“Ah,” I said, heart racing as I thought of seeing anyone from the police station. I would have been happy to never see any of them again. “What was her name again?”
“Leslie. She’s an admin assistant,” Tom said. I bit my lip. I didn’t recognize the name, but I only knew the cops, not the administrative people. Still, I might recognize her face when I saw her. It wasn’t an appealing thought.
“Oh yeah, gotcha,” I said.
“So, are you in?” Tom asked.
“Uh, yeah okay. What time?” I asked, wondering if this was a good idea. But spending time with Tom was too attractive an offer to pass up.
“Seven o’clock. Our house is 29 Bayview Road,” Tom said, turning to walk away. Suddenly, he stopped and turned back.
“Oh, and Jenny? I didn’t want my dad to ask questions about why I wanted to invite someone to dinner.” He grinned at me. “I’m not exactly Mr. Popular around here. So, you’ll have to pretend you’re my girlfriend.”
“Oh, uh, no problem,” I said faintly. I stood by my locker and watched him walk away, a head taller than most of the other students.
I felt off-balance around Tom. I wasn’t sure if I liked the feeling, but I did know that the time I spent with him was the longest I went without thinking of Chloe. Maybe that was good enough for now.
—
After school, I stood in my bedroom, staring at myself in the mirror. What did one wear to a fake date? I had only been on a few real dates in my life, and they had all been to school dances or the movie theater. The best outfit I could come up with was my lavender sweater and black jeans. I felt disappointed by how supremely unspecial I looked in the mirror. But I knew it wasn’t about the clothes.
I had always found it hard to describe myself. All of my qualities seemed so tenuous and insubstantial. I was loyal, quiet and thoughtful…in other words, boring. I had never been able to see myself clearly before Chloe disappeared. Her personality had always been so bright and big that it threw a long shadow on the people around her. Being Chloe’s friend had defined me for so long that I was surprised to see who I was without her.
I retouched my makeup, which always seemed to evaporate by the evening. I had been painting my face with a thick layer of foundation since I was ten years old, and it had become a permanent part of my morning routine. My mother never said a word about my skin. She knew the makeup obsession had started when the kids in my class began to call me “Pongo,” after the male dog in the movie 101 Dalmatians. Even Chloe never mentioned my freckles. They existed in that unspoken space between friends, like the fact that Chloe’s family was wealthier than mine. Chloe and I had always been good at leaving uncomfortable truths unsaid.
I turned away from the mirror and shoved a tiny hairbrush and lip gloss into a purse Chloe had given me for my birthday two years ago. If I didn’t stop worrying about my appearance and get going then I would be late. Tom lived clear across town, so I had to get on the road. I gave myself one last look. I was never going to be a beauty, but I looked about as good as I could; that would have to be enough.
Bayview Road ran along the edges of Fisher Lake and was one of the nicest areas in town. In Northern Ontario, finding the most expensive neighborhood was easy. All you had to do was look for the lakefront. The next best option were houses perched so high on a hill that they looked out on vast expanses of forest and water. It made sense. If you had the money and you chose to live in Northern Ontario, then you’d better be getting a great view for your troubles.
I drove by large houses made of dark wood and gleaming windows, perched on the shores of the frozen lake. Every home had a pair of jewel-toned SUVs with ski racks mounted on the top. In the summer, I knew I would see speedboats bobbing in the waves, gently bumping docks punctuated with Muskoka chairs.
A lot of these families were rich because of Northern Ontario’s resources. These were the folk who owned mining companies and mineral-processing firms. They had started construction businesses or been named executives for the major lumber corporations in the province. These people could afford to treat Thunder Creek like a natural paradise. They spent the summer boating on the lake, trailing water-skiers in their wake. In the winter, there were ski trips to Quebec and evenings curled up in their luxurious homes stoking the fireplace and drinking wine. It was the Great Canadian Dream: a life replete with nature worship and expensive interpretations of rustic living.
Families like mine didn’t really benefit from the much-vaunted Northern lifestyle. In fact, like most working-class families, our life was so unadorned that we really could be living anywhere. The view from our front window was of a parking lot. We couldn’t afford ski equipment or boats, and even if we had somehow managed to find cheap ones, my mother was almost always working. The only nature I regularly saw was the forested hills that enclosed the city, and the creek behind the high school. Admittedly, I did spend my summers at the local beach, but I would have traded that to live in a less isolated part of Ontario.
Tom’s house was a sprawling wooden structure with a deck that wrapped around the home and extended out to an imposing boathouse. On lakefront homes, the most impressive aspects of the house always face the water. Yet, the front of Tom’s house still featured wide windows at the top of a peaked entrance. I could see a chandelier glittering warmly through the highest window.
I parked my car and walked up the driveway, feeling my impressions of Tom Grey rearrange themselves. His hatred of Thunder Creek seemed threadbare now that I knew he lived so comfortably.
I rang the doorbell and stood back. When Tom opened the door, I felt a flurry of nerves as I remembered the challenges this night posed. Not only did we have to try to get confidential information from a police employee, I also had to convince everyone that I was Tom’s girlfriend. The girlfriend performance would require some serious acting, since I had no real-world experience.
“Hey,” Tom said, a slow smile creeping over his face. He was wearing a faded Pink Floyd T-shirt and black jeans.
“Hey,” I said, stepping inside the door.
Tom didn’t move out of my way, so I found myself facing him, his chin inches from my face. I could feel the warmth radiate from his body, and being so close to unfamiliar skin made my heart beat faster.
I felt Tom’s hands rest on my lower back and pull me gently forward, my breath pooling in the back of my throat in anticipation. He was leaning in for a kiss when I heard footsteps approach, shattering the strange and quiet moment. I stepped back abruptly and Tom turned around.
“Uh, Jenny, this is Leslie,” Tom said.
“Hi,” I said, looking at Leslie. She was a petite brunette in her mid-thirties. I had wondered why Tom’s dad, who was clearly wealthy, would be dating someone who worked as an administrative assistant at the police station. Looking at Leslie’s full lips and Pilates body, I understood that the missing variable was beauty.
“Pleased to meet you, Jenny,” she said.
“Likewise,” I said, unnerved by the way her eyes were examining me, as if she was trying to decide whether I was worthy of Tom’s company.
“You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?” she asked, squinting at me. I swallowed hard. I had thought the same thing about her. I had seen her at the station multiple times, typing away at a computer or bustling down the hallway with an armful of files.
“Uh, I don’t think so,” I muttered.
“My mistake. So, kids, dinner’s probably ready,” Leslie said, her hand alighting on her slim hip.
I nodded and followed her down the hall. Tom walked next to me and I could feel his fingers brush against mine. I couldn’t tell if it was intentional but it still made me smile.
The dining room of Tom’s house was open-concept and shared space with the living room. A wood fire heated the room, the glimmer of firelight reflected in the polished hardwood floors. As I expected, one wall was almost completely made of windows facing the lake, and I couldn’t help lingering in front of the bleak view�
��a vast expanse of black sky and a flat plain of ivory snow stretching out to meet it.
My eyes jumped from the black leather couches to the flat-screen TV, from the mahogany dining table to the soft blankets draped over the arm of the reclining chair. I had never seen a home so luxurious in real life. It was the sort of place I had believed existed only in magazines. I felt my cheeks flush as I remembered Tom visiting my home, with its mismatched furniture and cheap knickknacks. Everything must have looked incredibly dingy to him when he took a house like this for granted.
Tom’s father was setting the table. He looked like Tom, tall and lean with thick brown hair. The only difference was that Tom was fairer. His father’s skin glowed with a deep tan, as if it were some sort of natural side effect of being wealthy. When he looked up and saw me, he casually tossed the remaining forks onto the table and came over to shake my hand.
“You must be Jenny,” he said, his hand warm and soft in mine. “I’m Richard.”
“Hi,” I said quietly, unsure of how to act. I was quiet at the best of times, but I hated meeting new people.
“Dinner will be about fifteen minutes,” Richard said. He smiled conspiratorially, like he was letting me in on a secret. “I accidentally fell asleep after getting back from the gym tonight, so I’m a bit behind.”
“Well, just give us a call,” Tom said, leading me away. “I’m just going to show Jenny my room.”
“Thank you,” I called faintly back to Richard as Tom pulled me down the hallway. I could count on one hand the number of boy’s bedrooms I had seen in my life. My pool of experience when it came to boys was so shallow that even the mention of their bedrooms made my palms sweat. I hoped Tom didn’t notice.
Tom’s room was a complete mess. His floor was covered in piles of laundry that resembled lumpy mountains rising from the carpet. There were dishes everywhere, and cups that he had used as ashtrays. The whole room smelled of cigarette smoke. Books filled his shelves and overflow stacks leaned haphazardly against his desk. His walls were covered in a mishmash of seventies rock posters and exotic scenes that he had torn out of travel magazines.
“I guess I should have cleaned up a little,” Tom said sheepishly. “It’s usually a bit nicer…well, no, that’s a lie. It’s not.”
“What’s with all the guidebooks?” I asked, examining his bookshelves. Whole shelves were dominated by old travel books, interrupted only by a few rock star memoirs and books set in far-flung locations. All of the guidebooks looked heavily creased, spiderwebs of cracks traversing their spines.
“Oh, it’s kind of dumb,” Tom said with a grin, pulling a guidebook to Latin America off the shelf. “When I moved to Thunder Creek, I started buying secondhand travel books at Value Village. A lot of people get rid of them after they go on their trip, so there’s a lot there.”
“Why?” I asked. “Surely a lot of these are so outdated you can’t use them.”
“I know,” Tom said with a shrug. “But the countries are the same, and I thought it was so cool that these books had traveled to these places. And it just made me excited to think that someday, I could go to all of these places too.”
It surprised me to see Tom so animated about something. His eyes were shining as he replaced the Latin American guidebook and traced his fingers along the spines of books for Indonesia, North Africa and the Caribbean islands. These books represented more than just travel information to Tom; they spoke to him about all the possibilities life had to offer.
“I’m sure you’ll see everything,” I whispered. “I’m sure it’ll be amazing.”
Tom leaned down to kiss me. I felt his lips brush against mine for the briefest of seconds, the dry skin on my lower lip gluing ours together, before we heard Richard call for dinner.
As we left the room, I stole one last glance back at Tom’s bookshelves. It was the bedroom of a dreamer, someone who believed that his life would be exciting. Chloe’s room had been just the same, jam-packed with pictures she’d torn out of fashion magazines. I just hoped that, unlike Chloe’s, Tom’s dreams would actually come true.
Chapter Fourteen
In the dining room, Richard and Leslie sat at the table, their posture straight-backed and prim as they waited for us to sit down.
“I hope you like cannelloni,” Richard said, gesturing toward the table. “It’s Tom’s favorite.”
“I love it,” I said, having no idea what cannelloni was. I hoped it wasn’t seafood. I hated fish.
Cannelloni turned out to be tubes of pasta with a cheesy spinach filling. It was delicious, and I was relieved that I didn’t have to choke down a rancid fish dish in order to make a good impression.
Tom kept refilling Leslie’s and Richard’s wineglasses. By the fourth glass, Leslie’s gestures were becoming looser and more relaxed. Richard had leaned back in his chair and seemed to be struggling to keep up a conversation. I was glad they were drunk; I had felt awkward answering questions about myself throughout dinner. The questions were still coming, but at least I knew they were seeing me through the hazy glow of wine.
“When did you two start dating?” Leslie asked slowly. Her chin was resting on her hand and it swayed slowly back and forth on her floppy wrist.
“A few weeks ago,” Tom said, taking my hand.
“Yeah,” I said helpfully, hoping the conversation would veer elsewhere.
“Well, that’s good. Dating’s fun when you’re a kid. It becomes more important when you’re older, almost like a second job,” she said. “Just, you know, don’t rush into sex or anything.”
I kept my eyes fixed on the table, trying to stop the blush I could feel stealing over my face. I didn’t want to talk about sex with an adult I barely knew. In fact, I didn’t want to talk about sex with anyone. Why couldn’t we just move on to discussing murder, like normal people?
“So, how’s work?” Tom asked abruptly. Leslie snorted and took a deep sip of wine.
“You know, the usual,” she said, pursing her lips and rolling her eyes.
“I would have thought you’d be extra busy, with that murder,” Tom said slowly. I held my breath, afraid that he should have waited until there were more words and wine between them.
“Eh, not really. There are no real leads,” Leslie said. “This guy is crafty. He didn’t leave any physical evidence behind. He probably picked her up hitchhiking; Natives always do it. Getting her into his car was probably like shooting fish in a barrel.”
“Always see them by the reserve,” Richard muttered. “Poor kids…I’d give them a ride but I only seem to see them…when I’m going the wrong way. Or it’s night, you know…you don’t pick up people at night…”
“That guy was a sicko, though,” Leslie announced, clearly trying to pull Tom’s attention back to her. I had met girls like her before, girls who needed to be the focus of all the males in a room, regardless of whether she was interested in any of them. It was almost as if some women only came alive when a man looked at them. I felt a tiny bubble of jealously as she patted Tom’s arm, but I knew I was being ridiculous.
“Why?” Tom asked, smiling nicely at Leslie and watching her gulp down more wine.
“He strangled her and then he undressed her. It seems pretty twisted,” Leslie said, her mouth pressing into a grim line.
I felt my dinner churn in my stomach. It was such a hideous prospect to think of behaving like that. I found myself wishing fervently that I would never experience what Helen had felt.
“We never found her clothes. The police think he undressed her before he carried her into the woods,” Leslie continued, spinning out her ghoulish story like a campfire tale.
“Was she…you know, raped?” Tom asked hesitantly. I could tell by his grimace that he wasn’t relishing this twisted question-and-answer period either.
“No.” Leslie took another swig of her wine. “She died a virgin. Bit of a surprise, actually. You hear all those stories about Native girls…”
“Don’t be a cow,” Richard muttered
. He made eye contact with me across the table and rolled his eyes drunkenly. “Leslie’s from Caledonia, down south. They hate the Natives down there.”
“For good reason,” Leslie murmured, tipping more wine into her mouth. I bit my lip and glanced at Tom for help. We wanted information, not racist tirades.
“The whole case sounds terrible,” Tom said sympathetically, artfully bringing the conversation back to safer ground. “It must be hard for you to work on such brutal murders.”
I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. She was an administrative assistant! It wasn’t like she was out in the field doing CSI work.
“Yeah, it was,” Leslie said emphatically. “I’m glad they’ve decided not to shift their resources away from finding the Shaughnessy girl. She’s the priority.”
“What do you mean, the priority?” Tom asked, leaning toward Leslie. I bit back a groan. He was doing everything but bat his eyes at her. The disgusting thing was that it was working!
“Well, this is a small police force. And evidence is pretty scarce in both cases, so finding any leads will be difficult. Tough choices had to be made. Obviously, if any new evidence arises in the murder case, they’ll look into it, but that case has gone on the back burner.”
“But how will they get new evidence if they’re not working on it? And surely a murder is more important than a disappearance?” I asked. Leslie looked surprised. I swear she’d forgotten I was at the table.
“That’s just the way it is. Have you read the newspaper lately? Everyone in this town is worrying about the Shaughnessy girl. She’s from a good family and the whole town is scared for her,” she said with a shrug.
“So just because she’s rich, the cops care more?” I asked.
“Well, it scares people more when a kid from Blueberry Hill disappears than it does when something happens to a kid from the reserve. They feel like it could have been their daughter,” Leslie said, as if I were a moron who needed educating. Then, suddenly, I saw her expression change. A glint of recognition widened her eyes as she pointed at me, still clutching a sloshing wine glass. “Hey…wait a minute, I know where I know you from.”
The Lives of Desperate Girls Page 8