One Little Secret

by Eliza Lentzski

  The bombs and the chemtrails.

  I jerked awake at the sound of the next explosion. This one was closer. I shot up in bed; my breath came in short bursts and my heart felt like it might explode inside my chest. The bedroom filled with light, followed by a loud crack and a rumbling. Thunder. Lightning. It was storming outside.

  I looked with bleary eyes to Julia’s bedside table. The alarm clock read the time in large, neon green numbers: 3:12 a.m.

  I flopped back onto the pillows and exhaled. Without Julia taking up her side of the bed, I’d started to sleep in the middle. It made me feel like the bed wasn’t so empty, and I wasn’t so alone.

  I let the furniture of Julia’s St. Paul, Minnesota apartment flood back in and replace the sand, blood, and crumbling structure of the safe house in Afghanistan. I liked to sleep with the windows open, but I jumped out of bed and hastily shut the glass when I realized that a hard rain had started to penetrate the window screen.

  Another flash of lightning. Another rumble of thunder that seemed to shake the entire apartment complex. I’d written in my dream journal before bed, but apparently it hadn’t been enough to stave off the nightmares. It had been some time since I’d had one of those dreams—memories of my time in a different world, another life. Of the struggle not to die and to bring back Terrance Pensacola alive.

  I looked around the darkened room for something that might help me—something that might ground me. Julia had been my anchor, but I would have to weather this literal storm without her. I grabbed one of her unlaundered t-shirts from the clothes hamper and pressed the cotton material to my nose. Fabric softener tried to mask the spicy scent of her skin. I inhaled, like a lunatic, like an asthmatic dependent on their inhaler. I threw the oversized t-shirt over the clothes I already wore and crawled back into bed. I grabbed one of the pillows from Julia’s side of the bed and hugged it against my chest. I shut my eyes tight and hoped for dreamless sleep.

  I didn’t wake up again until I heard the buzz of my cell phone as it bounced across the bedside table. Julia’s alarm clock sat sentinel and silent. 9:27 a.m. Shit. I’d overslept. Knowing me, I’d probably set the alarm for PM, and not AM. Julia was typically in charge of setting the morning alarm since she was more responsible than me.

  I grabbed my phone and answered the call without looking at the caller’s number. “Hello?” I grunted.

  “You planning on coming in today, National Treasure?” Jason Ryan sounded pissed off.

  I was exhausted from uneven sleep, but I still managed a saucy retort: “Miss me that much?”

  “Meet me at the Petersik residence,” Ryan snapped. “Mrs. Petersik’s been calling all morning demanding to know why we let Steven and Landon Tauer walk. The Inspector has politely requested that we see them in person.”

  “He chewed your ass out, huh?” I couldn’t help my private grin. “Not teacher’s pet anymore?”

  “Just hurry up and get here, Miller,” he growled.

  + + +

  Detective Ryan and I sat around the kitchen table with Mr. and Mrs. Petersik. I had not been offered coffee or tea upon our arrival this time. Mrs. Petersik was livid.

  “How could you just let them walk out of there?” she demanded.

  Ryan spoke for the both of us. “We didn’t have a reason to hold either Steven or Landon, Mrs. Petersik.”

  “And now they’re both gallivanting over there like nothing ever happened.” She gestured wildly in the direction of her neighbors’ house. “And I can’t even bury my baby because you still refuse to release her body. How am I supposed to get any sleep knowing my Kennedy is in some storage locker? How is a mother supposed to survive?”

  “Mrs. Petersik, as soon as we leave here I’m going to speak with my supervisor,” Ryan gently tried. “You’re right—we’ve inconvenienced your family for long enough. There’s no reason for us to continue to hold onto Kennedy. You should be able to grieve and get closure, not continue for this to drag out.”

  I was mildly impressed with how tender Ryan was being with Kennedy’s parents. It was probably all for show, but he exuded genuine care. In any case, it seemed to have calmed down Mrs. Petersik momentarily.

  “Landon said that Kennedy killed that boy? The one at the graduation party?” Mr. Petersik slowly shook his head, like the words he was saying were in a foreign language.

  “Kennedy would never hurt a fly,” Mrs. Petersik insisted. “This is all Landon. Kennedy was probably going to tell on him about the Bloom boy, so he killed her with the same gun that he killed Michael Bloom with.”

  I exhaled deeply through my nose. “There’s no evidence to suggest that, Mrs. Petersik.”

  “Landon told us that Kennedy asked him for a gun—for protection, she said,” Ryan noted. “Do you know anything about that? Did Kennedy mention anything to you about being scared or threatened by someone? Someone in a class with her? Someone she might have dated, maybe?”

  “No. She was having such a great time at college,” her dad said. “That’s all we ever heard—how great St. Olaf was.”

  “But she wasn’t having too much fun, if you know what I mean,” Kennedy’s mom interjected. “She was on academic scholarship, so she was very serious about her studies. As long as she kept a B average, all of her schooling was being taken care of.”

  “That’s very impressive,” Ryan allowed.

  A watery smile appeared on Mrs. Petersik’s face. It was obvious how proud she had been of her daughter.

  “Did she mention anything about the graduation party in her journals?” I tried.

  I hadn’t forgotten that Mrs. Petersik had denied me access to Kennedy’s diaries. At the time, the case hadn’t been mine to press for a search warrant, but now our reasons to not investigate every page of those journals had run out.

  The smile fell from her face, and Mrs. Petersik threw me a steely look. “No. There’s nothing there. This is the first time I’ve heard about it.”

  “Someone died at a party she was at and she didn’t think to write about it?” I had major doubts.

  “I’m sure she had her reasons,” Mrs. Petersik said stiffly. “It was so traumatizing for those kids. Why write about it?”

  “Mrs. Petersik, I know you’re concerned about your daughter’s privacy, but a second set of eyes couldn’t hurt,” I tried gently. “Maybe we would notice something that you overlooked.”

  “We’re her parents,” Mrs. Petersik huffed. “She didn’t keep anything from us.”

  I had an ace up my sleeve that I’d been sitting on. It was a sensitive topic, and I hadn’t been sure when or if to ever show my hand, but this seemed to be the moment. “Were either of you aware that Kennedy was into cutting?”

  “Cutting?” Mr. Petersik frowned. “What’s that?”

  “Self-harm,” I cautiously explained. “It’s a coping strategy for some people who suffer from depression. They cut themselves, usually very small and unnoticeable. The physical pain can serve as a distraction from other kinds of mental trauma. It’s not necessarily a suicide attempt, but sometimes the razor blade goes too deep.”

  “H-how would you ever know that?” Mrs. Petersik stuttered.

  I chose my next words with deliberate care. “Because I inspected Kennedy’s body at the morgue, ma’am. The insides of her arms were covered with old scars.”

  “That’s ridiculous. This is some kind of trick,” Mrs. Petersik claimed. “I never saw any marks on Kennedy. You’re not reading my little girl’s diary, Detective,” she snapped. “So forget they even exist.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mrs. Petersik had been vehement about not letting us see her daughter’s private journals, but she hadn’t said anything about us not checking out Kennedy’s former campus home. Between Kennedy’s death, interviews with police, and arranging the details of the memorial service, the Petersiks hadn’t had the opportunity to pick up Kennedy’s belongings from her college.

  Detective Ryan and I planned to make the hour trip down I-
35 to Northfield, Minnesota, home of St. Olaf College, and Kennedy Petersik’s home away from home for the past three years. It was a long shot among long shots, but maybe she’d kept a journal in her dorm room that would give us more insight into her mindset in the months and weeks leading up to her death. Or maybe someone she knew on campus would know more about why Kennedy believed she needed a gun for protection.

  I stopped off at a coffee shop to procure caffeine and snacks to fuel our road trip. I had just set the piping hot coffee containers into the cup holders of my squad car when my cell phone began to ring. A rare photograph of Julia flashed onto my cell screen. It had been sunny the day of the photograph, and sunshine reflected off her glossy, raven hair. Her broad smile made her high cheekbones more elevated than usual. For someone as beautiful as she, Julia really hated having her picture taken.

  “Hey, pretty mama,” I answered the call with a smile. “What’s going on?”

  “We won.”

  Julia’s tone was so nonchalant and cool that it took me a moment to figure out to what she was referring.

  “You won? The custody trial? Charlotte gets to keep her little girl?”

  “Mmhm,” she confirmed. “The judge made his ruling this morning, so it was only a short day in court today.”

  I thought she sounded unnaturally distracted for having such good news.

  “Have you booked your return flight yet? When do I pick you up from the airport?” A greedy, eager emotion rushed over me. I wondered if she’d be able to get a flight later that day and be home in time for dinner.

  “I’m on my way to Embarrass,” she said.

  It took a moment longer for my brain to make sense of her announcement. “You’re what?”

  “I rented a car, and I’m driving to visit my parents. It was totally an impromptu decision,” she explained. “I’m this far north already; I might as well drive the extra hour and a half to see them.”

  My mouth went dry. “Oh.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  “Seatbelt on, headlights on?” I said, unsure.

  I didn’t want to tell her about the dream I’d had in her absence. I didn’t want her to feel guilty or like she’d abandoned me. I also didn’t want to admit that my sleep and sanity had become so dependent on her.

  “You’re not upset that I’m going to Embarrass without telling you?” she questioned.

  “You’re telling me now.” I hated how my stomach churned with uncomfortable knots.

  “Ask me your question, Cassidy.”

  “I don’t have a question,” I denied.

  Julia was silent on the other end of the phone call, satisfied to wait for my eventual honesty.

  “Fine,” I sighed. “Are you sure you’re not avoiding me?”

  My brain flashed back to my stupid, premature marriage proposal. The thought had felt so right, so natural at the time; now my eagerness brought only embarrassment.

  “I’m not avoiding you,” she promised. “I’ve been avoiding my father, and I’m going to remedy that.”

  “When do you think you’ll be back?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. A couple of days, at most. I’d like to spend some time with my mother. And I should probably drop in on my grandparents’ house to make sure it’s still intact.”

  “Your mansion?”

  I could hear her chuckle. “If that’s what you want to call it, sure.”

  I couldn’t help my long, loud sigh. I’d been elated to hear that she’d won her case, but I’d also equated that with her coming home, not her staying away longer.

  “I won’t be long, darling,” she promised. “I miss you terribly.”

  My throat constricted from emotion. “I miss you, too.”

  +++

  St. Olaf College probably received a lot of attention from fans of The Golden Girls, it being the fictional hometown of Betty White’s character. But in reality, it was a small, private liberal arts college located an hour south of Minneapolis.

  I always had a strange feeling when I walked on college campuses. I’d gone directly from high school into the Marines. It was easy to slip into thoughts of What Ifs when I observed seemingly carefree co-eds lounging on blankets on the campus quad, studying from thick textbooks under the canopy of mature maple trees. Maybe I would have still ended up in law enforcement if I’d gone to college, but it was pretty unlikely.

  A posted campus map led us to the dormitory where Kennedy Petersik had last resided. St. Olaf was a residential campus, so every student lived in the dorms. Bulletin boards in the front lobby provided a schedule of campus activities and short biographical profiles of the building’s resident assistants. With most students in late morning classes, the residence hall was eerily quiet.

  I spied an older, balding man in a dark work shirt and Carhartt pants mopping the linoleum floor. Careful to stay on the narrow carpet runner so as to not ruin his work, Detective Ryan and I approached the man.

  “Excuse me, sir?” I called to him.

  The man looked up from his work and peered at us from behind thick lensed glasses.

  I touched the badge that hung at my hip. “Cassidy Miller, Minneapolis Police,” I introduced myself. “This is Detective Ryan. We’re investigating the death of a St. Olaf student.”

  “You mean Kennedy.”

  The man’s response surprised me.

  “St. Olaf is a small campus,” he explained. “Pretty much everyone knows each other.”

  “We’re hoping to see her room. Her parents said they haven’t been by to pick things up yet?”

  The man nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve got the keys, but not the authority. You’ll have to talk to the Hall Director. I’m just the janitor.”

  “And where might we find this person?” Ryan asked.

  The man pointed down a narrow hallway that dead-ended with a solid door. “Her apartment is right there.”

  “Thank you.” I hesitated before leaving. “Did you know Kennedy?” I wondered aloud.

  We had made the trip to inspect Kennedy Petersik’s room, but I thought it would also be helpful to interview the people who knew her best on campus. I’d gotten statements from her parents and from Landon Tauer about what Kennedy had been like, but I was living proof that young people tended to be different away from the place and people where they’d grown up.

  The man shook his head. “Not really, no. I’m part of the scenery. Like a chair or a trash can. Most of the kids here barely acknowledge me. Kennedy, though, I remember she always made eye contact and smiled when she’d see me. She never spoke to me, but it was a whole lot more recognition than I typically get.”

  His admission brought a sad smile to the corner of my mouth.

  “Thank you for your candor, sir.” I made sure to make purposeful eye contact.

  The Hall Director—Faith Newman—had her name posted on the outside of her apartment door. Ryan took lead and knocked on the solid wooden door. “Police,” he barked.

  “Really?” I slowly drawled. “We’re not here to arrest anyone.”

  Ryan dropped his hands to his sides. “Sorry,” he clipped, having the decency to at least look a little embarrassed. “Habit.”

  He didn’t knock again, but we didn’t have to wait long before the door opened.

  Faith Newman’s hair was a surprising shock of pink that she wore cropped close to her scalp. Tattoos were visible where her wrists peeked out from beneath a cable-knit sweater. She wore skinny jeans and Converse sneakers. The look was very punk rock meets J-Crew.

  She welcomed us into her apartment after Ryan and I introduced ourselves and our purpose for being there. I scanned my eyes around the room we stepped into. The apartment was one large room that served as living room, dining space, and kitchen. I noticed a single hallway in the back that presumable led to a bathroom, bedroom, or both.

  “What exactly is a Hall Director?” I didn’t know much about college campus residence life, so she explained for me.

>   “It’s pretty much what it sounds like,” she said. “I supervise the students who live in the building.”

  “Are you a student, too?” I asked.

  Her laugh was more like a squeak. “Not anymore, thank God. I graduated two years ago. I’m taking some time off before I go to graduate school. Doing this until my mental batteries get recharged.”

  Ryan pulled a small notebook from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He flipped it open to a blank page and clicked a ballpoint pen awake. I wrinkled my nose at his robotic and stereotypical mannerisms, but I knew we needed to get back to business.

  “Ms. Newman, what can you tell us about Kennedy Petersik?” he asked.

  Faith sighed. “Not much, unfortunately. She kept to herself. Didn’t have a roommate. Didn’t participate in hall activities. I’ve got just over 100 residents, so if you’re not active in the community or you’re not high-maintenance, sometimes you slip through the cracks.”

  “Do you know if she had many friends on campus? People she was close to?” I probed.

  Faith slowly shook her head. “Sorry. Like I said, she kept to herself.”

  Ryan clicked the top of his pen again and returned his notepad to his pocket. “Do you mind showing us her room?”

  “Of course,” Faith agreed. “I only wish I could be more help.”

  Ryan and I followed Faith Newman up three flights of stairs. The stairwell smelled like burnt popcorn and body odor. At the top of the stairs was a long hallway. Each door we passed was decorated with posters and little construction paper nameplates.

  Faith came to a stop in front of one of the doors. A construction paper caterpillar was taped to the door. The name ‘Kennedy’ was scrawled across its segmented body in careful, feminine handwriting.