The Dark Heart

by Julie Cave

  “Now, you’ll want to know if I found any DNA or evidence you can use,” Dr. Walker continued. “I took scrapings from underneath the fingernails and found some DNA there. I’ll run it through the system tomorrow and see if we get any hits. I didn’t find any other prints, hairs, or fibers on the body itself.”

  Elise nodded. “Thanks, Doctor. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Sure,” said Dr. Walker. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Driving home in icy rain, the conditions seemed fitting. Dinah’s mind whirled around like a hurricane, attempting to reach the elusive eye of the storm. Who was Malia Shaw? How did she have access to cash? Why did she have tattoos removed? Why had she become a heroin addict?

  And how did this all relate to her death?

  ****

  Chloe was dressed in sweat pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt. The garments did nothing to keep her warm, but she reasoned that she should warm up soon. She glanced around her. The track was empty — the serious school athletes trained inside warm gyms during the winter months. Plus, it was still very early in the morning. The sun had only just appeared reluctantly above the eastern horizon.

  She was here because there was no way she wanted to work out in front of people. Here, with just her, the grass, and the sky, she felt comfortable enough to run. The last time she’d been here, the track had looked completely different. In the bleachers, parents and students yelled and cheered. The athletes, their taut and lean bodies in action, had sprinted and jumped and thrown. Chloe spent the day making sarcastic comments to hide her jealousy.

  She’d calculated that if she learned to run two miles every day, she should be able to lose two pounds a week. The website she’d found — onemileonepound.com — practically guaranteed it.

  She did some basic stretches and started to run. In truth, she was a total klutz and looked like a total nerd when she jogged. Nobody wants to see a fat girl run, she thought. Here, in the quiet early morning, she enjoyed the solitude.

  It didn’t take long for her breath to become ragged. She’d barely completed one-fourth of her goal. There was a painful stitch in her side. Her legs felt like they had been dipped in cement.

  I need to complete half, then I’ll take a rest. So she pushed herself until her lungs seemed to have been burned away to a third of their original size and she felt sure her heart would just beat right out of her chest and plop to the ground. Then she allowed herself to stop, hunch over, and suck in sweet mouthfuls of cold air.

  The upside was that she was warm. Probably red as a beet, she thought.

  She managed to run one and a half miles before she honestly thought she might die. This is only the first day of many, she told herself. No need to kill yourself.

  As she walked home, her lungs still felt newly scalded but despite that, she felt flushed with excitement. She’d jogged, done something healthy, and now it felt great! This must be the endorphin high I keep hearing about.

  It was almost time to leave for school by the time she arrived home, and she noticed the house was empty. Her mother and Dinah had already gone to work; her father had either gone or would be home soon depending on his shift.

  Chloe turned on the computer and decided to check Facebook for a quick scan while she ate a piece of toast.

  For the second time in as many days, she wished she hadn’t.

  Jessica Hunter had posted a video, shot on her cell phone. As if she were watching a grotesque car wreck that simultaneously repulsed and thrilled her, Chloe clicked “play.”

  The video was of her, running around the track field. The shaky camera zoomed in on her thighs, then her stomach, and then her face. With sick fascination, she observed that her thighs were thunderous, her stomach wobbly, and her face red and tortured.

  The comment Jessica had attached to the video read: Run, cow, run!

  Underneath, her minions had weighed in. Shaun Kruger wrote, mmoooo! Mmmm — ooooooo! I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.

  Alice Greendale wrote, Maybe the cow will keel over and die! Lol!

  Sarah Mallister wrote, That’s disgusting. I think my eyeballs r bleeding.

  A cold, numb dread settled over Chloe. A bitter, metallic taste rose in her mouth — the taste of humiliation and disgrace. In her head, she tried to calculate how many people that she went to school with would see the video.

  It’ll go viral. It won’t just be my school; it’ll be everyone in the whole town and probably the whole country.

  Her stomach rolled and heaved; she wanted to throw up. For one crazy moment, she wondered if she withdrew all the money in her bank account whether she could start a new life in a different country. Maybe New Zealand. Surely they wouldn’t see the video there. But of course the paltry $350 in her account wouldn’t get her to New Zealand, or even Canada.

  Miserably, she logged out of Facebook and stared at the blank computer screen. Her thoughts were jittery and danced crazily like bugs trapped near a light bulb.

  She decided to call Grace on her cell phone. Grace was probably at school already.

  Grace answered. “Hey, Chloe?”

  “Hey, how you doing?”

  “Good! Where are you? Are you here yet?”

  “Uh . . . no, not yet.”

  There was a pause. “Are you okay? You don’t sound so good.”

  “Uh, have you been on Facebook yet?” Chloe asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “There’s a video of me on there.”

  “What video?”

  Chloe explained the video that Jessica had posted on Facebook.

  “What? That’s totally uncool. I’m going to tell her so.”

  “It’s okay,” said Chloe, sadly. “It’s not your fight.”

  “Of course it is!” Grace was indignant. “You’re my friend. What happens to you, happens to me.”

  Chloe felt some of her anxiety ease as she spoke to her friend.

  “Have you told your mom yet?” Grace asked.

  “About Jessica Hunter? No. I’ve tried a few times, but she’s been so tired lately. I don’t want to disturb her.”

  “You have to tell someone,” urged Grace. “Or Jessica will get away with it.”

  “I know. I’ll try to talk to her tonight.”

  “Oh — hey,” said Grace. “The bell just rang. Are you coming to school?”

  Chloe thought about going, but the horror of seeing Jessica’s mocking smile and hearing the jeering laughter was too much.

  “No, I might stay home. I’m not . . . feeling good,” she said.

  “Listen,” said Grace. “I’m going to talk to Jessica today. I don’t know if it’ll do any good, but I’ll try. Okay?”

  Chloe hung up, feeling slightly better.

  She went upstairs to shower. At the mirror, she sucked in her stomach and scrutinized her thighs. Had she lost weight today?

  To make totally sure, I’ll skip lunch, she decided. She’d read somewhere that reducing food intake drastically was a good way to lose weight fast.

  If I had the money, I’d just get liposuction. Then I’d be instantly skinny and not be videoed running around the track like a loser.

  She decided to work on an assignment and managed to concentrate. When hunger pangs lashed out in her stomach, she realized it was lunchtime. She thought about eating, but she liked the feeling of an empty stomach. It made her realize that she was in control, that she had power over her body. And eventually, the hunger pangs went away and Chloe knew she’d won the first battle.

  If she could just do that every day, she’d be skinny in no time at all.

  ****

  Angus had spent the morning in a meeting about town planning permits, and he had no idea what he’d said. Similarly, he’d gone through the family motions last night, watching TV with Louise, acting as normally as possible.

  Inside was a different story. Anxiety gnawed at him like termites on a wooden post. Waiting for the police to come knocking was driving him crazy. W
ere they doing this to him on purpose? The anticipation of their visit made him jumpy, hyper-aware, unable to sleep properly.

  He’d napped for a few hours close to dawn. He woke as the sky changed from gray to pink. Groggy, shaky, and with a headache, he’d quietly left the house. Now that he was in his office, he had a mission. He needed to get in contact with Lola, to make sure she didn’t say anything stupid, to remind her to keep up her end of the bargain. But mostly to protect me, if you want to know the truth, he thought. A sick shiver of shame rolled over him.

  He called her cell phone, which rang out. There was no option to leave a message. He debated for far too long about whether to send her a text message, and eventually he fired off a very short one: call me.

  He looked up the name of the agency that handled her temporary work positions and called them. “I’m trying to reach Lola Albright,” he said. “Can you tell me where she’s working at the moment?”

  The receptionist ceased loudly chewing her gum briefly to tell him the name of a stationery supply business on the east side of town.

  Angus called there. “I’m looking for Lola Albright,” she said.

  The man who answered snorted loudly. “You and me both, buddy,” he said. “She hasn’t turned up to work here all week. She’s supposed to be answering this phone.”

  “Have you contacted her agency? I don’t think they’re aware she hasn’t been to work,” said Angus.

  “I’m gonna call them next week,” said the man. “It’s not unusual for temp staff to go AWOL.” His tone changed, hardened. “Why do you want to know? What did you say your name was?”

  Angus hung up. The only other contact he had for Lola was her landlord, an old woman who lived next door. He called her.

  “This is Ada Whittaker,” the cracked voice of the old lady answered.

  “I’m looking for Lola Albright,” Angus said. “Is she home?”

  “No, she isn’t,” snapped Ada Whittaker. “Do you know where she is? She owes me a month of rent.”

  “I’m concerned for her safety,” said Angus, using his most pastoral tone. “When did you see her last?”

  “Over a week ago. Probably two weeks ago,” said Ada. “I saw her leave in her car. Thought she was going to work like she did every other morning. But I didn’t see her come home, and her car hasn’t been home either.”

  “Have you checked her apartment?” Angus asked.

  “No need, son,” Ada said. “The police already came to check the place. She wasn’t there.”

  Angus’s heart plummeted to his shoes like an out-of-control elevator. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “The police already came to check her place,” Ada said. “She wasn’t there. I gave them the key, we went in and looked around.”

  Angus wanted to throw up. “Thanks anyway,” he said, hanging up the phone.

  The police had been there? How had they made the connection between Malia and Lola so quickly? How long would it be before they connected him?

  One woman dead, one woman missing. This doesn’t bode well. What have I done? Why am I still being punished for this? Why can I never escape the past?

  Angus’s thoughts turned to his own safety. Would they come after him next? If they’d found Malia and Lola so easily, he’d be even easier to locate. Or would they come after his family?

  That thought caused him to go cold with fear. Going after his family was precisely the kind of thing they would do.

  But how could he warn Louise and protect his kids without telling them the whole story? Louise didn’t know about his past. She wouldn’t have married him if she had known. It wasn’t the sort of thing he could just come clean about now — not to mention that his career would come to a screeching halt. It was too big and there had been too much deception. No church congregant in their right mind would want somebody like Angus as their minister if they knew the truth.

  Perhaps he could surprise them with a vacation? But that was a risky move for someone who was under police suspicion. Angus drummed his fingers on the desk, his anxiety building. This was an impossible situation.

  Angus suddenly couldn’t stand the confines of his office, and he decided to go for a drive. Perhaps he could look for Lola’s car, a beat-up Toyota. The police wouldn’t yet have a clear picture of her usual haunts.

  Angus drove into town, circling Main Street several times, despite knowing it was unlikely Lola was simply having coffee in one of the local cafes. One did not usually go out for coffee for weeks on end. It was futile, but he felt that doing something — anything — was better than sitting on his butt. He visited several office buildings where he knew she’d done work in the past, but he didn’t dare go in; he was scared of being recognized. So he cruised through the parking lots of each building, searching for her car and seeing nothing.

  He drove past the gym where she liked to put in hours on the treadmill, as if she could somehow outrun her past. Her car wasn’t there. He drove to the bus terminal, and checked the parking lot where people who caught buses into Richmond left their cars. Her Toyota wasn’t there.

  Finally, he couldn’t think of another place where she might be. It seemed she had gone, melted away like snow. Had the person who’d killed Malia spooked her? Had she been killed already, and just not found yet? Full of dread, Angus turned around and drove home. It was mid-afternoon; the kids would be home from school. He could play basketball and help with homework and try to forget about this hideous, impossible problem.

  He drove down his street and his stomach gave a lurch when he saw the unmarked police car parked outside his house.

  Finally, the police had come for him.

  ****

  Dinah saw the headlights of Angus’s car turn into the driveway. She had found a seat in the living room, where his wife Louise had been hovering, both offering hospitality and worry in equal amounts. Elise sat opposite her, perched on the edge of a fabric couch. Dinah, amidst the detritus of family life, was running out of ways to decline Louise’s suggestion of a cup of coffee. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for the woman, fluttering around like a frightened bird.

  Thankfully, when she saw his car, Louise flew outside onto the porch, wringing her hands. “Angus, the police are here,” Dinah heard her call. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you.”

  Dinah didn’t hear his reply, but heard his footsteps approaching the front door.

  Louise reappeared first, her head turned toward her husband.

  Angus Whitehall was tall and patrician, with a full head of dark hair, intelligent dark eyes, and a charismatic smile. He spoke with a voice as smooth and sweet as honey. He was only in his late thirties, and Elise had told Dinah on the way that he was an immensely popular pastor. Elise knew the pastor vaguely; their daughters were the same age and were good friends.

  “Is everything okay?” Louise asked her husband, her brow creased with worry lines.

  “I’m sure it is,” said Angus Whitehall. He smiled casually, although to Dinah’s trained eye it seemed more a grimace than a smile.

  She stood to shake his hand.

  “Hello, Mr. Whitehall,” Elise said. “I’m Detective Elise Jones with the sherriff’s office, and this is Dinah Harris, a former FBI agent who is consulting with me. I’m sorry to disturb you this late in the evening, but I wonder if I might have a few words with you?”

  “Sure, Detective. I know who you are. Aren’t our girls friends?” he said, sitting down on the couch opposite her. Louise sat down next to him.

  Elise cleared her throat. “Yes, that’s correct. Your Grace and my Chloe have been friends for a while now.” She paused for a moment. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Whitehall. I need to speak with your husband privately.”

  Louise jumped to her feet, her face blooming red. “Oh . . . of course. Will you be okay, dear?”

  “Yes,” said Whitehall. “Though it’s been a long day and I’d sure appreciate a cup of coffee. Would you mind bringing a pot for us?”

 
At least we know there is plenty of coffee waiting, thought Dinah.

  “Certainly,” she said. She threw a look at Dinah that seemed to say I told you so! I knew you wanted coffee all along!

  While Louise busied herself in the kitchen, Elise asked the pastor, “How is Grace?”

  “Very well, thanks. How is Chloe?”

  Elise smiled. “Great. Busy day at the office?”

  Mr. Whitehall almost replied immediately, and then seemed to catch himself. “Well, the office was busy, yes. I wasn’t there, specifically; I was attending to other matters today.”

  An odd answer, thought Dinah. She made a note to find out more about the pastor’s activities that day.

  Once the coffee had arrived and Louise had anxiously retreated, Elise got down to business. “Mr. Whitehall, I’m here because I’m investigating the murder of a woman named Malia Shaw,” she said. “I believe you knew her.” Good, Elise — start as you mean to continue, Dinah thought, impressed.

  “I did,” agreed the pastor, after a tiny hesitation. His features jumped around, as if trying to decide in which position to settle.

  “Did you know that she had been murdered?”

  “I found out on the Wednesday night newscast,” said Mr. Whitehall.

  “The police tried to call your phone recently,” said Elise.

  A flush tinged his face for a moment. “Did you? My cell phone?”

  “Yes.” Dinah watched him closely.

  “I’m sorry, my cell phone has been dropping in and out recently. I’ve barely been using it; it’s become so annoying.” The words came out smoothly, but Mr. Whitehall’s face slowly stained a light red.

  Not a smooth liar, thought Dinah.

  “Had you seen her recently?”

  A pause. Whitehall said at length: “I saw her about twice a week.”

  “Did you go to her apartment to see her, or did she come to you?”

  “I usually went to her apartment. She found travel . . . difficult.”

  “Prior to her death, when was your last visit?”

  He considered. “It would have been Sunday afternoon.”

  Dinah made some notes, thinking any fresh DNA they might find could well be explained, if Mr. Whitehall was telling the truth.