Victor finally returned his gaze and said, “Nope.”
Maurice suggested, “Let me ask the question in another way. Did you have the sense that Sonia Hartman was going to shoot someone when she left your home with the rifle?” It was the last straw for Maurice. If Victor didn’t bite on this one, there was no case to be made against Sonia.
Victor’s response was, “There were still three frogs on the log, so no.”
With both hands waving Victor away, Maurice shook his head and said, “I have no more questions for you. Just go.”
On the ride home I told Victor he couldn’t have answered the questions better. As a man who struggles with underlying paranoia, he anticipated being incarcerated, so he was now in a great mood. After some small talk he asked, “Can you tell me how to talk to Sonia about sex?”
I didn’t want to have this conversation, but I was likely his only resource. “What seems to be the problem?”
Victor shared, “I just kinda go along with everything. I really like most of it. But some of it’s uncomfortable. I don’t know how to tell her there are ways she touches me I don’t really like.”
“You do know how to tell her.”
Confused he said, “I do?”
“Think of it like thanksgiving dinner. What do you like at the thanksgiving meal?”
Victor smiled, “I really like ham.”
“Okay, so when she’s doing something you enjoy, you tell her you really like it, and you could take more of that. What do you think about yams? You usually don’t take any.”
“I don’t like yams. It’s a texture thing. Yams remind me of spackle. And then they put marshmallows on it. What the hell? It’s like here’s some broccoli with a gummy worm on top.”
“You see, you already have the skills to say no. If she’s doing something you don’t like, you tell her, ‘I don’t want any of that,’ or ‘That makes me uncomfortable.’
“Do you like cranberries?”
Victor said, “Sometimes, but not all the time. I don’t like it when it’s still in the shape of the can.”
“I’ve watched you. You don’t always take them. So you tell Sonia, ‘I’d like this now, but not all the time.’ Or ‘I don’t want to now, but I do like it sometimes.’ You have the skills.”
“How does mom get turkey so dry? It tastes like desert sand. But I do eat a little, for her sake.”
“There you go. You have all the skills.”
Victor thought for a moment, “I get it. And if it’s dry, the gravy is like lotion, and I can just say—”
I interrupted, “Okay, you get it. This conversation is over.”
Victor asked, “Do you want to talk about dessert?”
“No!”
44
JADA ANDERSON
7:30 P.M., SATURDAY, JULY 22,
MINNEAPOLIS
IUSED THE FOB KEY TO OPEN JON Frederick’s apartment door one last time. I slipped my shoes off and quietly made my way to the bedroom. The door was open. I carefully sat on the edge of the bed looking around. There was a black Ripsaw t-shirt folded on the nightstand. Ripsaw was the name of Jon’s uncle’s rock band in the 1980s (before our time). When we were together, we watched them perform a reunion concert as a fundraiser at the horseshoe arena in Genola. I smiled at the thought of his uncles, in their forties, rocking out. It seemed actually young for a classic rock band today. The folded t-shirt on the night stand meant Jon had worn the shirt but didn’t consider it dirty. I held it to my chest and lay back on the bed.
Jon wasn’t home, and this wasn’t my bed. Honestly, this wasn’t Jon’s home anymore, either. He was home, in Pierz, with Serena. I understood his desire to be close to his family. I was ready to go home, too. I had accepted a job as a news anchor in Chicago.
I shouldn’t have burned Serena’s letter. Last night, I burned my letter, too. Our ship had passed. He didn’t board, and I held the rudder due east, refusing to disembark.
I sat up and decided I was keeping the t-shirt. I went back to the kitchen and pulled out a pen and paper. I wrote:
Sorry for lying about the key! I plugged in the toaster as a joke. I thought you’d know it was me, from always leaving it plugged in when I used it in the past. I didn’t realize I’d left your extra set of keys on the counter also, until you pointed it out. I thought this case had the potential to get me to an anchor spot, but I needed you to work it. When I realized I could use the suspected break-in to get you to work the case, I just went with it. My thinking wasn’t all self-centered. From the little I heard, I knew Ava Mayer was in a lot of trouble, and I could trust you to get to the truth. I also thought it would help you out of the funk you were in. I only tracked you because I was worried for your welfare. You take dangerous risks when you feel lonely and I wanted to be able to find you and help. I wish you and Serena the very best! I’ve accepted an anchor position in Chicago. I’ve always said I would leave when I had the opportunity to report in a larger venue. The time has come.
Take care, Jada
I walked in front of the hidden camera Jon had placed facing the door, did a brief 1920s flapper dance in front of it, and walked out the door. After I locked the door, I slid the fob back under it. Jon had forgotten that I hadn’t returned the key when we broke up. It was time to leave it, now.
45
JON FREDERICK
6:30 P.M., SUNDAY, JULY 30,
PIERZ
JACK KAVANAUGH WAS DEAD. Ava Mayer had found a new, upwardly mobile professional to torment. Harper Cook and Sly Graham had been released from the hospital and were recovering together. Nina Cole had relapsed and almost overdosed on oxycontin last weekend, but she was back in treatment again. Victim’s services were involved with all of them, although not surprisingly, Ava was the least cooperative.
Sonia Hartman was returning to the University of Minnesota in the fall. She had moved back home for what was left of the summer, but still visited Victor daily. I honestly didn’t picture it working out, simply because Sonia was so much younger, but at the present time, they were good for each other. Her parents loved Victor because he was kind, respectful, and nothing like Leah’s abusive boyfriends.
When I told Maurice Strock about my plan to leave the BCA so I could be closer to my daughter in Pierz, he requested two weeks before I turned in my resignation. Before the day was over, Sean Reynolds asked me if I would stay with the BCA if my position was transferred to St. Cloud (a thirty-minute drive from Pierz). I couldn’t help but smile, and told both I’d get back to them after this weekend.
Serena rubbed lotion on her recently shaved legs. The contrast of her tanned skin against her white sundress was sensuous. We finally had time for our conversation.
Serena left to wash her hands and returned with her acoustic Martin guitar. I hadn’t heard her play since before she was assaulted. She sat on the soft carpet in the living room—barefoot in her white dress, with long dark curls cascading over her shoulders. She strummed minor chords as she softly sang her version of “I Love You,” by Aimee Belle. I’d never heard it sung so heartfelt, and any animosity I still harbored was melted away by the insecure quiver in her voice. Music has always had an overwhelming power to bring my emotions to the surface. Serena sang of her despair over the things she put me through. Above all, she wanted me to know that now, and from this point forward, her heart is with me, loving me.
A nervous secret glistened in her green eyes and she bit her bottom lip. Before I could soften her tension, she knelt in front of me and asked, “Will you marry me?”
My head and heart swirled with conflicting emotions—unconditional love, concern, anger, then love again. It wasn’t like Tony hadn’t warned me, but I hadn’t anticipated being so overwhelmed with emotion. Carefully, I asked, “How can you be so certain you will love me for the rest of your life, when weeks ago you didn’t even want to speak to me?”
Serena sat back on her heels. “I’ve learned pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional. I’m not going to stres
s about what could happen—I’m going to enjoy us, moment by moment. I want our life together. I want you. I’ve thought about what it must be like for you to live with me. You never say anything, but with your obsessiveness, it has to drive you crazy that I always have a pair of shoes sitting in front of the door, and a day’s change of clothing on the bedroom floor. I’ll try to be better.”
I shook my head, “None of that matters. I’m less obsessive when I’m with you. But I don’t know that I could handle you leaving again.”
Serena’s big green eyes fixed on mine, as she softly assured, “I’m not leaving again. There will never be another person, but you, for me. Even when you’re gone working, I want you to know I’ll always be here for you. The mistake I made by leaving scares the hell out of me, now. I came too close to losing you.” She shuddered, “I want us back.”
Serena got up and retrieved a purple Sharpie marker and asked, “Do you mind if I write a word on your back? When I’m done, you can write whatever you wish on mine.”
I removed my shirt, and soon felt the cold tip of the marker as she wrote on my skin. Not able to see it, she explained it read, “Numquam Solus.” She kissed my shoulder blade with full, warm lips that lingered. With sincere devotion, she said, “It’s Latin for ‘You will never walk alone.’ You will never be alone again. I will have your back—always.” Serena came around and faced me before she added, “I don’t want you to stop being an investigator. As a matter of fact, I want to work with you.”
I stood there motionless, trying to make sense of what she was proposing. She set the guitar aside and folded her legs under her. I slowly lowered myself down beside her.
She leaned forward, and her passionate energy was contagious. “Keep your job, and we’ll do some private work together until we build up our business or get a great case. You can keep doing the hands-on work. I like the research and talking to you about the possibilities. I love our children, but I need to be part of the world beyond them, too. It’s our world. Let’s make it right. At least the best we can in our little corner of it.”
I lovingly caressed her, “Yes, I will marry you.”
Only hours earlier, I had watched Serena carefully piece together a Rey outfit (the heroine from Star Wars) for our daughter as Nora gazed on, in belief that the outfit would transform her into a superhero. I admired Nora, but Serena was the real superhero. It would be impossible for me to observe someone loving my child so intensely, and not love her.
I took her face in my hands and added, “But here’s the deal. We marry right away—a small wedding with just a priest and our parents. I don’t care if anyone else even knows. No more uncertainty—just done.”
Serena curled her fingers around mine, holding my hands in place. She interjected, “I’m fine with this. But I want to plan a large wedding to follow, so the community can celebrate our marriage with us. Pierz is our community, now—again. Let’s celebrate us!”
I smiled as I pictured Victor having the chance to stand up at a wedding. Nora will celebrate our day with us, in her own special dress, dancing on the wooden floor of the Pierz Ballroom …
After a brief, gentle kiss, I pulled away, “Wait. You said children. Specifically, ‘I love our children.’”
Serena placed her hand low on her stomach. Smiling provocatively, she picked up her phone and played “Sharing the Night Together” by Dr. Hook on the Beats Pill. She stood up and took my hand, pulling me up to dance as she whispered, “Would you mind sharing the night,” with the music.
9:45 P.M., SUNDAY, JULY 30
PIERZ
THE MOON GLOWED CONFIDENTLY as Serena and I relaxed on our porch swing. There were no houses visible from our back porch—just room for Nora to play, a garden and trees. It was a warm July night and the combination of her pregnancy and an evening’s passion had exhausted Serena’s tender heart. I heard an owl in the distance and considered that maybe a mile or so away, Victor and Sonia were hearing that same owl on their nightly walk.
Serena had finished her homemade chocolate chip cookies, but her glass of milk had now been abandoned on the stand by the swing. We had made cookies with Nora earlier in the day, “Sarah Kieffer style.” (You slam the pan every two minutes after they start baking to get the chewy wrinkled caramelized texture.) I don’t know that they taste any better, but Nora sure giggled as she helped bang the pan against the stovetop. After Serena’s foot and leg rub, she had fallen asleep, lying against me in her thin pajamas. In physics formulas “K” refers to something that’s constant, even when everything else changes. Serena and I can deny our love for each other at times, but it just makes us fools in the midst of the omnipresent affection we have for each other—an endearment so clearly visible to everyone else—“K.”
I still had a few sips of milk left, but I set my glass aside to write a note I would give to Serena with her breakfast tomorrow morning. I’d never been much of a poet, but I can rely on her kindness to appreciate the effort.
My Dearest Serena,
I want to trip over your shoes when I enter the door …
To remind me to never walk by you without appreciating your presence.
I want to see your clothes strewn about the floor …
Like the beautiful amber and scarlet leaves that will blanket our yard next fall.
I want to be torn …
Grounded in humility on earth over having lost you, yet my heart in the heavens and crazy in love at this very moment.
I ought to be committed …
I am committed, as I need you to be, but still playfully provocative.
I am grateful to you, Serena, far beyond what my clumsy words
profess …
For your warm comfort, wisdom, grace and delicious sensuality.
It’s not by accident that we love each other,
despite obstacles, for our love just is …
Jon
I occasionally have lapses of resentment for having been abandoned, but I only let it last seconds. I’ve learned to understand love differently. Regardless of what anyone’s been through, love is the only way out. Love is the action that reveals the beauty in others. It’s by loving Serena that I experience her absolute affection.
The End
The I-94 Murders Page 25