by Julie Cave
The back wall of the cupboard sounded loose and spongy. She reached in to test it and the particleboard shuddered at her touch.
Dinah retrieved her flashlight from her bag in the living room and looked around the cupboard before realizing that the particleboard was bent toward her, in a concave fashion.
Shuffling on her knees, she pressed herself up against the bathroom wall and shone the flashlight in the small crack between the wall and the back of the bathroom cupboard. She could see something there, a dark mass that had bent the particleboard inward.
In the process of pulling the dark mass out, Dinah scraped her glove-clad knuckles and bent her elbow at impossible angles. With great concentration, she managed to inch the mass out from behind the particleboard slowly.
It was a large, sealed plastic bag, and at first Dinah thought it would be a stash of drugs, kept safe from anyone who might steal it. But the feel was wrong; it was too stiff and thick to be drugs. When she pulled the contents from the bag out, she stared for several moments in total confusion. Two U.S. passports and three social security cards emerged from the bag, all bearing Malia Shaw’s photo. However, the documents contained three aliases: one passport and social security card read Theresa Scott, the other passport and another social security card named her as Lexi Hollingsworth, and the final lone social security card pegged her as Amanda Wallace.
The documents all had varying addresses, all within Virginia; but all had the same birth date. Dinah examined the documents carefully. They were professionally made; indiscernible fakes. She slumped back against the bathroom wall, her heart galloping like a thoroughbred, thundering in her ears.
Who was Malia Shaw?
Chapter 2
Angus Whitehall arrived home as the last golden filament of dusk disappeared, absorbed by the cold blackness of night. He felt a usual rush of warmth as he made the juxtaposition from dark to the cheerful light of his home. As he walked from the driveway to the porch, he could feel the burden of responsibility of his work as the pastor of Ten Mile Hollow First Baptist Church begin to lift. The responsibility of being the leader, the motivator, and the example to an entire town was, at times, exhausting — particularly since he was pretending to be a fine, upstanding citizen when he knew very well that he was not anything of the sort.
His wife, Louise, was both fixing dinner and supervising the homework of their children, 15-year-old Grace and 10-year-old Marcus. He shrugged off his coat, kissed Louise, and poured himself a glass of water.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“Oh, you know. It was fine,” said Louise. She was distracted, stirring broth into a simmering pan and answering Marcus’s questions about fifth-grade math. “How was your day?”
Angus shrugged. “It was okay. I finished my sermon for Sunday, so that’s a big relief.”
“Uh-huh, that sounds great,” said Louise. She flitted from one saucepan to the next. “I’m sorry, honey. Can we talk later?”
“Of course. Can I help with dinner?”
“Oh, it’s all under control. Do you know anything at all about math? I really don’t.” She smiled at him.
“I may remember something.” He stood up and took another swallow of water. “Hey, Marcus. Need a hand?”
For 15 minutes, he helped Marcus wrestle fractions into submission and checked on Grace, who was in her room. While he waited for dinner, he decided to relax for a few minutes.
In the living room, he sat down on a couch and turned on the television. He mindlessly watched without really digesting the latest political news from Washington, tales of economic woe from Europe, and a scandal surrounding a famous football player.
“In local news,” the newscaster said, “the body of a woman was discovered this morning in the small town of Ten Mile Hollow, just outside Norfolk, and police report that her death is a suspected homicide. Ten Mile Hollow Sheriff Wilder says that the woman was strangled about two days ago in an apartment on the west side of town. She has been identified as Malia Shaw, and she was 39 years old.”
The glass slipped from Angus’s hand and shattered on the hardwood floor.
The latest photo of Malia Shaw appeared on the screen, and he saw gaunt cheekbones, dull skin, and weary eyes. The photo was lifted directly from her driver’s license, and her hair was disheveled. She looks almost dead, Angus thought and then shuddered with horror at the thought. Now she really is dead.
Suddenly the television screen was too large, too sharp, too clear. Did they really have to blow up her face to such dimensions? Did they want the general public to see death already residing in her eyes?
“Angus?”
He snapped back to reality and saw Louise standing next to him, looking at the broken glass in confusion.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Angus wanted to laugh, hysteria bubbling up in him. A ghost, indeed. A ghost from the past, who represented memories he’d almost succeeded in repressing.
“Uh,” he said. “I’m fine. Just an accident.”
Louise looked at the television screen. “You were watching footage of the woman who was murdered?”
“Yes.” He looked down at the broken glass and thought he should start cleaning it up. Yet, he couldn’t will his limbs to move.
“It was a shock, wasn’t it?” Louise said. “A murder, in our little town.”
Angus felt relief wash over him. “Yes,” he agreed. “Terrible. You wouldn’t think it could happen here.”
Finally, he managed to drop to a knee and begin cleaning up the glass. Louise came in with a small broom and took over, directing him to the dinner table. Over dinner, he tried to behave normally, but he caught Louise throwing him a few odd glances, as if there were something slightly off-kilter about him. Was he talking too fast, laughing too loudly? Did the smile on his face reach his eyes?
He kissed the kids goodnight and sat brooding on the couch. What is going to happen? Will the police link Malia to me? What if people find out? What if my family finds out? The thought made him go cold all over, his stomach flipping like a fish on a hook. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh, cry, or vomit. All options felt entirely possible.
Louise had curled up on the couch next to him with a cup of tea, watching him carefully. “Is everything okay?” she asked him, when he smiled briefly at her.
“Of course,” he lied.
“Did you know the murdered woman?”
“No!” he replied, a bit too quickly. He waited a moment. “No. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” she said. “I just thought you might have come across her during your ministry work on the west side. She looked like she lived a hard life.”
A hard life doesn’t even begin to explain what she — what we — did. But his wife had unknowingly thrown him a lifeline. Ministry on the west side.
“I didn’t know her,” he said. “I guess she might have been a recipient of our ministry services, but if so, I didn’t recognize her.”
He had lied to many people, including Louise, throughout the course of his life. It was only because the truth was too hard to bear for anyone except him, and he’d resigned himself to carry the burden alone. But this lie sat heavily on his shoulders like an ill-fitting coat, because of the possible consequences of discovery.
The last time I saw her she was alive, talking. She had the same eyes though: death lived there.
He and Louise slid into comfortable movie watching, although Angus’s mind was elsewhere. He stared blindly at the television screen, seeing people move and speak and do things. He had no idea what was going on.
Instead, he was wondering if he’d covered his tracks well enough. He wondered if he’d left behind anything of himself, though he thought he had been as careful as he could be. He wondered if anyone had seen him, if they could identify him. He wondered if any clues existed on the woman’s dead body.
Fear thrummed through him like a high-tension electrical wire. He cou
ldn’t afford for any of this to be revealed. It would be devastating if his secret were exposed. He had spent so many years building a careful veneer of respectability, and he couldn’t imagine what would happen if it all came crashing down.
He was the pastor of Ten Mile Hollow First Baptist Church, a husband, and a father. Since those terrible times with Malia, he had tried to make amends in every way he knew how. He had spent all his energy giving to others, trying desperately for love to outweigh the hatred. Now he had to acknowledge that, as in many things, his efforts fell short.
Oh God I’m so scared. Please help me. Please show me what to do.
What he couldn’t say, couldn’t find the courage to articulate or the temerity to ask for was a plea for protection for himself.
****
Chloe Jones glanced at the front steps of the E. Crenshaw Ten Mile Hollow High School. When she saw who was sitting there, her heart tripped a little and then went icy cold. If only there was another entrance, she thought.
Each morning, before the bell, Jessica Hunter and her minions would station themselves on the steps. What followed was great sport to them — making nasty comments, laughing, teasing, mocking — and dread to those who would fall victim.
Chloe was one of their favorite targets.
She narrowed her eyes and stared at the girl who ruled the tenth grade. She was beautiful and popular and confident. Long, blue-black hair cascaded in effortless waves around a face with flawless olive skin. Her blue eyes were startlingly lovely, and her white teeth were perfect. She was a cheerleader and dated a senior football star. Her clothes displayed long, lean legs and a tiny torso. She was vicious and mean, feared by almost everyone in the tenth grade.
Chloe knew she made an obvious victim. Her hair was blunt and short and spunky. Her figure could best be described as curvy, though Chloe thought of herself as simply fat. She was as pale as the full moon. She wore glasses and favored a chunky frame. She liked to wear clothes that were retro, and therefore not at all cool. She was smarter than Jessica, and beat her in every class.
In return for these slights, Jessica tormented her at every possible moment.
Chloe glanced around, trying to see if a more likely victim was about to make his or her way up the stairs. She waited five minutes, but finally, she knew she had to take a deep breath and enter the building.
As she approached the stairs, the tenth-grade chess club president began to climb the wide, stone staircase and she silently yelled out a thank you. He was sure to attract more taunts than her.
It was going perfectly until she reached the step third from the top. She was so tense, waiting to hear her name called out, that she forgot to concentrate on what her feet were doing and she tripped. She dropped her book bag and fell on her hands — not a large fall, by any means.
But it brought the vultures circling.
A loud burst of laughter erupted from Jessica’s group, sounding like a rookery of raucous crows.
“You don’t just look like a cow,” called Jessica. “You’re as clumsy as one, too!”
Blood rushed to Chloe’s face as she picked up her book bag. A brief thought flitted through her mind — that doesn’t even make sense — but she didn’t dare retort. Are cows clumsy? Really?
On cue, Jessica’s minions began to moo loudly. As Chloe fled into the school building, she heard the mooing intensify amid squeals of laughter. Once inside, she realized she was shaking, while humility burned her cheeks. Other students streamed past, most of them probably thankful that they’d avoided the wrath of Jessica on this particular day.
“Hey, you don’t look great,” a familiar voice said at her side. Chloe turned to see her best friend in the whole world, Grace Whitehall, fall in beside her. Grace could have been one of Jessica’s minions; she was pretty enough and had the interest of plenty of boys. Jessica had never thrown any taunts her way.
Instead, Grace had chosen to be Chloe’s friend. They’d known each other for only a few years, but had clicked almost instantly. They’d been inseparable ever since.
Chloe looked at the petite, blonde girl and said, “Jessica.”
Grace frowned. “Yeah, I heard the last part of it. Are you okay?”
“I guess.” At the lockers, Chloe suddenly felt drained. She had invested so much energy into trying to escape Jessica that she actually felt sick.
“She’d be nothing without her minions, you know,” Grace said. “A bully is a coward.”
“And her stupid football star boyfriend,” added Chloe, with a frown.
Grace sighed. “Yeah, it totally bites. I’m sorry.”
Chloe patted her friend on the shoulder. “Not your fault! What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right?”
Just as she was about to feel better, she saw Jessica stalking down the corridor toward her. Her blue eyes were narrow and mean as she searched for her prey. Chloe tried to melt into her locker, sending up a prayer to whoever might be listening. Please, please, please, please leave me alone.
Instead, she heard the sweet voice of her friend Grace say, “Hey, Jessica!”
Chloe went mute with horror.
“Hi, Grace. When are you going to cheerleader tryouts?” Jessica asked, her voice suddenly warm as pudding.
“Never,” snapped Grace. “And leave Chloe alone!”
Chloe turned around slowly, if only to witness the situation unfolding grotesquely like a train wreck. Except that a train wreck could never be as horrifying as this situation unfolding before her.
Jessica smirked and flicked a contemptuous look Chloe’s way. “I don’t know why you’re friends with her. She’s dragging you down. Aren’t you embarrassed to be seen with her?”
Embarrassed? thought Chloe. She felt hot, as though she was standing directly underneath the sun on a hot summer’s day.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Grace, sharply.
Jessica stared at the blonde girl for a second, then tossed her hair. “Whatever.” Her minions followed her sashaying walk down the corridor.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Chloe said, almost collapsing against her locker. Every limb felt like a wet noodle. “Seriously. She’s going to have it in for you now.”
Grace shook her head fiercely. “I don’t care. Now, let’s forget about her. What’s new?”
Chloe smiled in spite of herself. Thank goodness for Grace. “Mom’s got a lady staying with us at the moment. An old friend from when she was an FBI agent.”
“Really? That’s so cool. Is the friend still an FBI agent?”
“Don’t think so.” Chloe frowned, realizing she didn’t really know for sure.
“What’s her name?”
“Dinah Harris.” Together they began to walk to their first class. “She seems nice.”
****
The office was quiet when Dinah and Elise arrived at the police department later that day. Both had returned to Elise’s home for a quick nap and now had arrived to continue their investigation. Dinah had only been able to sleep for half an hour. She was preoccupied with the new case, her thoughts all over the place.
Elise looked around the office and snorted. “The sheriff has obviously decided two hours of work today is sufficient.”
Dinah smiled. “What would you like me to do?”
Elise laid the bags containing the cell phone and the identification documents on her desk. “My first job is to try and locate some next of kin,” she said. “While I do that, could you start with arrest records for Malia Shaw?”
“Sure.” Dinah sat at a spare desk and using Elise’s log on details, opened up the arrest records database.
The first and most obvious question was whether the woman’s name had actually been Malia Shaw, or whether that was another alias.
She’d been arrested twice, both on minor drugs charges. She’d been identified as Malia Shaw in both those arrests. Dinah typed in the other names she’d found on the bogus identification but found no matches. Therefore, while the dead woman ha
d lived in Ten Mile Hollow, she’d only used one name — with the police, anyway.
Dinah searched through the records and saw that at both arrests she had not been bailed out nor visited. The charges had been minor, and she hadn’t served a great deal of time in jail, due to non-custodial sentences. Dinah got the initial impression of a woman who had lived a very solitary life.
There was nothing in the arrest records that revealed Malia Shaw’s next of kin. Wherever she had come from, Ten Mile Hollow clearly was not home to parents, siblings, or even a romantic interest. Dinah recorded the information for Elise, closed the files and turned her attention to the cell phone.
The first thing she checked was the phone contacts. It was a pitifully small list: only three names — Simon, Al, and Lola. There was no entry for Mom or Dad, nor anyone else who seemed like a family member. No aunt or uncle. No Grandma or Grandpa.
Dinah called Simon first. The phone rang out, with no voice mail message. Interesting.
Next, she called Al. The phone rang, then a male answered: “Hello?”
“Hello, this is the Ten Mile Hollow Sheriff’s Department and—”
Click.
“Hello? Hello?” Dinah listened and heard nothing. Al had hung up on her. Very interesting.
Dinah called Lola, the final name in the contacts list. The phone rang out, and like Simon, it did not go to voicemail. She pursed her lips thoughtfully as she wrote out the numbers to follow up with the phone company.
She looked at the text messages next, and saw that almost every single text message was to or from Simon.
Need stuff, wrote Malia Shaw.
30 minutes, Simon replied.
You be around today? Malia had asked on another occasion.
Yes need something? Simon said.
Yes.
Her drug dealer, Dinah thought. It was no wonder he hadn’t answered his phone.
Occasionally, a text message popped up from Al or Lola. The purpose of those messages appeared to be checking in on Malia, asking her whether she was okay.