Eve’s case hasn’t killed my father like many people predicted, not yet anyway, but I do think it played a hand in his deterioration. He didn’t know how to help me through the grief of losing my best friend and he didn’t know how to help his artistic son find his path in the world.
After Eve died, I couldn’t get out of bed. All I wanted to do was sleep, to forget. My dad was patient for a while, tried to give me some space. The turning point came when the school called and said that I had missed so much school I was in danger of not being promoted to the eleventh grade. My dad stormed into my room, threw open the shades and told me to get out of bed.
Enough, Maggie! he shouted. Eve can’t live the life she was meant to, but you can. You owe it to her, to your mother and to me to get it together. I stared up at him in shock as he continued his tirade. Get up, take a shower and get to school. You let me worry about what happened to Eve and live your life. It wasn’t easy, but I did get up and with many fits and starts I was able to get back on track.
My dad didn’t realize that he was doing the best he could with us and that he wasn’t to blame for not finding the person who killed Eve. He didn’t believe people’s reassurances though. He blamed himself for not bringing the closure that the Knox family deserved.
I think that’s partly why I became a cop—to make my mom proud of me and to be closer to my dad. Be more like my dad. He worked his ass off his whole life to make Grotto a safer, better place. I couldn’t fully appreciate that when I was young. Now I do.
I don’t want to tell my dad that we are reopening Eve’s case but at some point I’ll have to. I know it will upset him. He’ll get anxious and sad and frustrated. Then he will forget that I told him. Just like that. I wish it could be that easy. To forget, to shed painful memories like a dried-up snakeskin. I’ve had so much loss. Eve, my mother, the babies. All the babies that could have been.
Eve would have been so happy for me. For a moment I allow thoughts of what might have been: picking out baby clothes and paint colors for the baby’s room, me calling Eve to run baby names by her. Maybe we would have even been pregnant together—sharing morning sickness and stretch mark stories.
My dad’s face brightens when he sees me coming toward him. “Hi, Dad,” I say.
“Maggie,” he says as if he hadn’t seen me just a few minutes earlier. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”
Normally, I come over and he moves over on the porch swing to make room for me. He loves talking shop, reminiscing about his glory days on the force. He peppers me with questions about whatever case I’m working on and I tell him with no fear that he’ll relay the details to Colin or his home health aide. He can remember a collar he made forty years ago but forgets what I tell him after a few minutes. But I don’t want to bring up Eve’s case, not today.
“I heard that Charlotte Knox was in the hospital. I just wanted to make sure that she was doing okay,” I tell him.
“Oh, that’s too bad. What happened?” he asks. I was right. He had forgotten.
“Apparently she fell down the basement steps. Nola says that she broke her hip. She’ll be in the hospital for a bit longer,” I explain and then change the subject. “What’s Colin up to? Is he around?”
“He’s around here somewhere, I think,” my dad says looking around. “You’re pregnant?” he says looking at my stomach. “When is the baby due?”
My dad asks me this nearly every time I see him and the joy on his face is just as genuine as it was the first time Shaun and I told him the good news. “August tenth,” I tell him. “We’re having a little girl. We can’t wait.”
“A girl,” he says with wonder. “That’s great! I’ll have to go out and buy a gift. I wish your mother was here for this.”
“I do too,” I say. My mother would have loved this. I miss her more than ever now. I have so many questions about giving birth, about being a good mom. Even though I’ve read as many books on the subjects as I can get my hands on, it’s not the same. I still need her even though I’m older than she was when she died.
Cam Harper pulls into his driveway and I watch as his garage door rises and he maneuvers his car inside. Bile creeps into my throat but I swallow it back.
“You okay?” my dad asks.
“Just heartburn.” I wave away his concern. “Dad, what do you know about Cam Harper? Did he run into any trouble when he was younger?”
“Trouble?” my dad repeats. “No, I don’t think so. He’s always been a nice guy. I remember you babysat for them all the time. I think you were over at the Harper house more than you were here.”
“Great baseball player, too,” Colin says coming out the front door carrying a glass of water and a handful of pills for my dad.
“Cam Harper?” I feign surprise. “I didn’t know that.” In fact, Cam told me all about his baseball glory days. It was one of his favorite topics.
“Oh, yeah, all-American in college. Could have gone pro but hurt his shoulder.” Colin hands Dad the glass. “Ended up coaching his kids’ Little League teams back in the day. Now he helps coach the softball team,” Colin says as he presses one pill at a time into our dad’s palm.
“Softball?” I ask as dread spreads through my body.
“Yeah, the freshman team at the high school in Willow Creek,” Colin says.
How did I miss this? I’d been watching Cam Harper for years, making sure that he didn’t get too close to any girls. I ran checks on him through the police computer. There were no complaints, no indication that he was abusing another girl. Could I have been the only one? I didn’t think so. Men like Cam Harper never were satisfied with just one.
NOLA KNOX
Monday, June 15, 2020
Nola pressed her back to the closed front door. She honestly didn’t think it would have taken them this long to start looking for Eve’s killer again. Her mother pushed it for years, but the response was always the same: no new leads.
Nola tried to remember when her mother gave up fighting for Eve. Was it after Charlotte had written the letter to the editor a few years ago going after the sheriff’s department and Grotto PD, specifically Chief Kennedy? That’s when some people really turned on them—started publicly going after Nola, accusing her of hurting Eve. That had hurt her mother badly. Ignore it, Nola had told her. People will always talk.
Now Maggie was talking about looking for new DNA. As a doctor and a scientist, Nola knew all about the advancements in forensics, though she wondered if the Ransom County Sheriff’s Department could say as much.
It was a long shot, getting any meaningful DNA. It all depended on how well preserved the evidence was. After twenty-five years there could be cross contamination and degradation.
She should probably go to the hospital and tell her mother that Eve’s case was reopened but the thought of it made her head ache. Her mother would cry and ask questions that Nola didn’t know the answers to. She would make a scene.
Nola shoved aside a pile of newspapers from the sofa and they fluttered to the floor. She’d tie the papers together with twine later, add them to the others. The look on Maggie’s face when she got a peek into her mother’s living room was priceless. It’s probably what the entire town was expecting though. Nutty Charlotte Knox and her daughter buried alive in a house filled with junk.
Nola hadn’t wanted to come home to Grotto fifteen years ago. After graduating vet school with zero debt because of scholarships Nola moved to Louisiana but ran into a little bit of trouble at the lab she worked at in Baton Rouge. There were some research results and necropsy reports that were called into question and rumors of an inappropriate relationship with a supervisor. Nola had to admit they had her on the falsified data. The affair with her married boss, not so much. But the suggestion of a lawsuit got her out of there with a sterling letter of recommendation and a decent severance.
Now she was back home and Nol
a had to admit she was comfortable here among the clutter. Maybe clutter was too kind a word. To be fair, Nola thought, most of the garbage belonged to her mother but over the years Nola added her own collections.
Dusty rolls of carpets sat against the walls, plastic garbage bags stuffed with random items filled corners, their black mouths gaping open as if vomiting mildewed clothing, board games and VCR tapes. The living room was covered with newspapers and magazines stacked neck high forming a rat’s maze. It had gotten a bit out of hand, but her mother would freak out if Nola tried to purge the house. Nola liked having her things nearby; how could she begrudge her mother the same? Besides, it was good cover.
Nola reached for the television remote, wanting to see if the local news station had a story about Eve and the new investigation. She flipped through the channels and found nothing.
She stood and followed the labyrinth of rubbish through the living room, passing a bucket filled with acorns, a dressmaking mannequin and tangles of extension cords up the steps to the second floor. Nola paused at her sister’s bedroom door and turned the knob.
The room was dim, the plastic shade drawn, light seeping through only at the corners and edges. Eve’s bed, a narrow twin, was made up with a pieced quilt stitched together with scraps of fabric in shades of pink, orange, green, yellow and blue. One of Eve’s thrift shop finds. Nola remembered their mother being irritated when Eve brought it home. Why did you bring that dirty thing home, Eve? God knows who’s slept under that thing. Funny, considering the state of the house now.
If Eve could see their house now she would be mortified. She was the one who always kept it clean. After she died their mother gave up on day-to-day activities like cooking and cleaning and taking the garbage out. Nola had other things on her mind. She didn’t have time for housework.
Over the years, Eve’s bedroom stayed the same. No newspapers or garbage bags filled with junk encroached the sacred space. Nola and her mother never spoke about it. Eve’s same grunge-band posters still hung on the walls along with a mosaic of photos of Eve with her friends pinned to a large bulletin board. Since her mother had difficulty getting up and down the steps, a thick layer of dust covered every surface. Nola didn’t like coming in here, but she had run out of space in her own room and had resorted to storing some of her collection in Eve’s room.
After Eve died, the sheriff’s department came through and searched for any clues or evidence as to who might have killed her. They were respectful. Dressed in booties and white gloves, they went through every drawer and pocket and looked at each scrap of paper. When finished, they tried to put everything back where it came from.
Nola plucked a snapshot of Eve and Nick from where it was tucked into the corner of Eve’s mirror. Eve was sitting on Nick’s lap, his arms around her waist. They were both smiling into the camera. Smiling at Nola. Nola remembered how Eve had handed her the black-and-yellow disposable camera and Nola grudgingly took the picture. Through the lens, they looked so happy, but Nola knew better. She knew what he did to her. At the time Nola wasn’t sure whom she hated more. Nick for hurting Eve, or Eve for putting up with it.
Less than a month after the picture was taken Eve was dead. Not long after that Nola pushed Nick Brady into a glass trophy case at the high school. They both ended up with scars. Nick needed stitches on his arm and Nola had to have a shard of glass extracted from her lung. It had been worth it, worth the scars, worth expulsion and counseling, Nola thought, just to see his blood pool onto the tiled floor. Of course, they charged Nola with the assault. No one would have believed her if she had told them what really happened.
Nola had always thought they would end up arresting Nick for Eve’s murder. It never happened. Maybe it was time that changed. Nola finally told her mother about the bruises that she suspected Nick gave Eve. At first Charlotte protested, couldn’t believe that someone like Nick would be abusive but over time she came around.
Her mother once tried to throw the picture of Eve and Nick away, but Nola stopped her. It needs to stay, Nola insisted. Charlotte argued with her, said she couldn’t stand looking at the picture of the person who killed Eve but Nola was insistent. It stays, she said with such ferocity that Charlotte jumped. The photo stayed. It fueled Nola’s anger.
Nola wandered to Eve’s bookshelf and ran her fingers along the spines and retrieved one of the books. The pages were stained and dog-eared. Nola replaced the book and chose another, The Thorn Birds. Most of Eve’s books were swollen and warped from a number of reading sessions in the bathtub. Eve would light scented candles, fill the tub with hot water and bubble bath, lock the door and disappear. This book had been cared for. No dog-eared pages, no food stains. Nola had been waiting for just the right time to pull this book out and use what was inside. It looked like the time was now.
* * *
Nola peeked inside Eve’s closet. The hatbox was right where she’d left it. She didn’t think that the police would need to search the house after all these years. If they did, they’d get an eyeful, Nola thought, that was for sure.
Kurt Cobain and Pearl Jam and REM looked down on Nola from the walls and she suddenly felt closed in, claustrophobic in the cleanest room in the house. Nola hurried from the bedroom and into the hall, book in hand, and opened the door to her own room.
Nola’s room hadn’t changed much over the years either. The dresser with the sticky drawers, the lamp and rickety bookshelf filled with vet textbooks and journals occupied the exact same spots. More books overflowed to the floor and were stacked flush against the walls.
Where Eve had her band posters, Nola had her drawings. Sketched directly onto the plaster walls were brightly colored diagrams of a cat, a dog, a finch, a horse and dozens more that she’d added as recently as last winter. All anatomically correct with realistic depictions of hearts, lungs, livers. Nola wondered what Maggie would think when she saw the cross section of Winnie, the Harpers’ corgi mix.
But it wasn’t the sketches that Nola was worried about. Pressing her back to the wall, she sidestepped along the perimeter to the closet door. She turned and pulled on the knob, opening the door just enough so that she could squeeze inside.
Nola reached into a corner of the shelf, shifting books aside until she found what she was looking for. An old tackle box that Charlotte said once belonged to her father. The tackle box, painted a deep hunter green, was chipped and corroded in spots with a clasp that didn’t work any longer. Nola carefully removed it from the shelf, eased it through the small opening in the door and set it on her bed.
Nola opened the tackle box and inside were over a dozen small clear museum-quality display cases stacked neatly on top of each other. Nola chose one that she acquired years ago and opened it. Sitting inside were three tiny bones, each not much bigger than a grain of rice. The ossicles: malleus, incus and stapes. Hammer, anvil, stirrup. The better to hear you with, my dear, Nola thought.
Nola doubted that Maggie Kennedy, or anyone else for that matter, would know what they were looking at if they came across her tackle box, but still, questions would arise. Nola closed the box, replaced it with the others and shut the tackle box lid. The Knox home appeared to be in total chaos, but she knew where everything was. Everything.
Besides, it wasn’t the tackle box Nola worried about. She inched her way to the other side of the room where buried beneath a pile of vet journals and unfolded laundry was an old oak cedar chest. Nola cleared the surface, tossing the journals and socks and underwear onto the bed. She lifted the lid with a rusty squeak and the bite of peroxide filled her nose.
What was inside the cedar chest would be much more difficult to hide.
MAGGIE KENNEDY-O’KEEFE
Monday, June 15, 2020
I’m at my desk with the approved press release in front of me. I know I need to get it out to media, but I also know once the information is released to the public we’ll be overwhelmed with phone calls from armc
hair detectives and well-meaning townspeople trying to help. Eve’s case will distract from our other work. The ongoing arson case, for instance. With calls coming in about Eve, tips about the arsons could get lost in the shuffle.
I’m still puzzled by Nola’s response to finding out we’re looking into Eve’s death again. I thought she would show some kind of emotion besides scorn. I know that Nola drove Eve crazy but Eve loved her little sister, was incredibly protective of her. Too bad Nola didn’t seem to reciprocate, even after Eve’s death.
I decide to go to the archive room and review Eve’s files. I open the binder that holds Eve’s background information. Name, address, birthday, family contacts. It also holds the transcript of the call to 911, crime scene photos, initial interviews and the coroner’s report. I take the elevator to the basement. It may be windowless and stuffy but there’s room to spread out and chances are I won’t be interrupted.
I open the binder, flip past the photograph of Eve’s sophomore year school portrait and find a brief synopsis of the case. Too brief. It’s typed on Ransom County Sheriff’s Office letterhead and is just a few sentences long.
After reviewing the facts in the murder of Eve Marie Knox, it is my opinion that the perpetrator is a white male, between the ages of twenty-one and fifty. The perpetrator may or may not be known to the victim. Because of the positioning of the victim’s clothing, an attempted sexual assault may be a motive. While several men have been named persons of interest, there isn’t sufficient evidence for an arrest.
In the mess of paperwork, I find that law enforcement focused on three specific males. Nick Brady, of course, but also Daryl Olhauser, the creepy adult son of our next-door neighbor, and a drifter known as Pedals. No one knew Pedals’s real name or where he lived, but he traveled around on an old Schwinn, even in the snow, and passed through town every few weeks or so. There were no clear ties between Eve’s death and these men.
This Is How I Lied Page 6