of someone else, not me.

‘Easy,’ Dad says. ‘You’ve got a nasty scar. Tree branch through the windshield.’

‘I’m in hospital,’ I tell him. ‘How long have I been here?’

‘A couple days.’

‘And Mum?’ I feel like she’s around somewhere, am sure I’ve already seen her, yet the look on Dad’s face when I ask, the fact he doesn’t answer right away, makes me panic. Something’s very wrong. ‘Was anyone else in the accident?’ I demand. ‘Anyone in the car with me?’

Dad answers too quickly this time. ‘No. Not in the car,’ which is a weird thing to say, but then this whole situation is weird, and before I can ask what he means, he asks me, ‘What’s the last thing you remember?’

My last memory is being home in my apartment, one night last . . . when? A few days ago? A week? I squeeze my eyes tight shut – Don’t-die-don’t-die-don’t-die – feel a sudden, all-consuming fear, want to say I’m frightened but all that comes out is a squeaky ‘I don’t know.’

‘Steppy, sweetheart,’ Dad says gently, ‘there’s something I have to tell you.’ He waits a beat. ‘It’s Mum.’

Mum? I open my eyes, half expecting to see her here, right in front of me, wherever here is.

‘Where am I?’ I ask, but I don’t think Dad hears me.

Instead he says, ‘I’m so sorry. Mum’s dead.’

Then

Seven days ago, I’d never heard of Casey Carter. It was somewhere after 2 a.m. on a Sunday and I was home alone, trying to resist the urge to pop a sleeping pill. It had been a particularly rough day. Following months of back and forth, punctuated with periods of complete radio silence, Travis had finally come to collect the rest of his shit.

‘How’s Paige doing?’ I’d asked, eyeing him – had he been working out more? – as he surveyed the bags and boxes filling the living room.

I hadn’t quite gone so far as shredding his clothes or dousing them with bleach, though I’d thought about it; had instead taken particular pleasure in stuffing his custom suits into garbage bags like rags.

‘She’s good.’ I watched him open a couple, peer inside, felt a childish pang of satisfaction. He straightened up. ‘But you’ve gotta stop calling her.’

That hit me like a gut punch. It was the way he said it, like I was calling all the time, like I was the one who’d done something wrong. Travis was good at that: flipping the script, making himself the victim. He’d had months of practice.

‘I mean’ – he was slinging garbage bag after garbage bag out the apartment door – ‘what do you think’s gonna happen?’

I knew the spiel well, was saying it along with him in my head, inwardly rolling my eyes, waiting for the dramatic pause.

‘Seriously.’ Travis stopped throwing bags, looked at me. ‘You think you and Paige can just go back to how things were, be best friends again?’

I had a sudden urge to punch him in the face, but instead I took a deep breath. ‘Why don’t I grab the last of your stuff? You go ahead, call the elevator.’

He looked at me, wondering what the catch was, then shrugged, disappeared out into the hallway, while I grabbed a nearby Sharpie I’d been labelling boxes with and, after removing the lid, dropped it into one of the remaining garbage bags – the one with all Trav’s linen suit jackets – smooshed it right on in there, then slung the bag out the door with the rest of them.

Now I was in bed, googling myself, or, more accurately, All the Dark Corners, which wasn’t as big-headed as it sounds, more a form of self-harm, something I’d taken to doing when I couldn’t sleep. I’d lose hours trawling the Dark Corners Facebook fan pages, falling down rabbit holes on Reddit or online newspaper comments sections. I say a form of self-harm because although most of the stuff written about me was complimentary, that almost made it worse. To the outside world, I was Steppy Corner, creator and voice behind true crime podcast phenomenon All the Dark Corners: The Disappearance of Shaunee Hughes. To the outside world, it seemed I had my shit together. I’d been asked to pen articles, or been the subject of such articles, for publications that pre-Dark Corners I could barely afford to subscribe to, would have struggled to find work answering calls in their ad departments. People – and by people, I mean people who have people to do things for them – were now calling me; people who previously wouldn’t so much as have returned my calls, would probably have blocked my number. I’d been profiled in print, done television interviews, radio phone-ins. I’d gone from struggling would-be journalist to darling of the true crime podcast world. There was talk of a book deal; an appearance was currently being brokered for the inaugural true crime convention the following year – something called CrimeCon. All thanks to the runaway success of Dark Corners and the now-solved mystery of Shaunee Hughes.

But although a second season of Dark Corners was guaranteed – sponsors were already lining up to put their name to it – therein lay the problem. My problem. I had no idea what season two was going to be about, what case I’d cover, though not for lack of suggestions: I’d been inundated. Everyone from local journalists to retired cops, bereaved family members to plain old do-gooders knew someone whose uncle, best friend, pseudo-niece or nephew had been the victim of some terrible unsolved crime. Even those with no direct connection to a case had an opinion on what I should cover, which grisly murder/mysterious disappearance/heartbreaking miscarriage of justice/decades-old cold case – or a combination thereof – should provide their next true crime fix, the one they’d discuss around the water cooler at work, speculate about on the very Facebook fan pages, Reddit forums and online newspaper comments sections I was now trawling through.

But try as I might, nothing grabbed me.

Not like Shaunee’s case.

I sighed – an especially melodramatic sigh, though there was no one around to hear – clicked a link someone had posted, cringed at the sound of my own voice. Cue the catchy theme tune I knew so well – so popular now it had its own Facebook page – the one synonymous with Dark Corners. Then my voice again: ‘When Shaunee Hughes left her Murdoch home on March 17, 1990, her mother waved her goodbye. Her father – just arrived home from the grocery store – watched her disappear round the corner at the end of their quiet small-town street. Little did her parents know it would be the last time they’d see her. You see, Shaunee, a fun-loving ten-year-old, as bright as that sunny spring day, left the house on her shiny red bike and seemingly vanished into thin air. Twenty-five years on, her case remains unsolved . . .’

I didn’t feel a connection to Shaunee’s case above all others just because, thanks to Dark Corners, it had been solved. It wasn’t because her killer had been apprehended, or because her remains had at last been found and given a proper burial. With Shaunee, there’d been something deeper. Before my family’s move to the UK, the year after Shaunee vanished, when I was four and my brother, Garrett, two, we’d lived in Murdoch, the very same town as the Hughes family. At the very same time. I was too young to remember, of course, but when I looked back, I’d wondered if Shaunee Hughes – her disappearance – was the reason Dad took the job offer in London, uprooted us and didn’t return to the US for over a decade.

But if what happened to Shaunee Hughes had been behind my parents’ decision to up sticks and relocate, I could hardly blame them. Even though I’d been blissfully unaware of Shaunee’s existence, had no comprehension of her disappearance at the time, the one thing I’d learned making Dark Corners was the feeling of unease this sort of crime sows in the places it occurs, the doubt it casts in people’s minds. Everyone and no one is a suspect. Was it the neighbour from a couple houses down, the one who had a wife, children, the one you only knew to say hi to, though he seemed like a nice guy? Or was it the I-always-thought-he-was-a-bit-of-a-creeper store clerk, the overfriendly teacher, the busybody mailman, the geeky guy from the video store?

So despite the fact that I lived the first four years of my life in Shaunee’s hometown, and though she may have been the catalyst for my family’s move abroad, the first I heard about her was last year, 2015, thanks to one of those sliding-door moments, a chance encounter that almost didn’t happen.

It was the weekend and Paige had been in town, staying with me and Travis. The three of us were due to go to a party, but Paige was feeling off-colour so decided not to go. I’d offered to stay home, keep her company, but she insisted I didn’t, mostly because Travis had started whining about how Kyle would be ‘totally bummed’ if I didn’t go. (Truth was, Kyle wouldn’t have given a shit.)

When we’d arrived at the party, Travis had promptly abandoned me. He was holding court in another room, so I’d fought my way through a crowd of guests, sought sanctuary at the makeshift bar, began making small talk with another guest. To my relief, my new acquaintance was only slightly drunk. She told me she loved my accent, asked me where I was from.

‘It’s complicated,’ I said, which was what I always said. ‘But I was born here.’ She looked surprised. ‘Not here here,’ I clarified. ‘A small town in the Midwest. Murdoch?’

I wasn’t expecting much – most people had never even heard of Murdoch – but the girl began flapping her hands, almost spilled her drink.

‘Holy shit,’ she exclaimed. ‘Murdoch? No way! That’s where I’m from!’

‘Oh,’ I said quickly. ‘I only lived there till I was four. We moved to London in ninety-one.’

‘Right after Shaunee Hughes,’ she said. She’d gone all serious, nodded sagely like it figured. ‘My family thought about moving, too. Like, nothing was the same after that.’

She’d given a shake of her head and I’d nodded in agreement, like I knew who the hell Shaunee Hughes actually was.

When our conversation ended, I’d excused myself and gone to the bathroom, got my phone out, googled Shaunee Hughes Murdoch. The search yielded old newspaper articles mainly, headlines like MURDOCH COLD CASE REMAINS UNSOLVED A DECADE ON, and TWENTY YEARS ON, FAMILY OF SHAUNEE HUGHES STILL SEEK ANSWERS.

The rest, as they say, was history. When Trav and I got home, I’d googled the shit out of the case, wondered why it had never been solved. That night, as I’d lain awake in the dark, I’d decided to return to Murdoch with a view to making a single podcast episode about Shaunee Hughes’s disappearance. Podcasting was something I’d always fancied trying, ever since I’d listened to the first season of Serial. My journalism career wasn’t going so well – wasn’t going at all, actually – so I used the little savings I had to buy the best recording equipment I could afford, nothing fancy, then, next day, handed in my notice at my PA job. Two weeks later, I’d packed some clothes, hired a car, driven all the way to Murdoch – on little more than a whim, Travis kept reminding me, with a look that said he thought I’d be back in New York by the end of the week, tail between my legs – and checked myself into a motel.

After two days on the road, having arrived late at night and exhausted, my motel room door closed behind me and I stared at my temporary home, wondering what on earth I’d done. Though I could barely remember Murdoch, I’d naively assumed that when I got there, the memories would come flooding back. They didn’t. I felt no connection to this strange little town, no sense of nostalgia as I drove past the local football field or elementary school; had no recollection of the gas station I filled up at; felt no bond with the Murdoch-born-and-raised waitress who served me at the diner I stopped at for a late supper.

In short, as I lay on my motel bed with its shades of brown linen, surrounded by furniture that made me feel like I’d been transported back to the seventies, right down to the rotary dial telephone, I realised I had no ‘in’, no link to Murdoch other than four pre-school years I couldn’t remember, no contacts I could hit up, no long-lost connections to rekindle. All I had was my instinct, an interest in the case and my determination, the latter admittedly driven mostly by a desire to prove Travis wrong.

So, after feeling sorry for myself and more than a little homesick, I grabbed the pad of motel-headed notepaper beside the phone and made a list of all the people in Murdoch connected to Shaunee Hughes I thought I should speak to. I didn’t have high hopes, but over the next few days, the list grew, and as it did, I discovered that Murdoch residents fell into two camps: those who were willing to talk, and those who weren’t. The important thing was, though, enough people were willing to talk, including cops who’d worked Shaunee’s case at the time – many now retired, all still haunted by it – as well as some who’d come after, cold-case detectives.

I guess it was like a snowball effect, or maybe a self-fulfilling prophecy, but the more people I talked to, the more people seemed willing to talk. Starting with those closest to Shaunee, I worked my way outwards, interviewing family, friends, witnesses – even suspects. People were surprisingly open; organisations incredibly generous. I spent hours in freezing-cold archives; disorganised police evidence rooms; sweltering small-town courthouse basements. I dug through boxes of material, read and reread hours of hard-to-decipher notes and transcripts. I pored over the evidence piece by piece, worked out timelines. I double-checked tip-line information, ran down leads, tracked down tipsters. I worked all day, barely slept at night. I hardly ate, lost weight. My hair started to fall out. But my perseverance and patience paid off: in early summer, I released my first hour-long podcast episode, and slowly but surely, new leads began to trickle in.

By fall 2015, Murdoch had the answer it had sought for over twenty years. Shaunee’s body was recovered. Her killer was not, as many townsfolk had hoped, a stranger, but had lived right under their noses all these years. Evil had a name: Larry Polk, the father of Shaunee’s best friend, Kara. Before my arrival in Murdoch, he hadn’t even been a suspect. Irony was, it was Larry who, on hearing of Dark Corners, had approached me, keen to talk; Larry who’d inserted himself into the investigation, willing to do anything he could to help.

In the end, it was a simple conversation that did it, inconsistencies in his story that at first I put down to the passage of time. But there were other signs, too. He imparted information he wanted to impart; answered questions I didn’t ask; avoided those I did. Larry’s story, and with it Larry, began to unravel, and when, ultimately, he got wind that police were issuing a search warrant for his home, he’d panicked, returned to Shaunee’s burial site to dispose of trophies he’d kept all those years – a friendship bracelet his daughter had made for her; some items of her clothing. He led the police straight to her.

People lauded me for cracking the case, but in all honesty, I felt like a fraud. All I’d done was shake some trees, shine a light in dark corners. The Hughes family were grateful, but for them it was far from over. The prospect of a trial hung over them: Larry Polk would plead innocent.

As news of the podcast and Shaunee Hughes’s story spread, so too did media coverage, which until then had been fairly local. Now it was national. International.

Though these days the initial buzz surrounding the case had somewhat died down, there were still periodic updates. I sat a little more upright in bed, got comfortable against my pillows and clicked the link on the most recent online news article: MURDOCH CASE DELAYED AGAIN AS POLK DEFENSE SEEKS TO RELOCATE TRIAL.

My heart ached for Shaunee’s family. I was still in touch with Mr and Mrs Hughes and Shaunee’s two older brothers, both now married with children not dissimilar in age to Shaunee when she disappeared. Mrs Hughes, Patti, had recently been diagnosed with a particularly aggressive form of cancer. It was doubtful whether she’d live to see the man accused of abducting and murdering her ten-year-old daughter make it to trial. But ever gracious and pragmatic, she was remarkably philosophical about the whole thing.

‘At least now I know what happened to her,’ she told me in one of our off-the-record chats at her kitchen table, her hand on mine. ‘At least I can stop wondering.’ She’d been able to lay her daughter to rest, she told me. Soon, she’d join her. She’d have hated to die without knowing.

I scrolled through the article until I reached the end and hit the comments section, but against my better judgement, I kept going. There were all the usual suspects – Burn in hell!; Bring back the death penalty in Wisconsin!!!; My heart goes out to Shaunee’s family; #prayforshauneehughes – but as the words whizzed by, I thought I saw a name I recognised, not Shaunee’s, or one of her brothers’, or Patti’s, or any of the Hughes family’s. Not even mine. I slowed down, scrolled back up to double-check, and there it was in black and white: Garrett.

But why would Garrett’s name pop up in the comments section of an article on Shaunee Hughes?

Garrett. My two-years-younger baby brother.

Fun Garrett.

Garrett, who was always up for a laugh, could drink his friends under the table, skied all winter like a pro, golfed all summer equally well.

Garrett, who collected friends like some people collect baseball cards or Pez dispensers; who always had a good-looking girl on his arm. Any girl he wanted.

Garrett, who’d dropped out of college so many times I’d lost count; who’d never held down a job because he couldn’t stick at anything.

Garrett, who’d show you the best night out but make you pay for it.

Garrett. Whom we all knew had a dark side.

Yes, that was my brother.

And that was why the post made my heart sink, made another name pop unbidden into my head: Paige.

I thought back to that night at the start of the year, the night I was still trying to get to the bottom of months later while also trying so hard to forget it. The night that blew a hole in everything, as surely as if Garrett had taken a hand grenade, pulled the pin and lobbed it into the centre of my life.

That was where it had all started, for although I’d always known what my brother was like, that night had made me wonder what he was truly capable of.

I stared at the comment at the bottom of the article.

Anon87: Hey, anyone else heard the rumor about that missing girl? The one from Heartsick CO? That Steppy Corner’s bro Garrett is somehow involved?

Now

After Dad tells me Mum’s dead, I vomit – a shock reflex, I think – pure liquid, thanks to a two-day-empty stomach. I turn my head just in time, despite the pain it causes, manage to aim over the side of my hospital bed. Though I don’t know where I am, or why I’m here, I’ve a horrible feeling that somehow I’m responsible for Mum’s death. Something about an accident.

Dad rushes to my side with one of those kidney-shaped cardboard dishes, thrusting it at me seconds too late, but I take it from him anyway, hold it feebly beneath my chin before collapsing back onto my pillows, white and shaking, head bursting, acid burning the back of my throat. He leaves the room to fetch a nurse, but all I want is Mum, even though we aren’t – weren’t – close. I start to cry, think of Paige, wonder if anyone’s called her. Paige will know what to do. Paige, who was at my bedside when I woke in hospital after surgery for appendicitis when I was a student; Paige, who, with Travis out of town, met me in the emergency room at three in the morning after I was mugged on the subway. Paige, who held my hair as I vomited into the toilet bowl for two solid hours after I got food poisoning at a clam bake. Paige, who drove all the way from the south of England to collect me in Scotland after my rust bucket of a car broke down.

She’s probably on her way right now, scrambled to book the first available flight. Or maybe she’s borrowed a car, is speeding cross-country, driving through the night just to get here.

Then I remember we haven’t spoken in months, and I cry even harder.

After a nurse has cleaned up, helped me into a fresh hospital gown and changed my sheets, Dad comes back in, tells me something about a home invasion gone wrong. Mum was home alone. Someone broke in and killed her. Still numb, I barely say a word.

‘Does Garrett know?’ I ask when he’s finished. I’m trying to remember if I’ve seen my brother since I’ve been here.

But Dad avoids the question. ‘The police. They want to speak with you. I’ll try to put them off, but, well, once they know you’re awake . . .’

‘Why do the police want to talk to me?’ I can’t remember anything – don’t know anything.

‘Sweetie,’ Dad says softly. ‘The night of your accident.’

I rack my brain. What accident? How long have I been here? A few days? A week?

‘It was the same night Mum was killed,’ he goes on. ‘You were on your way to the house when your car went off the road.’

I open my mouth to say something, but there’s a knock at the door and another nurse pops her head around.

‘Dr Corner,’ she addresses my dad, ‘I’m sorry, but the police are here. Is now a good time?’

‘I already told them.’ Dad sighs, irritated. ‘She’s too confused. They’ll have to wait.’

The nurse nods, about to close the door, but I call, ‘Wait.’ She stops. I look at Dad. ‘Let’s just get it over with.’

Dad wants to stay while the police talk to me, but I insist I’m fine. A. . .