by David Bell
But Candace looked nervous. Her eyes narrowed, and she twirled the ends of her blond hair with greater ferocity.
“I came by to see Gina,” I said. “But she’s not home.”
Candace stepped back into the Yarrows’ house. I hoped she just heard the teakettle starting to boil or something like that.
“Are you staying for dinner?” Andrew asked. “They’re showing the Reds game on TV. It’s just spring training, though.”
“No, I can’t stay,” I said. “I just wanted to talk to your mom.” Through the Yarrows’ kitchen window, I saw Candace with a phone pressed to her ear. She was talking with a concerned look on her face, and her hair was being twirled within an inch of its life. “I should go if she’s not here. I’m really not supposed to be—”
“Let me just show you one thing.” Andrew reached up and took my hand. He started tugging me toward the Yarrows’ yard, where his friend Donal Yarrow stood holding a football. “We worked out a cool trick play.”
“I can’t, buddy.”
“It will only take a minute. Please? One minute.”
His small body managed to pull me toward the neighbors’ yard, and my feet followed along. I wanted to go. I wanted to lose myself in a silly trick play, the kind of thing that could only be dreamed up by a nine-year-old.
“You’ll like it,” Andrew said. “First you snap the ball. Then the quarterback fakes—”
I stopped. “I can’t. I have to go.”
“It’s only a minute. You never come around.”
“I know. But I will.” I looked at the house. Candace was off the phone, but she stood near the kitchen window, staring out at me. She’d stopped twirling her hair. “It’s a little complicated right now with me and your mom. But we’ll figure it out. That’s what I wanted to talk to her about tonight. I had kind of a long day, and I thought—”
“Are you moving back?” Andrew asked.
“Oh, buddy.” I sighed. “Jesus. I doubt it.”
Andrew looked crushed, like I’d dropped a ton of emotional weight on top of his soul. Tears welled up in his eyes.
I pulled my hand away from his, and then bent down closer to him. I sighed again. “It’s not about you. It’s about your mom and me. But I can’t just come here anymore whenever I want.”
“Or you’ll get arrested again?”
“I didn’t get arrested. But, yes, I could get in trouble.”
Andrew looked away from me, trying to hold back his tears. I remembered that feeling as a kid, those years between being young enough to feel hurt but also feeling too old to cry. “I just want to see you,” he said. “You and Mom don’t care.”
“Don’t say that.” My voice came out with a harshness I hadn’t intended. Andrew looked up at me, his chin quivering. “It’s not true,” I said, lowering my voice. “It’s not true of either of us. But I have to go.”
I gave him a quick kiss on the top of his head, and then walked off toward the car. Candace stood at the window, so I gave her a friendly wave. I wanted to let her know I was leaving, that everything was okay. Back to normal. Nothing to see here.
But when I reached the front of the house, Gina pulled into the driveway. She came out of the car quickly and walked around the front, her big, dark eyes wild. I suddenly knew who Candace was talking to on the phone.
“What the fuck is going on, Nick?” she asked.
“I came to see you.”
“And you tried to take Andrew?” she asked.
“What? No. He wanted to show me a football play. But I told him I couldn’t stay. Did that babysitter say . . .”
Gina slumped back against her car, lifting her hand to rub her forehead. Her body was trim and sleek from her years as a college swimmer, and a strand of brown hair fell across her face. “She just said my ex-husband was here, and he had Andrew by the hand.”
“Jesus, Gina. Do you trust me that little?” I asked.
“I was scared,” she said. “I thought . . . Oh, Nick, I’ve been trying so hard to keep Andrew from getting confused and hurt. Phil’s back, but he’s not always reliable. You’re reliable, but . . .”
“I’m not his dad.”
“I overreacted. I don’t know what I thought.”
“I just wanted to talk to you about Andrew. About me seeing him again. I had a long day, and I wanted something good to focus on.”
Then I heard the approaching sirens.
“Really, Gina? The police?”
I stared at her, raising my arms in disbelief. She turned away.
It looked like I was staying.
CHAPTER NINE
I waited in the back of a cop car for close to an hour while the police spoke to Gina and Candace and, yes, even Andrew. I gritted my teeth at the thought of him facing questions from a police officer. I knew it was my fault. I should have gone home. I shouldn’t have taken his hand and walked farther into the yard.
But I wanted to heed Heather’s advice. I wanted to get on with my life. Forget Marissa and Emily and be normal: enjoy my job, spend time with my friends, play a basketball game here and there. I wanted to erase Heather’s story about Marissa and the man in the bar from my mind.
The car smelled like body odor and sweat socks. I saw Candace in the window of the neighbor’s house, twirling her hair again, and I quietly wished most of it would fall out, although I couldn’t really blame her either. Someone—Gina most likely, or maybe Linda and Steve—had told her to call if I came over unannounced. Candace followed directions well.
Finally a familiar face showed up outside the cruiser window. He wore an odd little smile, one that made his face seem tilted. Detective Reece then pulled the door open and leaned in.
“This is getting to be a habit,” he said. “We don’t like these kinds of habits in law enforcement, Mr. Hansen.”
“I was just trying to—”
He held up his hand, silencing me. “I spoke to your ex-wife. And your stepson. We’re all clear now. The kid, Andrew, really seems to like you.” Reece laughed a little. “He asked me if I was going to throw you in jail, and I told him no. He’s a bright kid.”
I let out some air. “Thanks.”
“It seems like your ex has a lot going on. I guess the boy’s father is back on the scene, and she wants to make sure everyone knows their boundaries.”
“Boundaries. Yes, I’ve heard that word before,” I said.
“But you’re not off the hook,” Reece said. “Can I trust you to meet me at your apartment in about thirty minutes? I’ve got something to show you.”
What could I say? Where would I go?
“I’ll be waiting,” I said.
* * *
Because of my trouble with the police I was later than usual, and Riley acted less happy to see me. He gave me a worried look when I walked in the door, something that said, I don’t know what you’re up to, but it has me concerned. He also had an iron bladder for a dog his age, so there were no accidents. I took him on a short walk, fed him when we returned to the apartment, and then waited.
Detective Reece showed up forty-five minutes later and turned down my offer of something to drink. He’d come alone, without the uniformed escort, and we sat at the table again in our same positions. I hoped his visits weren’t becoming part of my daily routine.
“Do I need to apologize to Gina?” I asked. “I know I shouldn’t have been over there.”
“It’s done,” he said. “Do you know how hard it is to be a single parent? My mom was a single parent. It’s stressful.” He took his phone out and scrolled through it again. Then he looked up. “By now I’m sure you’ve seen the identification of the girl in the motel.”
“Emily Russell,” I said.
“She was strangled. Manual strangulation.”
“It sounds awful.”
“It takes a lot of effort to
strangle someone, you know. It’s not like the movies where they do it in, like, five seconds. You really have to hold someone down. You’re face-to-face with them.”
“So this was personal,” I said.
“Maybe.”
“Am I off the hook based on the fingerprints and the DNA?” I asked.
“You’re not close to being off the hook,” he said, looking down at the phone again, acting coy. “It takes time to get those results. And maybe the killer wore gloves. Or wiped the place down.”
“So what’s tonight’s visit about?” I asked.
He looked up at me again. “We’ve checked Emily Russell out. Background, criminal record, school stuff. All of that. The Lexington police are talking to her roommates and friends. I may take a trip down there in a few days to ask around. And you know what stands out about Emily Russell?”
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. Good grades. She was an honors student. Wanted to be a pharmacist. She’d never been in trouble with the police. Not even a traffic ticket. She went to church on Sundays, volunteered at a senior center, returned her library books on time. The model kid.”
“Is she related to the Minors?” I asked.
So much for turning the page. But if Detective Reece was going to show up at my house asking questions about Emily Russell, I was going to ask questions of my own.
“Not that I can see,” he said, “and that’s not really relevant to me. But I do want to know this about her. Why does this perfect kid who’s never done anything weird or crazy in her life suddenly decide to get in her car, drive one hundred and fifty miles north to a town where she doesn’t know anybody, not tell anybody where she’s going, check into a cheap hotel under another name and pay cash for the room, and then end up dead with your name and address in her pocket? Why does that happen?”
“What name did she register under?” I asked.
“Ann Smith. Not a very creative spy.”
I leaned back in my chair. “I don’t know why she’d do all those things, but it seems like she was looking for me.”
“Does it, now?” Reece said, his voice full of sarcasm. He turned the phone around toward me and tapped the screen. “Look at this.”
I studied the little document on the small display. It was a photo of a piece of paper, and on the piece of paper were written my name and address.
“Do you recognize that handwriting?” he asked.
I studied the image. The penmanship looked feminine, full of large loops and swirls. “I don’t.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Should I recognize it?”
“I don’t know.” Reece took the phone back and slipped it into his pocket. “But I do know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“We showed this to Emily’s parents, and it isn’t the girl’s handwriting,” he said. “Someone gave her your address.”
CHAPTER TEN
Reece left after thirty minutes, but not before repeating his request—demand?—that I not leave Eastland without checking with him. He also reminded me again that the DNA results would be coming back from the lab soon.
“Do I need a lawyer?” I asked him.
“You’re entitled to one,” he told me.
“Am I a suspect?”
“Let’s just say we’re keeping our options open.”
When he was gone, I looked over at Riley, who thumped his tail against the floor and then yawned.
“Shit,” I said.
* * *
I needed help.
Laurel Davidson went to Eastland with all of us, although she didn’t know Marissa as well as I did. Laurel and I were both philosophy majors, so we took a lot of classes together, and then she stayed in town after college and began her career as a police officer before going to work in corporate security for a statewide chain of convenience stores based in Eastland. Every time an employee skimmed from the register or absconded with a bank deposit, Laurel drove to that location and had a sit-down with the pathetic thief. Something about her feminine toughness and lightning-fast intellect always got the perpetrator to confess.
Just before ten a.m., I met her at her office, which was off the square downtown. She kept her hair short and always wore two-piece gray business suits—jackets and pants, not skirts. I never asked, but I had the feeling she carried a gun with her everywhere she went.
When we sat down across from each other, I noticed lines at the corners of her eyes, which were a striking shade of light blue. Laurel ran at least one marathon a year, and spent vacations with her family—her husband, Tony, and two kids—hiking or camping or biking in some far-flung region of the country.
“It’s been a month,” she said. “We used to see you every week. Dinners. Drinks.” She put on a mock frown. “You don’t call. You don’t write. We miss you, Nick.”
“I’m working a lot.”
“Aren’t we all?” She rolled her eyes. “That’s why we’re both millionaires.”
“Yeah,” I said, “social work pays really well. And then the government cuts the budget, so we get spread thin. And there are more people struggling than ever.”
“And you love every minute of it, don’t you?” she asked.
“‘Love’ is a strong word,” I said. “But I like helping people.”
“I know. And I know you’re good at it.”
“I do see Tony at basketball,” I said. “You should come to a game. Or come out for a drink afterward. It’s all guys. They’d love to have a woman around.”
“I bet. Or maybe I could just enjoy the time alone.” She smiled. “Okay, what’s up?”
“Have you been following this Emily Russell murder?” I asked.
Recognition spread across her face. “The girl who was murdered in the motel? Sure.”
“You’ve seen her picture?”
“It was in the paper,” she said.
“Did she look familiar to you?” I asked.
Laurel stood up. She went over to her desk and dug around in a stack until she pulled out a newspaper. She unfolded it and came back to her chair, studying something on the front page while she walked, her movements brisk and efficient.
“Mmm. I see it now. You think this girl looks like Marissa, right?”
Relief passed through me. “Exactly. I’m not crazy, am I?”
“No, there’s a resemblance. Same coloring. Same face shape. Did someone say you were crazy for thinking they looked alike?”
“Heather Aubrey.”
Laurel made a noise like pffft. “You can’t trust her. She hated Marissa.”
“Secretly she might have.”
“Exactly. And she never got over you.” Laurel tossed the paper onto her desk. “Heather? Marissa? Are you here to go down memory lane, Nick?”
I told her about the encounter in the grocery store with Emily. And the note in her pocket. As I explained it all, Laurel’s face grew more serious, and she tilted her head toward me. A couple of times she stopped me and asked me to back up and repeat things I’d already said. When I was finished, she leaned back in her chair, taking it all in for a moment.
“Crap,” she said finally. “That’s bizarre.”
“I know.”
“And you let them fingerprint you and take the cheek swab?” she asked.
I heard the disdain in her voice. It said I trusted the police too much. “I wasn’t in that motel room, Laurel. There’s nothing to find.”
She raised her eyebrows. “What’s that little three-word expression? ‘Famous last words.’”
“It’s not that bad,” I said. “I told the cops everything I knew.”
“You need a lawyer,” she said. “No way you’re going into this without help.” She stood up and went over to her desk. She scrolled through her phone, then forwa
rded something to me, making my phone chime. “Call him when you leave,” she said, coming back. “He’s good. I trust him. You should too, or you’ll be up a creek.”
I read the name on the screen. Mick Brosius. I slid the phone back into my pocket. “Thanks.”
Laurel thought things over some more. “I get that it’s weird, that seeing this girl who looks like Marissa threw you for a loop. Especially since you’ve always been so hung up on her. And then she ends up dead. And the girl has your name in her pocket.”
“See? It’s weird,” I said.
“Weird, yes. But maybe she had your name for a perfectly benign reason,” she said. “Maybe you helped her grandmother with housing, and she wanted to thank you. Did you ever think of that?”
“I did. I searched all my records, and her name didn’t come up. There were people with the last name Russell, but how could I tell if they were related? And her family is from Richmond, Kentucky.”
“And her grandmother or another relative wouldn’t necessarily have the same name as Emily. Right? Maybe it’s her great-aunt or just a family friend you helped. If that’s even what’s going on.”
Neither one of us said anything for a moment. The phone on Laurel’s desk rang, but she ignored it. I had to hand it to her—she’d always been a good friend. Loyal, supportive. When Marissa died, she sat with me for long hours. Talking. Listening.
“Why don’t you let the police have a little more time on this?” she said. “They know what they’re doing. Something will turn up.”
“But what if . . .” I wasn’t sure I could say it. I tried again. “I keep thinking about something.”
“What?” she asked.
“What if that girl, Emily, what if she really is related to Marissa? What if she’s Marissa’s daughter?”
“Her daughter?” she asked, the look on her face telling me I sounded crazy.
“What if . . . what if . . .” I was floundering, trying to get my thoughts together.
Laurel reached over and picked up the newspaper again. She scanned the article while I continued to try to speak. “Nick,” Laurel said. “Marissa died in October of 1993, right? And here we sit in March of 2014, right? And the article says Emily Russell was twenty. She’s twenty now. Are you saying Marissa gave birth to a baby one year after she died?”