“I’m glad to hear that,” Natalie said. “I want you to find peace with this.”
“Have you?” Ellie asked. “Found peace?”
“I’m trying,” Natalie struggled to say. “I’m looking for it everywhere.”
“Good. I hope we both find it.”
“Me, too, sweetie.”
“Okay, well … I have to go now.”
“Okay.”
“Love you, Aunt Natalie.”
“Love you, Ellie. Call anytime.”
Her niece hung up.
Natalie grimaced at her phone. She couldn’t help feeling as if she’d somehow blown it—said the wrong thing, not said the right thing. While she was putting her phone away in her bag, she accidentally cut the tip of her finger on an open safety pin. You’d think that such a tiny cut wouldn’t hurt so much. She sucked the tip of her finger and couldn’t shake this ominous feeling. It clung like a cold sweat.
She stared at the eggshell-white walls, smudged with fingerprints. When she was in high school, Natalie used to rip the sketches out of her drawing pad and tape them to the white walls of her bedroom, then sit on her Haitian cotton–covered bed and admire her drawings as if they were prize-winning orchids. But then, after a few minutes, she would start to hate them. She couldn’t help comparing herself to all the great artists she admired. She’d rip them all down, and the tape would pull little bits of paint off the walls. White didn’t stay pure for very long. Children didn’t stay young for long. Walls didn’t hold up forever. All it took was a moment.
Now another one of her drawings caught her eye—a simple pencil sketch of Bella with her right hand bandaged in gauze. Bella was making a mock-sad face, and Natalie had written underneath, “Bella’s boo-boo.” Why did they make light of it? How did Bella get the boo-boo? Did her father grab her wrist by accident? Or was it muscle strain from overpracticing?
She turned the sketch over, but there was nothing written on the back side. On the front, Natalie always signed her name in the lower right-hand corner, along with the date. This one was dated a few months before their high school graduation.
She retrieved her phone and called Luke.
“Natalie?” he answered.
“I don’t want to be here right now,” she confessed. “In my house.”
“Are you okay?”
She didn’t know how to respond to that question. It was raining hard. The wind rattled the windows.
“Do you want me to come over?” Luke offered.
She hesitated. It was so tempting. “Never mind. I’m okay. Let’s talk tomorrow.”
She hung up, then gazed out the windows. The rain made ever-changing streaks of amethyst on the glass. Lightning flashed. Shadows trembled on the walls. She didn’t want her niece growing up in a world where women died alone in dumpsters. She couldn’t stand it anymore. She grabbed her jacket, scooped up her keys, and left.
38
The bad weather had surged into the hills. Everything was faded and indistinguishable in the rain. Luke greeted Natalie at the door.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She’d gotten soaked running in from the car. Rain clung to her skin.
“You’re wet,” he said, stepping aside. “Come on in.”
She followed him into the living room, where it smelled of pine cones. She dropped her bag on the floor, plopped down on a gray-speckled sofa, and said, “Did Gossett tell you anything yet?”
“They’re trying to identify the violin. They’ve asked Sheriff Dressler to investigate, see if Morgan’s family or her roommate can ID it. In the meantime, Lenny’s processing the violin and the case for trace. Maybe we’ll pick up prints.”
“And no one saw the make and model of the car?”
He shook his head. “Apparently the security guard only saw taillights in the fog.”
Natalie ran her hands through her hair and exhaled hard. “I talked to my niece tonight.”
Luke nodded patiently.
“She’s growing up so fast.”
“But that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
She looked at him, feeling raw and vulnerable. “I’m afraid, Luke.”
“Of what?”
She shrugged. “Self-destructing.”
He sat down beside her. “Six months ago, your life got flipped over. You suffered a huge loss. And now this case lands in your lap. Listen, you’ve behaved heroically, Natalie. Unfortunately, people like to punish their heroes. You’re exhausted, that’s all. Who can blame you?”
She squinted at his bookshelves with a pained smile. He owned Norman Mailer’s The Executioner’s Song and Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook. The sofa sagged in the middle. The entire living room was lit by two anemic floor lamps. There were messy piles of paperwork and case files scattered about. Soft music played on the bargain-basement sound system. She picked a paper plate up from the floor. “The place seems more of a shithole than usual.”
He put the plate down and said, “Talk to me.”
She gave him a self-pitying smile. “You care.”
“Of course I care.”
She sighed with her whole body. “We used to make spazzy faces, you know? The three of us—Grace, Ellie, and me. Whoever made the funniest face won. We’d bake brownies and play Monopoly, and we promised one another that one day we were going to bring the telescope down from the attic and look at the stars. But there was never enough time.” Tears welled in her eyes. “How could I have missed your birthday?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter? I’m like the world’s worst friend.”
“I don’t care about my birthday,” Luke insisted.
“Damn. I forgot to bring your card with me. I bought you a card.”
He smiled. “It’s the thought that counts.”
“It’s the absolute worst card I could find on such short notice.”
He smiled, amused. “I can’t wait to see it.”
She sat back morosely and crossed her arms. “When Zack and I first got together, things were different. He was different. I was different. But over time, our flaws became magnified. And one day we realized we had nothing in common. It broke my heart.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Luke?”
“Yes?”
“I’m cold.” She was shivering.
A long silence followed as they studied each other. There was a strange tension in the air between them, an unbearable feeling of “something” in the room with them. A hidden truth. She could sense them both trying to push past the discomfort and reach for each other, but it wasn’t working. Their timing was off. With Natalie and Luke, it was one misfire after another. She hated these agonizing beats of silence. Of words left unspoken.
“It’s getting colder at night.” He picked up a blanket from the sofa and draped it over her shoulders. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
“Two spoonfuls of sugar, right?”
“And lots of cream.”
He went into the kitchen and fetched them both a coffee.
A few minutes later, Natalie was warming her hands on the steaming mug.
“I noticed something tonight … an old drawing of mine,” she told him. “Bella had a wrist injury shortly before she disappeared.”
“Is that relevant?”
“Two months ago, Russ Swinton treated Morgan for a wrist injury. Then he brings her to the party as his date and lies about it to me.”
“Do you think the cases are related?”
“Or else I’m making random connections because I’m fucking exhausted. I’ve been thinking about Bella a lot.”
His gaze was solemn. “That forty-eight-hour thing people are always talking about is bullshit, Natalie. No one can solve a case of this magnitude in a couple of days. If you think that’s true, you’re only setting yourself up for disappointment. More important, you have to ask yourself—will I be any good tomorrow?”
“Really?” Her eyes darted to th
e ceiling. “Because I thought I was doing a bang-up job.”
He smiled warmly at her. “Be patient. Don’t try to read the tea leaves just yet. Put your blinders on and trust the process. The evidence will lead us to the truth. Don’t fight it. It’ll come.”
“Use the fork, Luke,” she joked.
“Old jokes for old friends.”
She shook her head. “It is an old joke, isn’t it? Jesus, am I that lame?”
“Look, I’m counting on you,” he told her firmly. “Don’t fuck things up.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
“You need to take care of yourself. There’s plenty of time to talk in the morning. In the meantime, go home and eat some protein. Then get some rest.”
She put her coffee down. “I can’t go home. I won’t be alone in that house.”
He nodded solemnly. “I understand, but you can’t stay here.”
“Why not? Why can’t I sleep on your sofa? It’s very comfortable.” She patted the lumpy cushion.
“Natalie, I’m your boss, your supervisor…”
“I promise I won’t touch you,” she joked, but she could tell instantly by his reaction that he didn’t think it was the least bit funny. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean it to come out that way. I was trying to make a joke. A stupid joke. Forgive me? But you have to understand, my house is full of ghosts. I won’t go home tonight. I’d rather sleep in my car.”
He watched her for a moment. “I want to help you through this. I’m aware of the fact that you were relying on Russ Swinton, and now you don’t have his support. I’m willing to step in and fill the void until you start seeing another doctor, and by that I mean emotional support. Are you looking for a therapist, Natalie?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t quite a lie. She was thinking about looking for another doctor.
“Good.” He stood up. “I’ll light a fire and get you a pillow.”
“My hero.”
“Right,” he said sarcastically. “Me and my superhero cape will be right back.” He left the room.
She lay down on the sofa that smelled of him and closed her eyes.
39
Natalie got up in the middle of the night, thinking she heard someone crying outside. A plaintive, mewling sound. The wind blew through the house with a dull whoosh. She got up and stood on the back porch, but there was no one out there, wailing away. It was just the rain.
The house’s roof dripped raindrops. The trees greeted the rain by tossing their arms enthusiastically, leaping and waving like drunken puppies. Strong, towering trees getting steadily more inebriated until—soaked to the core—they sagged and bowed and stumbled loosely in the wind.
Luke must’ve heard the back door open, because he came downstairs and stood next to her on the porch. Together they watched the chaos swarming around them—lightning and thunder, the wildness of nature that couldn’t be contained.
It welled up inside her—an unnamable, unfathomable sadness. Life was tender and sweet and bitter. Even the good stuff was sad, because it had to end at some point. Some people drank or took drugs to numb themselves from all the emotions that stuck to life. Some people would rather be numb than covered in burrs.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Luke said beside her. He wore pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, goose bumps rising on his exposed flesh.
“Powerful.” She furrowed her brow.
“Before I fell asleep, I started reading Lily Kingsley’s file.”
She glanced over at him.
“Lily was twenty-two years old, a violin soloist who attended the Brock Conservatory. Just like Morgan. Her mother, Clarissa, was a former violinist. According to witness reports, she was a free spirit who wasn’t afraid to hitch rides. Last seen leaving a bar on the outskirts of Chaste Falls six months ago. No kidnapping demands were ever made, no witnesses came forward. Her body has never been found.” He crossed his arms. “An ex-boyfriend was a primary suspect for a while. There was also a pervy neighbor in her apartment building, a middle-aged man Lily had an altercation with about leaving his garbage in front of her door. The police cleared both suspects. One interesting fact—Lily was interested in witchcraft, and she looked a lot like Morgan. Blue eyes, long dark red hair, slight build, very pretty. Also of note, a few years before she went missing, she had Morgan’s father as a teacher at the conservatory.”
Natalie turned to him. “We need to find out if Lily had any injuries to her hands. Maybe she went to the clinic where Russ works as a volunteer.”
“That would be significant,” Luke said. “But circumstantial.”
“The circumstantial evidence keeps piling up, though,” she said. “Whoever slipped Morgan a date rape drug has to be local. He knew about the parking lot behind Blondie’s. He has to be familiar with the area. He has to know drug dealers or have access to illegal drugs.” She turned to him, anguished, and said, “Russ could’ve gotten GHB through his work in the emergency room. We need to see those surveillance tapes from Hunter’s party and find out how soon he left the party after Morgan did. He told me he went straight home, but what if he followed her into town? We need to track his whereabouts that night.”
“Okay, I’ll get on it first thing,” Luke reassured her. “In the meantime, what about your other suspects?”
“I still have questions about Lawrence Chambers and Hollis Jones. Also Morgan’s ex-boyfriend needs more scrutiny…”
“Couldn’t it be someone who’s not even on our radar?” he suggested.
“Sure. Maybe the zombie at Blondie’s. But Russ is being evasive, and the question is … why?”
“Regardless, you need to verify the alibis of Chambers, Jones, and the ex-boyfriend. We need to eliminate them if we want to narrow our focus.”
“I’ll call Dressler in the morning,” Natalie said. “Have him find out if Lily Kingsley ever made an appointment with Russ at the clinic. We also need to find out if she participated in the Monster Mash contest last year, or years prior.”
“Do you think there’s a connection with the contest?”
“Could be.” Her shoulders lifted with a sigh. “Russ was a judge this year. I don’t know about last year.”
“So your current theory is that Russ Swinton may have caught up with Morgan at Blondie’s, where he slipped her a roofie, but before he could abscond with her, she ran away and hid in the dumpster?”
“Something like that.”
Luke studied her silently.
She watched his calm, even breath clouds.
“Let’s go back inside and get some sleep.”
Back on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, and listening to the steady sound of rain on the roof, Natalie managed to fall asleep.
In the morning, she opened her eyes and watched the sunrise bleed through the curtains. The fog, the rain had departed. She saw leaf shadows on the ceiling. She saw a pile of logs stacked next to the fireplace. She saw an old ax—he split his own firewood. She noticed an unplugged floor heater.
“Good morning,” Luke said, coming in from the kitchen. She’d forgotten how good he looked in a T-shirt and jeans. “How’d you sleep?”
She yawned and stretched. “Never better.”
He watched her with thinly veiled amusement. She liked his straight white teeth and forgiving smile. She studied his brushstroke eyebrows and the faint violet shadows beneath his intelligent eyes. “Coffee?” he offered.
She pulled the comforter up to her neck. “Yes, please. Strong, with lots of cream and two sugars, please.”
He smiled and said, “Sure, have a little coffee in your cream.” He went back into the kitchen, and a couple of minutes later, he brought her a cup of coffee.
She sat up and took a sip. “Mmm. Good.”
“Distance is hard on relationships,” he said. “It’s sad to lose touch with a child you’ve known for years, and then suddenly they’re gone, and communication becomes difficult. It’s as if you’re talking through two tin cans connected with string. It’s
especially hard when you can’t see their facial expressions or sense their shifting moods. Losing touch is literal—you lose the touch of a hand, the touch of a smile. Eyes touching. It’s a big loss.”
She put down her mug. “So what’s the solution?”
“After Audrey took Skye away to California with her, I didn’t speak to my daughter for quite some time,” he confessed. “I kept meaning to call, but she lived three thousand miles away, and I couldn’t get the time difference straight in my head—do I call three hours ahead, or three hours behind? Whenever I got a few minutes to spare, I’d pick up the phone, but it would either be too early or too late. Finally, Skye called me and said, ‘Listen, Dad, anytime you think about calling me, just remember what an ass you are. An “ass” is the same thing as a “behind.” Got it? It’s three hours behind in California. Just think of it that way, and everything will be cool.’” He laughed, and his body relaxed—and he looked suddenly more handsome than she’d ever seen him.
“That’s awesome,” Natalie said with a smile.
“So I told her, ‘You’ve managed to insult me, while at the same time simplifying my life.’”
Natalie rested her gaze in the comfortable depths of his eyes.
“The point is … the next time you feel Ellie slipping away, just remind yourself how easy it is to reconnect. It’s as simple as picking up the phone.” He smiled warmly at her. They used to be so close. She craved that closeness now.
At the same time, it made her nervous and created a jitteriness in her soul.
“I should be going,” she said.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded and smiled. “Thanks for the hospitality.”
“Next time don’t forget my birthday card.”
“Deal.” She smirked, then collected her belongings—shoes, bag, jacket.
He walked her to the door, where they paused on the threshold. “Natalie,” he said. “Let me know how you’re doing, okay?”
She looked at him quizzically.
“I mean … how you’re handling it. I’m here to listen.”
The Wicked Hour Page 22