by Mary Stone
Her fingernails grazed my neck as she circled. The touch roused unwanted feelings that forced me to call on my hard-earned reserves of self-control. “And you look almost exactly the same.”
“What a lovely falsehood.” Her coquettish smile hinted otherwise.
I went utterly still. “I neglected to ask, how were you so sure it was me when I answered the door? Since, as you mentioned, I did undergo a rather extreme transformation.”
“Love, I’d recognize you no matter how much you altered your appearance. Did you forget what I always used to say? Like calls to like.”
Perhaps the realization that Letitia was the only person who’d recognized me despite my extensive plastic surgery should have come as no surprise, but it did. In all my moments of reminiscing, I’d never once bothered to speculate over whether or not the eerie power this woman wielded over me would remain intact decades later. Like a dormant volcano poised to erupt.
This wouldn’t do.
I stepped away and faced her squarely. “Why are you really here?”
She pouted, and when that didn’t yield the desired effect, sighed. “I came to tell you that you should turn yourself in.”
After the initial shock of recognizing her on my porch, I’d predicted she wouldn’t catch me by surprise again. I’d predicted wrong. “Is this your idea of a joke? If so, might I suggest you search for new material? Because the punchline on this one didn’t quite hit.”
Her eyes turned glacial. “Don’t get smart with me. You’re the one who’s acted like an utter dolt. Really, how could you be so stupid? Leading an officer to me like that? After everything I’ve done for you?”
My vision narrowed on her face. “I see. So, this visit is merely because I’m inconveniencing you?”
“Of course not! I already told you that I missed you so very much. More than you could possibly know.” She peered at me from beneath her lashes, but I wasn’t a green adolescent anymore. I saw right through her tricks.
She kept at them, though. Like I was the same little boy from the academy. A lump of clay ready for her to mold.
“My darling boy, I just want you to be safe. If you turn yourself in, at least I’ll know the police won’t show up on your porch one day, firing guns into your windows.”
The rage built in my veins and acted like antivenom, flushing her poison from my blood. “And then poor, mistreated Letitia could go back to getting her hair done without fear of the big, bad cop ruining her relaxing outing, is that it?” A muscle throbbed in my jaw, but years of practicing self-control rendered my voice calm. Pleasant. “And why would the cops show up on my porch? Not because you’d tell them where I lived, I hope?”
Perhaps like truly did call to like, though, because Letitia seemed to sense my fury. Alarm flickered across her beautiful face before she launched herself into my arms.
I stood like a statue, not moving as her hands roved over my shoulders, my back, my sides, and those sweet, lying lips blew warm air in my ear and whispered seductively. “You know I only ever want the best for you. Let me help you again, the way I did so many times in the past. Without me, you’d still be a shadow of a man, but look at you now. So strong and powerful. I promise not to steer you wrong.”
She plastered her bosom to my chest as she blabbered on while I came to a painful realization. In her eyes, nothing had changed. This was no different than that night all those years ago when the boys were locked out in the cold. When we’d woken to the news that our punishment had misfired, gone so much further than we’d intended.
“I still need you.” Her hand moved down my chest. “We need each other, now more than ever. We’ll keep each other safe, just like we always have.”
The words she whispered echoed the ones she’d said that morning.
With a pang of sorrow, I understood now what I’d been too immature, too naïve to comprehend back then.
Letitia wasn’t the woman I’d believed her to be. She never had been.
As a lonely, weak boy, I’d bestowed upon her attributes that simply didn’t exist, turning an ordinary woman into a figment of my imagination. A superhero, so to speak.
Gazing upon her with a man’s eyes, all those fictitious embellishments fell away. She was a beautiful woman, but nothing special. No better, in fact, than Helen Kline.
My hands were gentle as I pushed her away so I could gaze into her eyes. I swept a loose strand of platinum hair behind her ear. “Sweet Letitia, thank you for being there when I needed you.”
I basked in the light of her radiant smile for several heartbeats before I snapped her neck.
She collapsed to the floor, and without another glance, I stepped over her dead body and returned to the dining table.
Such a nice surprise I found there.
The plate that waited in front of my empty chair contained the entire sandwich.
30
This late in the day, even the lilting strains of the Mozart symphony spilling through the SUV’s speakers made Clay’s skull pound, especially when combined with the tick-tick of the turn signal as he waited for the stoplight to change.
With an irritated jab of his finger, he shut off the stereo and reveled in the silence that followed. Music was usually a constant companion in his SUV, but Clay couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so exhausted. Physically? Sure, but not emotionally. If someone informed him that he and Luke had covered half the state visiting soup kitchens over the past couple of days, he’d believe them. But the driving was only a tiny part of the fatigue.
Failure was by far the larger component weighing him down. Each time he and Luke showed up and checked a soup kitchen off their list without coming closer to finding Caraleigh, a little more hope died.
What happened when they reached the end of the list with no sign of his sister?
The light changed, and Clay swung the SUV into the left turn. The buildings that lined the streets here had gradually turned seedier, with weed patches growing through cracks in the sidewalk and trash collecting in the gutters. Near the end of the block, he pulled into an empty spot by the curb and switched off the engine.
“Here we are.” The soup kitchen was located in a warehouse just ahead. Luke gazed out the passenger window without speaking, and Clay turned to the man, concerned. “How are you holding up?”
He didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t get one. Luke hadn’t uttered a single word since noon that day, right after another unsuccessful visit. Clay wasn’t too concerned. Thinking back, Caraleigh used to go nonverbal every once in a blue moon too, especially when she was overstimulated and overtired. It was almost like her operating system was powering into recovery mode.
Clay resisted the urge to reach over and pat Luke’s arm or offer any other physical comfort. “I hear you loud and clear. Truth be told, I’m hanging by a thread myself.” He heaved a sigh and studied the building through the bug-splattered windshield. “I’ve spent too many hours to count imagining the moment when I’d find Caraleigh again, in hundreds of different ways. In lots of those fantasies, I fill the hero role and rescue her. In others, she just shows up on my porch out of the blue, or I’m walking down the damn street, and there she is.”
Luke still didn’t say a word, but Clay noticed that his face had relaxed a bit. Taking that as a good sign, he continued to talk, hoping to soothe him even further.
“Half the time, she’s still the same little girl who was at the fair that day she disappeared. The other half of the time, she’s a grown woman who’s the spitting image of those age-progression sketches. The only thing that stays the same in all of my fantasies is that, the second I realize it’s her, I wrap my arms around her, lift her feet off the ground, and swing her in a circle while she squeals with joy.”
He shook his head with a rueful smile and let himself fall deeper into the daydream, talking about how they would spend their reunion and all the places they would go when they were back together.
“Too many movies, probably. I’ve ne
ver told anyone that, but I figure you understand better than anyone.”
Clay glanced over to check Luke’s expression and found half his forehead plastered to the passenger window and his lashes fanning his pale cheek. His t-shirt rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm.
The tight knot in Clay’s chest loosened. “Good for you, buddy. You need sleep even more than I do.”
Writing a quick I’ll be right back note and placing it in Luke’s lap, Clay eased open the door and slipped outside. He hit a button on the remote. The click of the doors locking rang loud in his ears, but Luke didn’t stir.
He pocketed the keys and headed down the weedy sidewalk toward the white building that housed the soup kitchen. When he opened the door, the scent of warm tomatoes hit him first, masking the ripe odors associated with bodies that lacked regular access to showers.
A line snaked out from a series of tables arranged in a row, with big bowls and plates of steaming food heaped atop them buffet style. Servers, young and old, doled out helpings with smiles as the patrons shuffled by, some quiet and hunched while others stood tall as they laughed and chattered with each other and the volunteers.
After performing a quick survey of the faces in line and the ones already seated at the plastic camping tables and coming up short, Clay swayed on his feet as the tiny flame of hope extinguished. He’d been through this same ritual so many times now that he was starting to feel like Don Quixote. Except, unlike the hero in Cervantes’s classic novel, Clay’s folly involved running down soup kitchens rather than windmills.
Buckle up, Lockwood. You know how this works. All it takes is talking to one person, the right person, and this case turns on a dime.
That was the same optimistic line he’d shared with any number of colleagues and families over the years. A truth he still believed. But being so emotionally invested in this case made each aspect about a thousand times more intense and each stumbling block that much more painful.
He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.
After two deep breaths to clear his head, Clay shook off his fatalism and was ready to go again. He meandered among the crowd with the sketch of Caraleigh in hand, asking if anyone recognized her.
As usual, a few of the diners refused to interact with Clay or glance at the picture at all, but most were accommodating. The first three who answered studied the image before shaking their heads, so Clay moved on to a gray-haired man wearing a ratty raincoat over a tie-dyed sweatshirt.
The man scratched his scruffy chin. “Yeah, I reckon I’ve seen her around.”
The first time Clay heard that reply, his heart had leapt in his chest. Twenty similar replies later, he knew to hold his excitement in check. “Any idea when that was?”
A slow shake of his head. “No, afraid not. A couple months ago? Maybe longer?”
Clay thanked the man with a smile and moved on. Every soup kitchen so far had resulted in similar stories. At each location, a handful of people recognized Caraleigh, or at least claimed to, but none of them could recall when.
As upsetting as the response was, Clay tamped down his frustration. Being houseless led to a transient lifestyle, where people were forced to move around a lot based on external factors beyond their control, including weather, food access, police activity, changing safety, and so on. Clay could hardly blame them.
Once he finished with the people in line, he meandered through the tables. A couple of people agreed that she looked familiar, but nobody remembered when they’d spotted her.
His feet were dragging by the time he reached the wizened old lady with hair so thin her scalp showed through. A dowager’s hump rose between her frail shoulders. She pursed her lips as she studied the sketch. “Why, yes, I do recall seeing her. Hard to forget a face as pretty as that.”
Clay refused to let himself get excited. “Do you remember when you last saw her?”
The woman lifted a bony shoulder, and the sad smile on her face answered first. “I’m sorry, dearie, I can’t say that I do. Pretty girl like that, I imagine she moves around more than the rest of us to keep safe. It’s hard to be a single woman alone, you know.”
“Thank you for your help.”
Clay clutched the sketch to his chest as he turned away, hopelessness weighing down every step. Pretty soon, they’d have hit all the soup kitchens, and then what? Would he be forced to throw in the towel and admit defeat?
He fumbled in his pocket for his phone and keyed in Ellie’s number. She picked up on the first ring.
“Clay?”
The plaintive hitch at the end of his name was enough for Clay to shove his own worries aside. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s my mom. Kingsley took her. She’s been missing since this morning.”
Before she could finish, Clay was striding out the entrance, dipping his shoulders against a gust of chilly wind as he hurried back to the SUV. “Tell me what you need me to do.”
31
More moonlight than usual trickled between the cracks in the boarded window, enough that Bethany could make out the nice lady who sat beside her on the bed. Bethany missed the moon, and the stars, and the sun. It felt like she hadn’t played outside forever or breathed in fresh air.
But at least she wasn’t alone anymore in this tiny, sad room. She was glad for the company. Especially tonight. The woman helped keep her mind from wandering off.
Crack. Thump.
Like that. Bethany whimpered and hugged her knees tight to her chest, shivering.
“Shh, it’s okay. We’re okay for now, sweetheart. Here, let’s cover you up.”
Bethany let the woman pull the blanket over her legs and tuck the scratchy material around her waist. “Thank you.” She couldn’t seem to stop shivering, though. Or reliving those awful moments.
The sharp crack when the bad man twisted the fancy blonde lady’s head and the ugly thump when she hit the floor. How after that, the lady’s neck was funny and bent too far to the side, and she stared at everything and nothing at all. They were dead and glassy, like one of Bethany’s old baby dolls.
Crack. Thump. Those awful, empty eyes.
The woman patted the covers until she found Bethany’s hand and squeezed. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Bethany clung to the woman’s hand. Don’t think about that other lady. Talk to this one. She’s nice. “Bethany.”
“Bethany? That’s such a beautiful name. And how old are you, Ms. Bethany?”
A small, surprised giggle flew from her mouth. “Not Mizz Bethany, silly. Just Bethany. And I’m eight.”
“Eight years old? Why, you could have fooled me. You act so grown up, I thought you were at least twelve, maybe thirteen.”
Bethany puffed up. Her mama would like that, she bet. “Mama says that sometimes I’m eight going on eighteen, and other times, I’m as silly as a goose.”
“That sounds just about right to me. When my daughter was your age, she was exactly like that. Mature as could be one second, and the next, running through the house with dirty feet and shrieking like a girl half her age. Kept me on my toes, that’s for sure.”
As the woman talked, Bethany relaxed a little. She liked the sound of the woman’s voice. So warm and normal. Nothing like creepy Doctor Rotten. “Is being on your toes a good thing?”
The woman made a humming noise in her throat, like she thought Bethany was funny. “You know, that is a very smart question. I suppose it all depends on whether or not a person enjoys a good challenge.”
She continued to talk, but the words began running together, like the buzz of those giant bumblebees that used to fly from flower to flower outside Bethany’s old school. Lately, Bethany had a hard time concentrating for very long. Her head spun in circles even when she was sitting still, and her stomach ached all the time, like someone had drilled a hole inside.
Still, the woman’s voice was so soothing. So much better than being trapped in the bad man’s scary dark bedroom by herself. Bethany let the woman�
�s chatter wash over her like a warm breeze as she lifted her fingers to her nose and breathed in.
There. She could still smell the nutty sweetness of the peanut butter sandwich she’d come so close to eating. Bethany inhaled again and imagined the two perfect rectangles on that plate. She could almost feel the bread under her fingers when she picked one half up just before sinking her teeth into the soft, squishy bread and chewing.
She sniffed a third time while pretending to chew. If she tried hard enough, she could almost convince herself that she’d taken a bite.
Crack. Thump.
Bethany dropped her hand and scooted closer to the talking woman, moving across the bed until their shoulders touched.
“Everything okay?”
No. Nothing is okay. I want to go home and see my mama. But Bethany didn’t want to sound like a baby. “What’s your name?”
“Helen. Helen Kline.”
“That’s a nice name. I don’t have any friends named Helen.”
“Then I am very honored to be your first. What do you like to do for fun, Just Bethany?”
Bethany giggled again. “No, not Just Bethany. My name is Bethany. No Mizz, and no Just.”
“Oh dear, my mistake.” The woman…Helen…had such a nice laugh. “I guess I’m the silly goose now, aren’t I? We can be silly geese together.”
Bethany could hear the smile in the woman’s—Helen’s—voice and knew she was teasing. “Did you know that boy gooses are called ganders?”
“As a matter of fact, I did know that, but I’m very impressed that you know it too. Is learning about animals what you like to do for fun?”
“No, this kid in my class named Justin did a report on geese, though, and he told us that. His family lives on a farm. They have pigs, goats, geese, chickens, and a horse. Isn’t that neat?”
Another of those nice laughs. “Very, although I suspect they spend a lot of time cleaning up animal poop.”
Bethany scrunched up her nose. Ew. She’d never considered that. Maybe she didn’t want to live on a farm, after all. “I think maybe I just want a dog.”