“Nothing.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoffed.
“I swear, Shels.”
I stared at him. His gaze dropped. I remembered what Mom had said about liars keeping their eyes on yours. I thought about what Gabriel had said about those autographed photos that hung on the studio walls. So many lies …
“Please, Dad, don’t swear if it’s not true.”
He refilled the shot glass and took a drink. “This time it’s true. I swear.” The kitchen became quiet again. I heard a creak from upstairs and wondered what Mom was doing. I stood with my arms crossed tightly, as if to keep myself from exploding. I wanted to understand. I wanted to come up with an “Oh, it’s just Dad being Dad” explanation. But how could I understand his being with girls my age? The things he must have told them…promised them…to get them …
I shivered. It was disgusting. There was no other way to describe it. A man his age. A man in his position of power and influence over young, naïve, starstruck girls. The old casting-couch routine, indeed, I thought bitterly. The girls I knew would have called him a dirty old man and gross. And for good reason. And now I had to face the fact that my own father wasn’t just one of those…those men who stared a little too long. He was something far, far worse.
Chapter 32
DAD TOK ANOTHER slug of tequila. Was he bracing himself? Did he expect an outburst from me? I was angry, and growing angrier, and tempted to say something mean, feeling like I needed to vent but trying at the same time not to. It wasn’t just what he’d done to those girls. It was what he’d done to Mom and me, too. Did he ever think about us and what would happen if people found out?
It was hard to imagine anything more disappointing, or humiliating. My own father…was practically a child molester.
Suddenly, I couldn’t stand being in the same room with him. I understood exactly how Mom felt. I ran upstairs and sat down on my bed, seething, the same question rolling over and over into my brain, as if it was coming off an assembly line: How could he?
How could he?
How could he?
He was despicable. I thought of the photos of those famous actors and models, and how Dad had faked them, just as he’d faked everything he’d been doing, pretending to be a successful photographer when he was really just preying on young women for money and sex. There was symbolism in thinking of our family at that moment. Mom and I upstairs in our bedrooms, the high and righteous. Dad downstairs, not exactly in a dungeon, but low and contemptible just the same. He deserved it. Unlike the other times, I couldn’t even begin to try to forgive what he’d done.
I heard a soft knock on my door. “May I come in?” Dad asked.
I didn’t answer. I had to think about it.
“Sweetheart?” he said after waiting.
I gritted my teeth. Had he called any of those other girls sweetheart? The thought threatened to make me ill. I waited until the sensation passed, then thought the same thing I always thought: he was still my father. “I guess.”
He stopped inside the door, as if afraid to come any closer, his hands shoved into his pockets. He was a rumpled, disheveled mess, his eyes downcast. “I’m sorry. I was incredibly stupid. I made mistakes. I…never really thought about the consequences.”
It sounded heartfelt, and despite how angry I was, I also felt sad that he’d come to me and not to Mom, as if he assumed that she was a lost cause. As if I was his only chance.
“Sweetheart?”
That word made me want to scream, but I gathered myself in. “Don’t ask me for forgiveness, Dad,” I said, keeping my voice flat and unemotional, “because I am so far away from that right now.…I just have to ask you one more time, because there’ve been way too many surprises. Just swear to me that this is the end of it. That this is as bad as it gets and it doesn’t get any worse.”
“It doesn’t get any worse. I swear.”
“Then why can’t we go to the police and tell them what Gabriel did? If they’re going to find out about you and those girls anyway …”
Dad ran his hand over his head, letting his hair flop wherever it wanted. “I don’t want them to know.”
“So Gabriel gets to threaten me with a knife and go free?” It was incredible.
Dad gazed at me with sad, weary, reddened eyes and didn’t answer.
“And what about the money? He said he’d go to the police if he didn’t get it by the end of the week.”
As if lost in thought, Dad gazed off. Suddenly, I caught a glimmer of what was in his head. “You’re not…seriously considering paying him, are you?”
No reply. I was shocked. I couldn’t believe he would acquiesce to Gabriel’s demands. “Dad, you can’t….”
“Shelby, please, don’t. Not now. Give it a rest.”
He sounded like he was in agony. I had to wonder if he could pay Gabriel even if he wanted to. I had no idea if my parents had any money in the bank. We had our house. And the only other things of value that Dad owned were his camera equipment and his car, which reminded me.
“Why did they take the Ferrari?”
“DNA tests. I assume they got a sample from the body they found in Scranton and want to see if anything in my car matches it.”
“Was…she ever in your car?” I asked.
Dad made a helpless gesture with his hands. “Who remembers?”
Chapter 33
WE WERE ON overload, being bombarded by too much all at once. Gabriel’s blackmail demands, the death of one girl while the other two were still missing, and all of Dad’s admissions about the things he’d done wrong, each worse than the last. Under those circumstances, could any family have banded together to face their common enemies?
Not ours.
I don’t know how I managed to sleep that night. The next morning before school, I checked the Soundview Snoop and found Whit’s story about Jane/Janet’s criminal history and the theft of her sister’s identity. Even though we still didn’t know if Dad had been aware of her past when he hired her, I was glad Whit had gone ahead with the story, if for no other reason than that it diverted some of the spotlight from my father.
The house was quiet when I left. I didn’t know where Mom or Dad were. Outside, the police officer assigned to the media horde cleared a path out of the driveway, and I went to school.
For the first few periods, it felt like a normal day at school. But then, in third period English, the boy who sat next to me tapped my shoulder and gestured toward the door. Roman was out in the hall, making an urgent “I have to talk to you now!” face.
I got a bathroom pass and went out. Roman started talking before I even closed the classroom door: “That woman who worked for your dad? Janet? The police have taken her into custody. They say she’s a person of interest, not a suspect, but who are they kidding?”
I felt a sad heaviness settle around my shoulders. It sounded like Whit’s theory had come true. Jane/Janet had probably killed the girls because they’d threatened to go to the police. “And listen to this,” Roman said, pulling her iPad out of her bag. “There’s a story in the New York Times about your friend.”
“What friend?” I had no idea who she was talking about.
“Lennie? From Of Mice and Men?”
I reached for the iPad. The story was about the rise of hyper local Internet news sites like the Snoop, and it featured Whit’s story about Janet as an example of how the journalism on these sites was improving. They even had a photo of Whit.
“Pretty impressive,” Roman said.
“Know what’s amazing?” I said. “The first time I met him, he talked about how he hoped that covering this story would get him the recognition he needed to get a good job. Like he had it all planned.”
“What if he’s the killer?” Roman asked. “He commits the crime and then covers it as a reporter. And since he knows better than anyone else who did it, he can constantly scoop everyone. And that makes him look like a media star!”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Sound
s like a great movie. And while you’re at it, why don’t you make him a vampire?”
“Be serious,” she scoffed. “That’s been totally overdone.”
Inside the girls’ room, I took out my phone.
“Texting someone?” Roman guessed.
“Uh-huh.”
“Even though he reminds you of Lennie?”
“Just congratulating him.” I pressed Send, then realized that Roman was giving me a funny look.
“What?” I asked.
“I just told you that the police took Janet into custody,” she said. “Which suggests that they no longer think your dad is a suspect, right? So why aren’t you acting like this is the best news since the invention of sliced bread?”
“Uh…If anything, what I’m feeling is huge relief,” I said, still upset by all the other things Dad had done that Roman didn’t know about.
“Did you ever think she was the culprit?”
I was about to answer when a text came back.
“That was fast,” Roman said with a smile.
Whit had texted: C U after scl?
I felt a chilling jolt, and the breath rushed out of my lungs.
It was the exact same message Gabriel had sent the day before.
Chapter 34
“WHOA, DID YOU just go white?” Roman asked. “What’s that about?”
“Nothing.” I started to breathe again. It had to be a coincidence…didn’t it?
“Nothing?” Roman repeated doubtfully. “For a second, I thought you were going to faint.”
I shook my head and focused on trying to relax. Just a coincidence, I told myself again.
“I wish I knew what was going on in your head,” Roman said.
“I think you’d be disappointed.”
“Why don’t I believe that?”
“Give me a moment.” I texted Whit: W U sneak up in prkng lot?
Back came: LOL. Meet @ reservoir?
That caught me by surprise. The reservoir was in a wooded area, and the only people who went there were dog walkers and kids who wanted to drink or get high. After what happened with Gabriel, I couldn’t help but feel wary: Y thr?
I was waiting for a text back when the phone vibrated. Whit had decided to call rather than text. I held up my finger to Roman to let her know I needed a moment, then answered. “Hey.”
“Can you talk?” Whit asked.
“Barely.”
“I suggested the reservoir because it’s probably not a good idea for us to be seen together. Ever since the Times article this morning, everyone knows who I am, and obviously a lot of people around town know who you are.”
I didn’t get it. “We can’t be seen talking?”
“It would be better…if my competition didn’t know.”
It was a jarring reminder that, as far as he was concerned, I was still a source of information. “All right,” I said. “I’ll see you there.”
I hung up knowing Roman would give me the third degree.
“He wants to talk about what’s going on,” I said.
“In person?”
“Yeah. At the reservoir.”
Roman smiled. “Ooh la la. You’re going to meet him alone?”
I rolled my eyes and headed back to class.
The reservoir was in the woods with some hiking trails and a few private homes around it. When I got to the gravel parking lot, Whit’s car wasn’t there. I sat and waited, listening to my iPod and watching a few yellow and orange leaves flutter down from branches.
After a while, a car pulled into the lot, but it wasn’t Whit’s. A blonde woman got out with a chocolate Lab, which quickly bounded off into the woods. As the woman started to follow, she glanced in my direction, as if wondering why I was sitting there in my car.
When Whit was twenty minutes late, I took out my Black-Berry to text him, but before I could push Send, he texted me: BRT
I closed my phone. Okay, he was coming.
Another ten minutes passed before he pulled into the lot. We both got out.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Not really. A lot’s going on.” He nodded at my car. “Sit in a car or take a walk?”
I couldn’t help hesitating a moment. Another walk with another guy? But it was Whit, and I had to believe he wasn’t carrying a knife. “It’s nice out,” I said. “Let’s walk.”
We started along the dirt path through trees with leaves beginning to turn orange and yellow.
“They found another body,” he said. “This one in some woods outside Hartford.”
“Peggy D’Angelo,” I said, and felt my heart grow heavy.
“They haven’t made a positive ID yet,” Whit said. “But her hands and feet were bound like the girl near Scranton, and her description matches Peggy D’Angelo’s. I guess now that they found Rebecca Parlin, they have a better idea of where to look.”
More terrible news…I’d always known that it was hopeless to believe that the other two missing girls might still be alive, but now it seemed certain not to be the case. It was horrible and awful, and I couldn’t help thinking of those girls’ parents and the agony they must have been in.
“I heard they’ve taken Janet into custody,” I said. “Was that why you were late?”
Whit shook his head. “There’s something else. That other woman, Mercedes? Her family’s reported her missing.”
I stopped and stared at him.
“They just reported it an hour ago,” he said.
I felt sick. Not Mercedes, too. Then I realized something. “If it happened an hour ago, Janet couldn’t have anything to do with it. Didn’t they take her into custody this morning after your story came out?”
“The family only reported her missing an hour ago. She could have been gone longer than that. You don’t know how long they waited before calling the police.”
It was too much. Tears came to my eyes. All Mercedes cared about was her little boy, Pedro. She’d never meant any harm to anyone. And yet, in an awful way, it made sense. Jane/Janet would have known that Dad and Gabriel would never go to the police because they were as guilty of the scam as she was. But she might have become concerned that if the police questioned Mercedes, she’d talk.
I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and sniffed.
Whit stared at the ground. “Hard to believe stuff like this really happens.”
We went for a while without speaking. The path wound through the trees and close to the water. A few surprised mallards quacked and swam away from shore, leaving small wakes in the dark green water. I kept thinking about Mercedes. And that made me think of the girls whose bodies had been discovered. “Have they said how Rebecca Parlin died?”
“Compressive asphyxia. In the crime world, it’s called burking. They pin you to the ground on your back and press their knees down on your chest, which keeps you from breathing.”
The thought of it made me wince. “Why would anyone kill someone that way?”
“Here are some guesses,” Whit said. “First, there’s no murder weapon involved. In any murder trial, connecting the weapon to the killer is a key piece of evidence. So the person who’s doing this is making it harder for the police to connect them to the murders. Second, there are no obvious wounds, so it’s conceivable that whoever’s doing this could claim the deaths were accidental.”
We climbed up to an old wooden bench in a small clearing and sat. I waited for him to continue, and when he didn’t, I said, “Any other thoughts?”
“Well …” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“It’s a pretty sadistic way to kill someone. You get to be there, watching this person slowly die.”
“You think the killer is a sadist?”
“Maybe someone who’s either really, really angry or really, really sick. Which is why I …” He didn’t finish.
“Why you?”
He sighed. “You know this woman, Janet?”
“A little.”
I understood what he was implying. Strangely, it was a vaguely uncomfortable feeling I’d had as well. “Neither. Just flaky and disorganized and overwhelmed. Almost like the kind of person who might turn to crime simply because she couldn’t function well enough to survive otherwise.”
Whit nodded. We sat quietly. The mallards were now bobbing peacefully in the water.
“You’ve thought a lot about this,” I said.
“I’ve tried. One thing this situation has taught me is how careful you have to be about what you think and write. Everyone’s chomping at the bit to say Janet’s the killer. I’ve even heard some of the media say it should be called a serial-killing spree. But so far only two bodies have been found. It’s true they were both murdered and there seems to be a connection through your father. But I’m not sure that means Janet’s the one, and even more doubtful that she fits the profile of a serial killer.”
“And you think the media keeps hinting at it because it’ll sell more news,” I said. “Everybody’s in it for their own gain.”
Whit nodded. “Kind of depressing.”
There was something about the way he said it that made me wonder. Like maybe some of the things he was learning about journalism weren’t what he’d expected. We sat for a while longer, looking at the water and the mallards. Then Whit suggested we walk again.
“So how’s it going at home?” he asked as we followed the path through the trees.
“Off the record?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Not good. My parents weren’t exactly getting along to begin with. And my father can’t work, so I think money’s a problem.” I knew better than to say anything about Gabriel and the blackmail. Or regarding Dad’s admission about what he did with those girls.
But then Whit asked a question I didn’t expect. “What about Mr. Kissy Face?”
Was he asking because he was curious about whether I was having a relationship with Gabriel? Strangely, I discovered I liked the idea that Whit might be interested. But then I remembered telling him about how uncomfortable I was about the oddly unempathetic way Gabriel sometimes acted. That was probably what he was referring to.
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