by Gregg Olsen
“I wondered why you were wearing a sweatshirt on a day like today. You haven’t started up again, have you?”
“Your cat scratched me,” Katelyn said, her tone defiant and pleading at the same time, begging Starla to notice that the bloody mess had taken over once more.
Starla shook her head, her eyes worried. “If the cat was named Katelyn, I’d say so.”
Katelyn turned away, easing her arm from her friend’s not-sotight grip.
“You’re cutting again, aren’t you?”
Katelyn kept her focus on Teagan, performing his Tarzan spin on the rope.
“No, I’m not.”
“Don’t lie. We’re practically sisters.”
Weeks before, the comment might have resonated as being slightly genuine. But not then.
“Is it because you didn’t make cheer again?” asked Starla.
“A little, I guess,” she admitted.
Starla dropped her cigarette and crushed it with the toe of a tacky Candie’s sandal she’d borrowed from her mother’s closet. “I thought you stopped that,” she said.
“I guess I didn’t.” Katelyn faced Starla, before snuffing out her own butt. “Can we not talk about it? Please.”
“It isn’t normal and you know it.”
Katelyn had let loose a deep, throaty laugh at Starla, the ethereal beauty, the one all others wanted to be like or be with.
“Normal? What could you possibly know about normal?”
“You need to go to a shrink,” Starla said.
Katelyn’s expression flatlined. “You need to butt out.”
Starla shook her head. “Seriously, you need help. Does your mom know?”
Katelyn got up off the glider, her inert expression turned to anger.
“You tell her and one way or another I’ll never speak to you again,” she said.
“Like that would ever happen.” Starla stood her ground. “We’re tight, remember?” Starla said, knowing that it wasn’t really true. She never had time for Katelyn anymore. Now, she saw her only from her bedroom window or on the rare occasion when they met on the street on their way home, like that summer afternoon they spent on the porch glider.
Katelyn had bristled at the lie. Starla was no longer a friend. She was no longer anything. She was the enemy and, as far as Katelyn could tell, she was unstoppable. If Starla had viewed Katelyn as a backup dancer in her laser-fantastic arena show, she was wrong.
Dead wrong.
chapter 19
HAYLEY AND TAYLOR FOUND THEIR FATHER in his tiny office, which was decorated with paperback book covers that were so hideous they really couldn’t pass for art, even though they were professionally matted and framed. Kevin Ryan was bent over his computer. Approaching middle age, Kevin was holding his own in the looks and cool department—at least on the dad scale, which every teenager knew was not so demanding. His hair was no longer styled in a foppish ’90s haircut, but was cut short. He no longer sported the porn-star mustache that he’d worn throughout most of the girls’ younger years. His gray eyes looked up from the computer screen, and he grinned at his daughters.
Kevin always welcomed an intrusion.
“You talk to the police today?” Taylor asked.
He took his hands from the keyboard and swiveled around in his black leather office chair. “I talk to the police almost every day. It’s kind of my job.” He grinned.
Taylor pulled up a chair and scooted it closer to her father’s desk. Hayley took a space next to Hedda, who was laying on her back, deadopossum style, in the small window seat.
“We know, Dad,” Hayley said. “Did you find out anything about Katelyn?”
Kevin didn’t answer right away. He clicked the SAVE icon on the screen and took off his glasses, which he said he needed only for “computing” but the girls knew otherwise. Next to him was a faxed copy of a Kitsap sheriff detective’s report.
Katelyn’s name and the date—twelve days after her death—were smudged across the top.
“Look,” he said, “I want you to understand that what I’m about to tell you isn’t the kind of information anyone really needs to know. But I’ve trusted you with important stuff before, haven’t I?”
Their father could have been referring to a number of things right then, but more than likely it was the story of Donita Montero, a woman who’d abused her children before murdering one in a coin-operated washing machine in Duluth, Minnesota. His book Clean Getaway did not disclose the sexual abuse of the surviving daughter. While another author might have included it for shock value, Kevin Ryan took the higher ground and didn’t even tell his editor about it. To confide in an editor was, without a doubt, like opening the door a crack.
A crack was all it took to ruin someone’s life.
“Dad,” Taylor said, “we were friends with Katie. We want to know what happened to her. What really happened?”
Kevin weighed her request carefully. “They thought it was an accident at first, but it is possible—maybe even likely—that she killed herself.”
“Killed herself?” Taylor shook her head. “Doesn’t add up, Dad. She wouldn’t have done that.”
“She got some bad news the night she died,” he said.
“What bad news?” Hayley asked from the window seat.
“Her grandmother had promised to fund her college expenses but told her that night that the money was gone.”
Hayley got up, and Hedda, astonishingly spry for seventeen, jumped to the floor. “I doubt she would have killed herself over that. College is years away. Anything could happen between now and then. She could get a scholarship or win the Lotto. She could even get a student loan.”
Kevin nodded in agreement. Hayley was right. “That’s what Chief Garnett told me. Nothing further is going to be done with the case. They’re closing it as an accident, a freak one at that. Better than having Sandra and Harper live out the rest of their lives thinking that they could have done something to save their daughter.”
There was no arguing that one. Instead, the twins took in each word with the respect and solemnity that they knew their dad, a kind of purveyor in tragedy, would expect of them. There could be little doubt that Chief Garnett and their father believed that digging around Katelyn’s tragedy would only yield hurtful results.
It wasn’t the twins’ fault that they were driven to do so.
Others could never see what they saw or felt.
Others simply didn’t get the messages that they did. In a very real way, others were actually kind of lucky.
OUTSIDE, BARELY OUT OF THE CUTTING CHILL of the weather, Moira Windsor stood under the green water towers at the entrance of the main business district of historic Port Gamble. She’d taken up smoking to be more reporter-like, and she was actually enjoying the buzz of the nicotine. It calmed her. It soothed her at a time when she really needed it. She’d accosted Sandra Berkley earlier in the day as she left the Timberline restaurant. Sandra barely said a word to Moira, but what she said left no doubt about her feelings about an interview.
“You bloodsucking bitch, leave my baby alone!”
“That was harsh! I’m sorry about your daughter, but I’m on a deadline!”
Sandra could have killed the reporter right then, but she didn’t.
There’d been enough death in Port Gamble.
For a second, Moira felt a little embarrassed, but on further reflection she dismissed it when she realized that no one else had seen the encounter.
She’d left more messages for the Ryans, but there were no return calls.
What do I have to do to get somebody’s attention? she asked herself as she snuffed out her cigarette, ignoring the sign to dispose of trash in the proper receptacles.
The more people pushed her away, the harder she’d push back.
She heard a dog yelp somewhere in the distance, and she smiled.
chapter 20
UNLIKE ESKIMOS WHO PURPORTEDLY HAVE an unbelievable number of words to describe snow, teenagers in Po
rt Gamble have only four to describe rain: almost all the time.
Those who don’t live there could never comprehend the incessant downpours that come in fits and starts all year long. Spring. Winter. Whatever. Rain falls like a curtain over the town. On those rainy days, anyone looking from the General Store to Buena Vista Cemetery could see nothing but a white wall before them. Not even a tree is visible. And forget the scenic view. During the heaviest downpours, the bay and the canal blend into one large, seamless cloud. Oddly, only the most overt nerd townie or tourists carry umbrellas. No one loves the rain in Port Gamble, but residents live there in spite of it. They refuse to let it stop them from doing what they need to do.
There were never any rain delays for school sports events. Never did a June bride plan a wedding on the bluff overlooking the sound without the benefit of tents. No camping trips to the Olympic Mountains were canceled over inclement weather. No picnics were moved inside.
As Kevin Ryan told his girls over and over, “You’re not the Wicked Witch of the West. You won’t melt if you get wet. Trust me.”
It was raining, of course, when Taylor and Hayley stood out in front of their house waiting for the school bus. In a few months they’d be sixteen, and if there was any justice in the world, their father would help them buy a car.
Girls like Starla Larsen with older boyfriends managed to halt the cycle of abuse that was the bus ride to Kingston High School. The driver, Ms. Hatcher, liked to keep perfect order on “her” bus. She didn’t want to be made the constant hugger—and especially not the kid with Asperger’s. She made him sit behind her on the window seat in her blind spot so she never had to engage with him or the boy from house number 27, who wore a raccoon tail on a back beltloop as a fashion statement.
Other kids sat in the usual order. In the front were the geeks, the crybabies, and the kids who just wanted to get off the bus as soon as the doors swung open. The couples and the druggies sat in the back. The middle section held everyone else.
Beth Lee was seated in the middle—one of the few kids to actually migrate toward the center of the bus since leaving elementary school. Beth had so many incarnations that she easily could have found a spot anywhere. Hayley and Taylor scooted into the seats next to Beth.
As the bus pulled away, the girls rolled their eyes at Segway Guy, the man who lived in house number 91 along the water and who for some strange reason chose the most embarrassing mode of transportation known to man as his preference to get from point A to B.
“Freak,” Beth commented. “Even the rain doesn’t stop him.”
“The rain stops no one,” Hayley said, deadpan. “Not even Segway Guy.”
“Where’s Colton?” Beth asked. “Home exhausted?”
“From what?”
“From doing it with you.” Beth spoke loudly, not so much to overcome the noise of the idling bus and Ms. Hatcher’s tendency to overpress the accelerator pedal as she waited for her turn to merge onto the highway, but to increase the opportunity for someone to overhear. Anyone who saw her could figure that. That day Beth Lee’s impossibly black hair was spiked with so much Elmer’s Glue that someone could hang a coat on it. No doubt once they got to school, someone probably would try.
Hayley motioned for Beth to lower her voice. “For your information, he was out of town all winter break. And in case you were wondering, you’re gross.”
Beth smirked a little and touched the tips of her hair. She made a pained expression that was either meant to signify her sharp hair spires or that she’d been quietly told off by one of the girls whose names she used interchangeably. “Just asking. I figured that you did it by now. Probably told your sister, but not me. People leave me out of everything.”
Taylor spoke up. “She hasn’t told me anything.” She looked at her twin. “You didn’t, did you? I mean, I would have known if you had.”
Hayley scowled a little. “That’s none of your business, but no, I didn’t, and no, I won’t tell you when we do.”
Beth glossed her lips with some overly fragrant strawberry lip balm. “So you’re going to?”
Hayley shook her head, her face now a little more pink than she could ascribe to the cold weather. “I didn’t mean that. I meant, if we do. Unlike some girls around here, I’m actually in no big rush.”
Beth deflected the remark by changing the subject. Beth was like that. Taylor once wondered if Beth’s ancestors invented fireworks because she seemed to totally get off on lighting fuses and standing back to watch the fun.
“I heard some news,” Beth said as the bus lurched down the highway toward Kingston.
“Do we have to pull it out of you?” Taylor asked.
“Right, we know you’re so discreet,” Hayley chimed in, unsuccessfully trying for a little payback.
Beth put her lip balm in her purse and scrolled through her text messages.
“My mom told me that her friend Lu at the Timberline said that Katelyn got into big trouble last fall. Something that made her mom and dad furious. I couldn’t hear it all.”
Hayley narrowed her focus on her best friend. “I thought you said your mom told you.”
“Guilty. Big deal, I was eavesdropping. So what? The information is good.”
“What did your mom say, exactly?” Taylor asked.
“I’m Asian. That doesn’t make me a Sony recorder.”
“Right,” Taylor said. “But what did she say?”
Beth thought for a moment, extracting every word for her friends who always annoyingly insisted on precision. “She said, ‘If I were Katelyn’s mother I’d have done the same thing. What girls won’t do these days for a boy.’”
“What boy was she talking about?” Hayley asked.
Beth sighed. “I don’t know,” she said, clearly bored with the subject of Katelyn’s imaginary love life. “I really don’t care. But I thought you two might.”
BETH LEE ANCHORED HER TRADEMARK black Doc Martens on the green linoleum floor in front of the lockers in the Red Pod at Kingston High School and flipped through her texts. The school administration didn’t allow the use of electronic devices during class, and teachers had gotten pretty good at catching the kids who tried to strategically place books to block the view from the front of the classroom. One violation got a slap on the wrist (not literally, of course, because that would be abuse and abuse was so very, very out of bounds), but two violations meant confiscation of the device and required an irritated parent to personally retrieve it from the principal’s office.
That day Beth’s fashion sense was subdued. Her top was a small men’s chalk-striped suit vest that left her arms bare, and her jeans were old-school acid-washed. She looked a little like an ’80s reject, but she didn’t care.
While a sea of kids trudged past her, she methodically scrolled through her messages, ignoring her mother’s notes, which were always signed LOL. Beth didn’t have the heart to tell her it did not mean Lots Of Love.
BE HOME LATE TONIGHT. YOU’LL HAVE TO MAKE YOUR OWN DINNER. LOL. MOM
She’d moved on to Facebook when Hayley arrived.
“Where’s the other one of you?” Beth asked.
“Maybe Taylor’s in the bathroom?” Hayley guessed. “I don’t know.” Beth held out her phone. “Who is Moira Windsor?”
Hayley looked on and shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of her.”
“Says she’s a friend of yours and wants to friend me.”
Taylor joined them.
“Who is Moira Windsor?” Beth asked her.
Taylor shook her head. “Dunno.”
Beth looked at the twins. “Do you two always say the same thing?”
Hayley laughed, but it was a nervous laugh. “No, and no, we don’t know her.”
By then Taylor was looking at her Facebook account.
“Get this,” she said. “This Moira person says we should friend her because she’s your friend.”
The three girls looked at each other.
“Stalker!”
they all said in unison.
Beth put her phone back into her purse.
“Hey, that was cool,” she said. “This time I got to say the same thing. Someone’s rubbing off on someone.” She let a beat pass. “Not sure I like that.”
Hayley and Taylor didn’t say anything more about Moira as they peeled off in different directions for their respective classes. Taylor had art, Hayley had life science, and Beth was toying with getting out of PE because it was table tennis and she felt it would be racist to make her participate. She hated to sweat, and the excuse seemed a plausible way to get out of suiting up.
“Forcing me to play because I’m Asian is offensive,” she imagined herself saying to the coach, a nice woman who never offended anyone.
Kim Lee would be mortified by her daughter’s actions, and Beth would pretend to sulk after she got a talking-to.
Her mom might notice her then. That would be good. It was all she really wanted.
Hayley and Taylor knew Moira’s name. They’d heard their father talking to their mother in the living room again about the pushy reporter, but it was a conversation that ended abruptly when they approached.
What was that all about?
chapter 21
NUMBER 19 WAS EERILY QUIET. For a change their father’s sometimes-jackhammer snoring couldn’t be heard. Hayley and Taylor had talked through the outlet about what they were thinking and feeling. Not surprisingly, Katelyn remained heavy on their minds. She was probably in the thoughts of many in Port Gamble before they slept. Those who were religious likely included Katelyn and the Berkleys in their prayers. All wondered just how it was that a girl could die in a bathtub with a household appliance as her killer.
Hayley and Taylor went to sleep hoping that a clue would come to them.
Something did.
Taylor’s last thoughts before slumber were pleas to whomever or whatever controlled her dreams to let Katelyn come to her.
Then she was in the corner of Katelyn’s bedroom, watching, feeling all that was happening.
The illumination from the laptop’s screen sent a cool white spray of light over her face as Katelyn sat on her bed, hoping for more conversation with the boy she was falling hard for. She wasn’t disappointed. The chat window was open for only a second before he appeared online to talk.