"Uh, no," Aaron says. "We actually suspect him of more than watching porn, but I can't get into that right now. I would just advise that you avoid him."
"Well, he hasn't been coming to work since his niece died. Which is really unfortunate and a bit weird, don't you think? I mean, didn't another woman die just like Brianna did?"
"I think you're talking about Zoë LaPonte," he says. "And, yeah, the two murders are very similar."
"I thought Zoë's was an accident, though."
"We're not sure," he says. "I'm sorry, but I can't discuss this too much. It's all part of an on-going investigation."
He glances back at Teresa. "Well, I'm sorry to give you bad news and leave, but we have some more investigating to do, so…do you want me to call your dad to pick you up? You said you have a therapist, right? Should I call him up and get you an emergency meeting with him?"
"Uh, I'll be okay," I say. "I think I'll just…can you just explain to the principal what happened? I think I just need some time alone."
"I don't think it's a good idea for you to be alone right now. Why don't I just call your dad? I'm sure he'll have no problem picking you up."
"He's in Anchorage working."
"How about your mother?" he asks.
"She had a meeting with her psychiatrist," I say. "She's been using almost twice the amount of sleeping pills she should be, so she needed a refill. I have a feeling the meeting is going to involve a lot of begging, so I don't thinks she's coming back any time soon."
He sighs, glancing over at Teresa.
She shrugs. "She could stay with us in the car."
"It's literally just going to be us driving back and forth all over town."
They both look at me as if I'm a puppy they found on the side of the road.
"I'll really be fine," I say.
"At least call your mother to pick you up," Aaron says, already taking a step back.
"Sure," I say.
"I'm sorry," he mutters, his words falling between us like an ancient suspension bridge made of rope and wood planks. It's a halfhearted attempt to create a way for us to meet in our grief, but we're more likely to fall straight into a gorge before reaching the other side.
And I'm not grieving. I'm just watching Newton's third law in action. My action has caused so many other equal and opposite reactions. Calls for justice. Compassion. Mercy.
"…But in the end, it won' t be an opposite action. It will be the same reaction," Debbie murmurs, standing behind me as Aaron and Teresa walk out to the parking lot. "Aaron won't show mercy if he finds out who killed Nick. He will kill you."
"And then someone else will retaliate and the action repeats over and over," I say.
"You'll never get justice for Zoë LaPonte. Or get revenge on your father."
I turn to face her. "I'll have to act fast before Aaron gets too far into his investigation."
"It's time to reload."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sarah, September 2015 (1 month ago)
THE ANCHORAGE PUBLIC LIBRARY is completely empty except for the librarian and a toddler sitting with her mother at a table that's barely a foot tall. The microfiche reader in front of me looks like it's over fifty years old, but the newspaper article on the screen is only eleven years old.
Zoë LaPonte's Death: Accidental or Swept Under the Rug?
November 5th, 2004
The case of the death of Zoë LaPonte, daughter of Gary LaPonte and granddaughter of Preston LaPonte, founders of LaPonte and LaPonte Law Firm, seems to be coming to an end. Judge Latham has ruled on a jurisdictional challenge related to the case, removing responsibility for its investigation from the Alaska State Police. This seems like a rather strange choice, especially after the dismal performance of Wyatt Police, who failed to collect evidence before a rainstorm managed to wash it all away. When Chief Harlan Grant was questioned, he stated that his officers are not formally trained in forensics, though he plans on implementing that into the future plans for the police force. This comes a week after Chief Harlan told the town of Wyatt that he had handled the investigation personally and it had all of the makings of an accident. Walter LaPonte, brother of Zoë LaPonte, states he is satisfied with the police's work and is grateful for the chief giving his family closure by quickly closing the case. Some community members have demanded that the police force find whoever killed Zoë, even if it was an accident, but Chief Grant has stated that the bullet was too damaged to figure out anything except that it was a rifle and there is zero other evidence because it was a random killing without motive. He firmly believes that the case should be closed for the sake of the LaPonte family.
Is this writer a conspiracy theorist that's off his rocker or does he have a point? Walter LaPonte, Junior, Chief Harlan Grant, my father…could they all have been involved in covering this up?
There's only two ways to find out—torture or find evidence against them. As good of an idea as torture seems, it would quickly show people that I'm not the little lamb they think I am, and I need to keep that cover as long as possible. I'll have to find evidence against them or at least find a way to break them down until they confess. I liked Zoë LaPonte, but if I'm honest with myself—brutally honest—this has nothing to do with her. This is simply step one of the mental torture I want to put my father through. I've spent the last five years of my life fearing him. I want at least five years' worth of ruining his life and making him afraid. I want to show him it's not just physical strength that makes someone powerful.
The African elephant is the strongest mammal on Earth, but when it comes up against a lion, it will likely run. Not because the lion is strong, but because the lion is damn vicious and will sink its teeth into an elephant without remorse, without fear, without caring that it is the smaller specimen.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sarah, September 2014 (1 year ago)
"THANKS FOR CHEERING for me at the game tonight," Paul Gossard, the wide receiver of Wyatt High School, said.
"Hmm, are you sure I was cheering for you?" I tease. "Maybe I was cheering for our quarterback."
"Cute," he says then kisses me. His lips are chapped and rough, but it still fills my stomach with butterflies. "Are you sure you don't want me to drive you closer to your house?"
"Yeah," I say. "I'm not allowed to date, and if my dad sees me alone with anybody, he will freak out."
"All right," he says. "Just…be safe."
"It's less than a block away, Paul. I'll be fine."
I give him another quick kiss before jumping out of his 2010 Ford Mustang. I shut the door and begin my walk home, my cheerleader outfit still on and my pom-poms in my hand. I can feel Paul's eyes on me for a few seconds before I hear him rev the engine of his car and the screeching of his tires as he does a U-turn.
It's almost ten at night. Most of the houses, all extravagant and bordering on being mansions, have their lights turned off. I love the stillness of the night when everyone else is asleep. Noise can be enjoyable because you're always aware that somebody is around you, but there's also this feeling that people are being loud simply because they are terrified of silence. They are afraid that if they stop talking, they will stop existing. I don't need noise to prove my existence and few scary things in life creep silently. Except when Dad comes in my room at night. Then it becomes too quiet. Then, if I were braver, I would scream until everyone on the street woke up.
The lights are off at my house. I unlock the door and walk in. As I close the door shut, I have this strange feeling that the stillness is gone, though I still don't hear anything except my own breathing. Even as I walk up the stairs, trying to make my footfalls as silent as possible, the sound of my feet hitting the steps seems to echo through the house. Fear grips into me, its fingernails sinking into my chest.
When I reach my bedroom door, it's slightly open and the faintest glow of light is coming from inside. I know when I left, the door was shut, and I didn't leave any lights on. It's not the kind of thing I
would forget. I hate the idea of my privacy being violated or wasting electricity. Both are simply unnecessary.
I push my fingertips against the door and it swings open.
Dad is sitting on my bed, the lamp on my nightstand glowing behind him. His feet are facing toward me, his hands are clasped between his knees, and he is staring straight at me.
As I drop my pom-poms onto my dresser, my hands are shaking. This is one of those times when silence isn't good. This is when silence is just the calm before the storm.
"The game seemed to last longer than usual," he says.
They must use the phrase breaking the silence because there is the sense silence is thin glass between two people, and the sound of a voice shatters it with its abrupt interruption.
"Some of the girls and I went to The Charcoal Grill for milkshakes and fries." I lie, taking my earrings out, and looking at him through the mirror above my dresser.
"Really?" he asks. "You shouldn't have to pay for a meal on your homecoming. Show me the receipt and I'll give you back the money you used."
"The whole order was on one receipt," I say, sliding into the next lie. "Then we all pitched in money. I don't remember who had the receipt. They probably threw it out."
"Maybe I should call the restaurant then. They must have the receipt in their computers."
"They're closed now."
"They'll be open in the morning."
He stands up, nearly eight inches taller than I am. He takes a step, so he's standing right behind me.
"So, you weren't with that senior, Paul Gossard?"
I flinch at Paul's name—I can't help it. I'm not good at lying—I'm generally terrible at it—but Paul is considered a god at the school, and I wasn't about to say no to him. I was surprised as we continued to date that he was truly a sweet and intelligent person and not the stupid and brutish jock stereotype.
"Uh, he was with the group," I say.
Dad grabs my arm, his grip so tight that it feels like he's grasping my bone, and spins me around to face him. "You're lying." He spits out. "Who do you think you are to lie straight to my face?"
"I'm not lying."
His slap hits me so quickly I don't have time to brace myself. Numbness spreads through my cheek.
"I damn well know you're lying." He snarls. His grip tightens around my arm, and I'm losing feeling in my hand from the lack of blood circulation. "That waitress, Brittany or Brianna, whatever her name is, told me you've been seeing that boy. I told you that you weren't allowed to date. I thought you would have learned your lesson after the first time."
My life was exactly how the people of Wyatt saw it…until I was thirteen years old. I had the perfect life. A beautiful home, two parents who cherished me, popularity, good grades, and a popular boy—David—who was interested in me. In fact, the only downfall in my life was the fact my half brother, Mason, didn't like me, and the times when I heard the harsh words Dad used when talking to Crystal—his first wife and Mason's mother—or when he went after Mason with his fist. Honestly, I thought Mason deserved it. He wasn't a good kid and bad kids are punished for their actions.
Then, I began dating David, though Dad had told me that I couldn't date until I was done with college. He told me it was because my education was far more important than any boy. But I was a teenager in love—we had just finished reading Romeo and Juliet—and dating him would only boost my popularity. One night, Dad caught me talking on the phone with David after I told him I was doing my homework.
Dad had never raised a hand to me. He hadn't even yelled at me before. He was the person I went running to when I was upset and it was usually my mother who handled discipline, which usually only involved shaming me or taking away my computer or TV privileges. But that night, he yanked the telephone receiver away from me and beat me until I was a crying mess on the floor. Until I was just a victim, a weak princess in need of saving, prey. Until I was unrepairable.
The bruises on my back, ass, and thighs made me want to squirm in my seat at school the next few days. And getting dressed for gym turned into a hellish experience, because I knew I would get into even more trouble if anyone saw the bruises. I felt a strong urge to tell a teacher, the school nurse, the principal, but I knew it wouldn't do me any good. My father was a judge. I'd disobeyed him. They would just say he was disciplining me, and they'd all agree with him. Only a fool would disagree with a judge's ruling.
So, it became an almost normal occurrence until I figured out what made him angry—anything that suggested I disagreed with his perfect plans for my perfect life, or if I showed the slightest bit of disregard for his authority. For the most part, I became a good daughter, but when I needed to be rebellious—such as dating Paul Gossard—I learned how to hide my tracks. I learned which lies worked, such as saying I was out with my female friends who would cover for me. It had worked for the last month, but apparently, the life I had created for myself was ending tonight.
"Brianna doesn't know what she's talking about," I mutter.
He smacks me across the face again. This time, I could feel his ring as it hit against my cheek. I can't hold it back any longer. I burst into tears.
"Stop crying!" He barks. "Tears won't get you out of this."
He shoves me and I fall onto the floor. He kicks at me and my elbows barely protect me. Every time he hits me, I grit my teeth harder. I grind my teeth until I'm certain they all must be shaped like canines…until I'm sure that I'll be reborn as something carnivorous.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sarah, 2004 (11 years ago)
MASON HAS A BUNCH of horror and violent books, but one sticks out to me in particular: Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury. The book is old with a scary red skull on the front, but it's the title that draws my attention to it. What was the wicked thing? Why was it coming? And how does somebody know that it's coming?
Is there any way to stop it?
For the last six days, I've had to remain in Mama and Daddy's room with Mama. We even have picnics on the floor instead of the dining room. The only change that could have triggered this is the fact there are now constantly three or four men downstairs, talking in hushed voices with Daddy.
Mom is on her laptop now as I play with a puzzle. I had stopped trying to put it together a long time ago, but I like feeling them in my palms. It gives me a sense of security to be able to hold onto something.
"Mama, I need to pee," I tell her.
She glances up from her laptop. "Give me a second. I'm typing an e-mail to your grandpa Latham."
"Mama, I need to pee now." I whine.
She glances up at me. "Just…go straight to the bathroom and come back. Daddy doesn't want us listening to his conversation with the LaPonte family. They're having adult conversations."
I nod and open the bedroom door. I tiptoe toward the bathroom, but halfway across the hall, I see an older man lingering on the first floor. I settle onto my knees to peek through the interior balcony's railing. He's an older man with gray hair and seems unnaturally thin.
"Earl, you know I mourn the death of my daughter, truly, but her death shouldn't affect Walter's future," the man says. "He had a moment of…temporary emotional overload. He was consumed by anger and that anger blinded him to the fact that his actions would have consequences."
"Of course. I understand," Daddy says. "We all have moments where we lose control. It's the tester one."
"Exactly," the man says. "But the public won't understand that. They want blood for this unfortunate death. And the state police won't be able to understand either. They would do anything to make our own police force look bad. You know Chief Grant was only trying his best. He's not used to dealing with murders. This isn't Anchorage."
"And you want me to take care of it," Daddy says.
"If you would be so kind to do so. There would, of course, be financial compensation for your trouble…as always," the man states.
"You don't have to say anything to convince me, Gary," Dad
dy says. "I know you're a good man who wouldn't do anything to mess up your law firm."
A hand clamps over my mouth and drags me away from the railing. I flail until I recognize my mother's lavender scent.
"What are you doing?" she demands, but her voice is almost too quiet to hear. She releases my mouth, grabs my arm, and drags me back to the bedroom. She closes the door and turns around to face me. "What did you hear?"
I shrug. None of it was that interesting to me. In fact, the only reason I kept listening is because it felt like something wicked was being conceited. I suppose that's how people know something wicked is coming—there's a change in the tone of people's voices and there's a shift in the atmosphere so that everything feels tense.
I'm not sure if there's a way to stop it, but for some reason I think of that phrase, fight fire with fire.
Chapter Thirty
Aaron, 2015 (Thursday afternoon)
TERESA'S CELL PHONE vibrates as I'm driving to Junior's house. She glances at the screen.
"It's Rhoda Chen," she says. "This can't be good."
"You should ask her why she never called me back. Her voicemail said she would call me back if I left a message, I left a message, and she never returned it."
She grabs the phone and clicks on the screen. "It's a text. She's saying that I shouldn't be investigating with you right now because there's not enough indications for it to be an FBI case."
"Are you kidding? It's two murders—Zoë and Brianna—that are almost exactly the same and it involves State Representative LaPonte. It has FBI written all over it."
"Chen says there isn't enough evidence that they're connected," she says, scrolling through her texts.
"It's right before he was going to announce that he's running for governor on Sunday." I hit my hand against the steering wheel.
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