Twist of Faith

by Ellen J Green

  No mistaking that one for an accident. He’d been butchered. His wife too. Left to bleed into the carpet. The killer had been bold this time. This time, the Polaroid was mailed to Ross. And it was enough to make him break the silence after all those years. He called one night, his voice shaking as he read the words—Destiny calls us, bound by Loyalty. All things that spring eternal can never be crushed. Cryptic yet specific. He told Ross about Bill, the photo Loyal had received. Maybe they should meet. Bury the hatchet. Make a plan. But it never happened, and that was the last time they spoke.

  Word of Ross’s death came in the form of a sealed legal-sized white envelope. The address was typed. No return address. Postmarked from Philadelphia. This time the Polaroid image was of Ross’s apartment, the door open. The date of death was printed neatly at the bottom along with the words Ave Maria, Joseph too. He’d felt sick after reading that; actually vomited. Ross had supposedly died after falling in the bathtub and hitting his head. He’d died alone in a crummy apartment near Harrisburg, separated from his two daughters. The daughters he’d entrusted his life to.

  He assumed they believed their father’s death was just an accident. He’d followed the story closely, talked to people in the area. There was never any hint of an investigation. He did go to the funeral, stayed in the back, but only to see if either of them showed, so he could track them and find Ava. They didn’t. Anais wasn’t there either. Ross had a total of ten mourners. That’s what righteousness got you.

  He knew he was next. Not just because there was no one else left, but because each recipient had died shortly after getting the photograph in the mail. Except in his case, the killer had waited. Over a year. To taunt him, keep him looking over his shoulder? What made him any worse than the others? Or maybe it was taking longer to get to him because he’d packed up and moved the day after the photo came in the mail. One crappy apartment after another, sometimes just renting a room. On the run. Maybe the killer just hadn’t found him yet.

  All the while, he was thinking there had to be a way to figure out who was doing it, shut it down. He just had to put the pieces together. And then take care of Ava. He’d been cautious, but too cautious. For the first time in twenty years, she was wide open. And just when he had the opportunity to deal with her, she brought a cop into it. And not just any cop.

  When he first saw Russell Bowers, he’d laughed. Just a pretty boy with political connections. When he saw Russell’s military record he’d changed his mind. Bowers had joined the navy out of high school and made the Navy SEALs during his commission. He’d seen combat in Afghanistan. He was a decorated veteran by the age of twenty-two. As soon as he was honorably discharged he went to college at Rutgers, graduated with a degree in philosophy and history in three years. He’d joined the Cherry Hill police force and then was plucked up to work with the Prosecutor’s Office. He was high profile.

  Of all the people for Ava to start blabbing to, a cop was the most dangerous. The secretary couldn’t be eliminated either. She was connected to all the judges. There would be crushing political pressure for the cops to find whoever did her in. It was too risky. If something happened to either one of them now, Ava would never buy that it was an accident, and maybe she’d spill all she knew. Murdering either of her colleagues would draw too much attention to things best left alone.

  He sat forward and kneaded his hands. How the hell had she linked the photo to Loyal’s house? He stared at the photograph again. What if Claire had told her everything before she died? Claire was a smart bitch. It would be just like her to leave a final bomb to explode after her demise.

  He had to defuse it, and there was only one way.

  CHAPTER 10

  I sat in my cubbyhole of an office at the courthouse. I’d done everything Russell had asked of me. I’d returned to work, showered and ready. For four days now, I hadn’t seen Russell once. I didn’t even know if he knew I was here. Or cared.

  “Hey, hey, roomie. D’ya want me to grab you something to eat when I go out?”

  “Hmmm.” I crossed my arms and looked at Joanne. All of this was getting to me. Silly as it had seemed, I’d moved into Joanne’s house the same night Russell had showed up at my door. Her fourteen-year-old son, Steven, was there too, when he wasn’t with his father. Her house was small, crowded, and I’d been relegated to the couch half the time. The worst part was that Joanne followed me around. If I went outside, she was right behind me. If I tried to find peace by going into the bathroom and shutting the door, she’d be knocking within five minutes, wanting to know if everything was okay. Joanne didn’t take a hint. And she talked a lot. She talked until the minute she went to bed. Sometimes she even got out of bed and came to the couch to finish a conversation that was already finished.

  I loved her. I loved her when we were coworkers living in separate places. I didn’t love her so much when we were forced together day and night and I had no place to retreat to. As things were, I was becoming a nasty shrew. And Russell, he’d just blasted into my house that night—made demands on how I was going to spend my time, deposited Joanne beside me as bodyguard—and then disappeared.

  “No, thanks, Joanne. I’m good. I have water and vending machines.”

  “Fine.” Her big purse was in her hand. “I’ll bring you a treat anyway.”

  I sat in the office for half an hour, restless, my leg bouncing up and down. Then I grabbed my bag and left the courthouse. The sheriff’s officers gave me a sidelong look when I brushed past them and scooted out into the damp Camden air. I started half walking, half running. I knew exactly where I was going but I wanted to pretend, at least for any prying eyes, that I was on my lunch break. The Prosecutor’s Office was only a minute away. I just had to keep a sharp eye out for Joanne. If she spotted me, she’d make a ruckus and drag me back to the courthouse for a lecture and a snack. When I got to the corner, I ran the half a block to the Prosecutor’s Office and threw open the glass doors. I stood in the little lobby until someone noticed me.

  “Yes?” The woman was in her forties, and her messy shoulder-length hair seemed fitting with the rest of the chaos in the office.

  “Russell Bowers, please.”

  She stopped shuffling files and looked at me. “Did he have some sort of appointment with you?”

  I shook my head. “No. I work at the courthouse. I need to see him.”

  The woman smiled. If I had to translate that look into English, it would go something like this: You and fifty other women. Stand in line, honey. “He won’t be in for a few days. Want to leave a message?” she asked.

  “No. Well, maybe. This is really important. It’s about a case over there.” I pointed across the street. “Look, if he calls or anything . . .”

  “Do you want to come in and talk to another detective?”

  “Oh.” There was something unsettling in her expression. “Did something happen?”

  She crossed her arms. “You work in the courthouse, right?” I nodded. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear. Hit-and-run—”

  “Run over? Is he okay?”

  “He hit his head. Hurt his shoulder too. Are you sure you don’t want to come in and talk to someone else?” Her tone was softening.

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  She nodded. “From what I heard. He’s home, recovering—he might be out of work for a while. Just awful what these people do these days. But look, if they catch the guy that did this, we’ll prosecute, believe me.”

  I raced back to the safety of the courthouse and slammed the office door behind me. It wasn’t just my office. Three desks were crammed into this closet, but the other two translators were at lunch right now. I dropped onto my chair and threw my purse on the floor.

  Russell had been hit by a car, but he wasn’t going to die.

  And then my next thought: Weird timing for a hit-and-run. If it wasn’t random, that meant someone was watching me, following me, knew what Russell was investigating. Probably the same person who’d broken into my house a
nd taken the photo. I grabbed my purse and raced back outside, ignoring everyone as I went.

  The wind coming through the car window slapped my face and blew my hair into a troll-doll bush. I was free for a moment, and I really needed to find Marie.

  The church was dark and empty. The only signs of life came from the Catholic school across the street. I went around to the convent and knocked at the door. After a short lull, a woman answered. She was young but her face was creased with worry. She wore a pale-blue dress and white nun’s cap.

  “Please. I’m looking for Sister Marie. Is she here?” I asked.

  “She’s at the school today. They needed help.” The woman pointed to where children were playing in a parking lot.

  I found Marie supervising a group of kids playing tag during recess. I watched her for a few minutes without announcing myself. Marie was laughing, egging the children on, working them into a frenzy. Everyone looked happy. The last time I’d seen her, she’d rushed off the porch, seeking refuge from my questions. Questions that were becoming even more urgent.

  “Marie?” I cleared my throat.

  Marie looked startled for a second. “Ava. Where did you come from? I didn’t see you.”

  I leaned against a tree. “I’ve been here for just a minute. Did Regina tell you I was in church on Sunday looking for you?”

  “Yes.” She said nothing more while the children were ushered back into the building. “Did Mass help you?”

  We walked across the street to the church and convent. “I lit a candle for Claire. As you asked. But where were you? Regina said you had some business away.”

  “Why are you here, Ava?”

  “Just wanted to let you know I’m fine. I thought three weeks was enough time away from work after Claire died, so I went back—getting back into a routine. Trying to figure out my next move.” Marie reached out and hugged me. Her thin fingers dug into my back and made me angry. I smoothed my hair and pushed myself from her grasp.

  “Next move?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’m not sure where I’m going. If I want to stay here—”

  “Ava, you can’t up and leave on your own.” The always-present nervousness was there in her voice. “Anais wanted you to come to France.”

  I folded my arms. “I’m almost twenty-three. I don’t need anyone to make plans for me anymore. I have a job, I can support myself, go where I want. I don’t need anyone’s ideas for my life.” I didn’t try to mask my irritation. How much had Claire shared with her about our fights?

  I watched Marie’s eyes get bigger. “You can do whatever you want, of course. But for now maybe you could visit Anais? She found a nice flat for you, if you’re interested, in the fifth arrondissement, Paris?” I said nothing. “It’s beautiful. She said she’ll pay for it. You can just rest.”

  I shook my head. “Is there some reason I should be running away to Paris, to a flat in the fifth arrondissement? To rest? And why is Anais suddenly willing to pay for me to move there now? She’s always refused in the past.”

  “No, not running away. We just thought—”

  “Ah, it’s ‘we’ now, is it? And this has nothing to do with the photograph I found? The murders? Tell Grand-Mère Anais we really do need to talk, but right now I’m going to go back to Claire’s. I’m going to start packing her things, and I can figure out my own life just fine.” I started to walk away.

  “Ava,” she called. “How did you find the house in the photograph?” The words were spoken to my back. “How did you come to assume it had anything to do with you? Your adoption?”

  I hesitated, didn’t turn around. “I’ll tell you next time I see you. It’s a long story.”

  I could see Marie standing by the convent door, her arms folded in front of her, watching as I climbed into the car. She wasn’t going to be nearly as effective as Claire had been in orchestrating the events of my life, forcing me to move, to come home from college, as if I were a dog and she had a whistle. I might have been grateful for their protectiveness, even absent their love, if I wasn’t so convinced that the secrets Marie and Claire had been hiding were to protect themselves more than me.

  CHAPTER 11

  Russell rolled over in bed and looked out the window. He had to be careful how he moved, or bolts of pain shot through his head. Juliette was in the shower. Steam filtered through the crack under the door.

  He’d been in her house for four days now. His head bandaged, his limbs sore. He kept thinking about the car that had come out of nowhere. His injuries would be much worse if he hadn’t leaped out of the way. As it was, the bumper just nicked his hip, throwing him a few feet. Juliette had been patient since his release from the hospital—watching him, checking his pupils, doing a neurological exam every ten minutes, changing his bandages. He could sense Juliette’s thrill at having him living in her house—her hope that this was the first step in a permanent change. But he was beginning to feel trapped. Even just sitting at his desk and moving papers would be better than this.

  After he’d spilled just a little about the case he was investigating before the accident, Doug, a friend who had been with him in the police academy, had insisted on putting an officer out front to cover the house. It was a smart precaution, but it contributed to making him feel like a prisoner, helpless. And he’d never been comfortable with either of those things.

  He had been spending most of his time rolling the facts of the Owens investigation over in his head. His working theory was that the couple was connected to Ava’s adoption. It was the only thing that made sense. Who was Ava, exactly? Where had she come from? Why had her parents—or someone else—dumped her at a church like that? He needed more information. He needed to know more about Claire. And Claire’s entire family.

  He thought of Ava and he smiled. She was probably still living at Joanne’s house, and when she saw him again, he knew she was going to tell him off in that clipped, precise voice of hers. When Ava was angry, her eyes were like bullets—they could shoot you dead in seconds. He had once seen her argue with one of the public defenders. They were in the hallway, going back and forth. At one point Ava got so angry and flustered that she mixed her languages. When she realized it, she didn’t miss a beat. She looked at him and said, “I don’t have time to translate, look it up.” And she walked away.

  “Why are you smiling like that?” Juliette slid into bed beside him. She moved over next to him and wrapped her arms around him.

  He winced. “Watch my shoulder, Jules.”

  “I have been watching your shoulder. For days now. I’ve cleaned it, changed your dressing, given you your antibiotic.” She moved closer. “Now I want to take care of you.”

  She kissed him and he winced in discomfort. His face was swollen to nearly twice its normal size, and the pain was only slightly dulled by the medication they were giving him.

  “I don’t want to, Juliette. Not tonight. I’m in a lot of pain.”

  “I’ll be gentle,” she whispered. She touched him slowly. With each movement of her body against his, he tensed up, anticipating agony if she touched him in the wrong spot, but surprisingly, his body responded.

  He thought Juliette was the one; he was just waiting for their lives to settle down a little to make it more permanent. Her four-year surgical residency had been demanding; she couldn’t take time off to get married and start a family. And he hadn’t been ready either. But now that she was finishing up her final year and had been accepted into a fellowship, he knew that the time had come to move things forward.

  Still, some force was holding him back. He’d never been a procrastinator, but everything about Juliette seemed so difficult lately, like he was moving against water.

  Just at that moment, an image flashed into his head of Joanne seated cross-legged on the end of Ava’s bed, eating a bag of Cheetos and talking nonstop while Ava was trying to read a book. A laugh escaped his lips as he climaxed.

  Juliette smiled as she slid off of him and lay by his side, holding his arm. �
��I’m glad I can still make you happy.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I unlocked the door to Claire’s house and stood in the entryway. After a few days of being closed up, the place was beginning to smell. I had gotten so irritated at Marie for playing nursemaid in my life, but I wasn’t doing a very good job on my own. I resisted the urge to crawl under the covers and sleep the rest of the day away with a bottle of vodka by my side. Instead I climbed the steps and changed into an old T-shirt and shorts from bags I’d never unpacked. Then I set about cleaning up the mess I’d made.

  Several hours later things looked better, at least to an uncritical eye. The hardwood floors had been swept and mopped; the collection of coffee cups in the sink had been piled into the dishwasher. I pulled the trash bag from the kitchen can and found one source of the odor. Chicken I’d thrown in the can days ago was there, rotting. I dragged it to the outside garbage can without gagging. The wine and vodka bottles filled the recycling bin.

  My last task was to sort through all the papers in the living room and find that photograph before Russell had me committed. But after almost an hour of sorting and searching, I came up empty. It was gone. I’d even pulled the sofa apart and moved it. I’d done the same to my bed. Nothing. Russell would be interrogating me about it again, no doubt. And I needed to have some answers.

  Disgusted and tired, I headed to the patio with a cup of coffee. The back of the property line had been planted with trees, which gave the place the illusion of privacy. I needed an hour of peace to clear my head. Just then the phone rang.

  “Damn it, I thought I turned that off,” I muttered. “Please not Joanne.” I turned the phone over and studied the number. I didn’t know it.