Now I stood at her polished walnut desk in front of the window, wondering where to begin. I drew back the curtain and looked outside. We hadn’t lived here long enough for me to accumulate memories. I’d left for college only a year after moving in. I was surprised Claire had stayed here after I was safely tucked away at McGill in Montreal. Her life was her own and I’d assumed she would move on, as she’d always done. But she stayed in Haddonfield with her sister and put down some roots—for the first time I could remember.
I dropped the curtain and looked around. The office was organized. I’d combed through the desk already and found nothing of interest. Files, tax records, bills, receipts. I looked at the closet door. Claire always kept it locked; I was so used to the locked door that it blended into the wall. I hadn’t come across the key. The thought had occurred to me that perhaps Marie had taken the key with her the day of Claire’s death. She’d come back to the house and stayed with me that night while I lay in bed, unable to sleep, listening to the sounds of the floorboards creaking—Marie moving about. If she’d taken the key, there was a reason, and I doubted I’d ever get it back. I twisted the heavy marble handle. It turned, but a bolt lock held the door firmly in place.
Joanne appeared behind me. “Lunch is ready. Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup and grilled cheese, mmm-mmm good . . . What are you doing?”
I kicked the door hard. “Trying to open this fucking door. But I can’t find the key.”
Joanne smiled. “I never heard you swear, Ava. I mean, other than in the courtroom. But it looks good on you. Can you say that in French?”
“J’essaie d’ouvrir cette putain de porte,” I muttered. “Merde, Claire.”
Joanne turned and headed down the hallway. “Keep it in English, it sounds much angrier. Come eat before it gets cold.”
I moved the soup around in the bowl, occasionally licking the spoon so Joanne would think I was eating. I pondered the possibilities inside that closet. I felt like taking an axe to it. And I could—no one would stop me. I’d be doing as Russell asked—digging, or in this case smashing, into a potential treasure trove.
“I got some bad news yesterday. I didn’t want to tell you, because I know you’ve got a lot going on.” Joanne was spooning noodles into her mouth.
I stopped eating. “What? What bad news?”
“It’s Russell.”
“What? He’s hurt again?” I felt a tingling in my hands and fingertips.
“Not like that. I should hurt him, though. He got engaged. To that little girlfriend of his over at Cooper.” Joanne took a big bite of her sandwich. “It made me so mad.”
“Ahhh. Not surprising. They’ve been together a long time.” I managed to smile.
Joanne leaned so far toward me, I had to move my chair back a little. “You and I both know that’s crap. You just had dinner with him and he does this? What the hell?”
I put my elbows up on the table and looked at her. “It wasn’t a date; it was work. I don’t even think he’s attracted to me like that.”
She took a bite of her sandwich. “Yeah, whatever. When is the last time you went on a real date?”
I thought about it. “Depends. What constitutes a real date? Like picking me up at my house, flowers? That kind of thing?” I grimaced. “My senior prom?”
“You forgot to count Luke Demaio. That was funny.”
I tried to smile. Luke was a lawyer. Not even a nice lawyer. He was one of those slimy types, and he accosted me one day and asked if I wanted to meet him for happy hour at Tequilas in Philadelphia. I said yes only because he caught me when I was feeling lonely and sorry for myself. Bad idea. He talked too much and then tried to have sex with me in his car.
“Stop.”
“No, because now that you let Russell get engaged, it’s going to be that much harder to get rid of her.” She tipped her bowl forward and drank the broth at the bottom.
“I let him? How did I let him?”
“You didn’t give him the right signals or the time it needed. You pushed him away and you didn’t have sex with him the other day.”
I laughed. “Just imagine how awkward I’d be feeling at his wedding if I had. Because he would be marrying her anyway.”
“Eat your sandwich. Skinny bones,” Joanne muttered.
CHAPTER 15
Russell sat at his desk. He’d promised himself he was going to stop, but he couldn’t. This case was the most fascinating thing that he’d come across in years, maybe ever.
After his dinner with Ava the other night, she’d driven him back to Claire’s house. He’d been zonked on pain medication and a few margaritas. So stupid to let himself lose control in front of her. Especially since he wasn’t so sure that the hit-and-run was just a random thing. He was losing his edge. But his head had been throbbing; he’d wanted a pain-free moment. The pill went down easy and the drinks easier. And everything that happened after that was blurred in an intoxicated stupor. She had been planning to drop him off at Juliette’s, but he’d put up some sort of fuss in the car, so the evening had ended on her patio with her opening a bottle of Pinot Noir.
She knew exactly where the grapes had been grown in France. She told him over and over again in French. He tried to mimic her, but he couldn’t get it right. She was talking and laughing, and the whole time he couldn’t stop wondering about her mother, about where she’d come from. Though the wine was probably superb, he didn’t remember a sip. He’d passed out and come to, the next morning, sprawled on the couch, shoes off, covered in a blanket. Ava had woken him with a cup of coffee so thick and dark he thought he was drinking bitter dirt. She was dressed already, had been outside.
“It’s my I-got-plastered-on-downers-and-alcohol-and-didn’t-go-home-last-night blend. Drink up.”
He’d managed to get into a sitting position without throwing up. His head was pounding hard just beneath his eye sockets, but somehow the coffee helped. He was up and on his way home in half an hour, feeling sheepish. Ava was pleasant and teased him a bit, but the truth was, it was an idiot move. And what was worse, he couldn’t remember exactly what had happened when they got back to her house. Not everything.
Days later he was still thinking about it. Ava occupied a corner of his brain and he couldn’t force her out. He was mostly thinking about the investigation, but more than that. It was the way she looked, carried herself, moved. Her sense of humor. Also, he had to admit to himself, her vulnerability right now. Seeing her sitting in that diner, weeks ago, so sad, eyes moist, was too much. She needed him in a way Juliette hadn’t in a very long time. He was going to figure this out for her.
“Are you still working?” Juliette came up behind him and put her arms around him gently. His neck was much better, still bandaged but not so painful. He looked at her hands. The diamond on her finger sparkled. She moved it a little under the light and giggled. “It’s so beautiful, Russell.” He smiled. It was an impulsive thing to do. He’d been pressured by his friends, by his parents, by his brothers, both of whom were already married.
But it was that night with Ava that had sealed it. She’d been talking away about grapes in France with that bottle of Pinot in her hand. He’d let her talk. He was just looking at her. She had on a dark-colored shirt and jeans. Her hair was down, falling onto her shoulders. He was watching her body move in her clothes, and he almost reached for her. It was the natural thing to do. But he’d caught himself. Sometime after that, his eyes had shut for the evening. He was hoping she hadn’t dragged him to the couch but he couldn’t be sure.
Things hadn’t seemed so difficult a few years before. When he was younger, he did what he wanted. If this had happened back then, there’d be no question that he wouldn’t have let himself fall asleep. He would have found a way to get her clothes off and worried about the fallout later. But maturity was supposed to be a good thing, wasn’t it?
He left her house that morning and went to see his older brother. Jeff was married, with two children. He seemed happy, stable. Russell
trusted his advice.
Russell sat in his brother’s finished basement, feet up on the coffee table, spilling most of his guts, until his niece and nephew evicted them so they could watch Saturday-morning cartoons. He didn’t tell Jeff the whole story. He didn’t want his brother to get stabbed in the neck. But he told him enough.
“Russell, you’re almost thirty-one years old. You’re not a kid anymore. This isn’t high school. Juliette loves you. You have a life with her. Everyone is just waiting for you to set the date.” Russell had listened and nodded. “You’re going to throw it all away, for what? For some girl you don’t even know? Because she’s pretty?”
“That’s not it. She’s more than pretty. But it’s not even about her. Have you been listening to me?”
“I heard you.”
“Maybe this has more to do with Juliette. Have you thought of that? Maybe I’m not sure of this marriage thing with her.”
“This marriage thing?” Jeff looked at him. “You’ve been together for three and a half years. You know by now.”
“So why do I keep thinking about this other girl? All the time. Why?”
“Let me tell you, wanting to have sex with other women isn’t going to end just because you get married, so deal with it now. Don’t do something stupid.” Russell was quiet. “If you let this woman ruin this, I don’t know . . . we’re going to have a hard time accepting her. Is that what you want?”
“Jeff, that’s not fair. This is my life.” He was starting to feel defensive. “If I don’t want to marry Juliette for whatever reason, because she’s changed, or I’ve changed, or whatever, that’s my decision.” He stood. “You, of all people, should accept whatever I decide to do.”
Jeff patted him on the back. “You’ll do the right thing. You know you will.”
He had bought the engagement ring the next day.
Juliette kissed his neck. He looked up at her. “I’ll be there in a bit.” She nodded and moved on, still looking at the ring in the light.
He opened the file and spread it out in front of him. He’d called in enough favors to get the whole Owens file. Reports, follow-up, pictures, notes. Every phone call the police had made five years ago was in there, every thought. Every detail available to try and figure out who had taken a Polaroid of the house, and why Ava’s mother had it. He got up and closed his office door. He didn’t want Juliette walking in on this. She’d seen worse in the OR, but that wasn’t the point. He spread fifteen photographs across the desk and stared at them.
The first was of Loyal Owens. He lay on his side on the beige carpet. Half of his head looked like red mush. He’d been hit so many times his skull had caved in. He had been a large man. Tall and probably muscular in his younger days, some of his former self still visible through rolls of fat. His khaki pants and green shirt were stained red with blood.
Russell rocked slightly in his chair and studied the seven photographs of this man. Every angle added a bit to the story. He had tried to fend off his attacker. He’d died lying on his side, his hands splayed open, as if still fighting for his life. There was a grimace on his face, his lips parted, as if he’d died midsentence, the words caught in his throat.
The second set was of Destiny Owens. What part had she played? Destiny must have fallen forward, hit from behind. Then she’d been struck again on the back of her head. There were no other wounds present on her body. Her car keys lay only inches from her, apparently dropped when she fell. Her purse was next to her, the strap still on her shoulder. Never touched by the killer. The side of her face, covered in blood, was visible in the photographs. She wore no expression in death.
Russell pushed his chair back and stood up. He paced the room in circles. He had to look at the pictures again. He was missing something. The killer had probably been in the house, either waiting or surprised by their return. She enters through the kitchen, is hit in the head, falls, and is hit again. He, for whatever reason, enters the house through the front door. He hears the commotion in the kitchen? He starts to head in that direction when the killer comes out. A confrontation? How did the killer get a man of that size to the ground? Or did it happen the other way around? He was killed first, in the living room, and then she came in later? The autopsy had been inconclusive as to the timing. The killings were too close together.
He needed to get ahold of the physical evidence. In conversations with Ava, she had never mentioned the possibility that these two people might be her biological parents. Possibly because the only thing connecting her to them was that Claire had stored the photograph in with her baby things. That and the inscription on the photograph.
If he could, he would do DNA testing on the two victims and then test them against Ava’s—see if there was any biological connection. But there was no way that was going to happen. This was all unofficial. Asking for testing would mean opening this thing up officially.
He stood and grabbed his coat. He needed to think, and he was better at thinking when he was moving. He would take a walk. He opened his drawer and pulled out his Ontario MK 3 knife. Then he loaded his Glock and slid it into his waistband. No one was going to surprise him this time.
As he crossed the lawn he made a mental list of everything he wanted to do. Get information on Ross Saunders, Marie Saunders, and Anais. Drive to Chestnut Hill to see the Owenses’ house for himself. Talk to people in the area. Suddenly, he stopped.
Why hadn’t he thought of this before? Running back into the house and locking the door behind him, he grabbed the phone and punched in a number.
“Charlie? Russell. I need a favor.” Charlie Walker was a lieutenant in the Haddon Township Police Department.
“Name it.”
“I’m looking for police records on a baby that was abandoned at the Holy Saviour Catholic Church in Westmont in January of nineteen ninety-three. Can you see if you can find out anything?”
“Nineteen ninety-three? January?”
“Female infant found in the annex just before Mass. January nineteen ninety-three. Call me tomorrow at my office if you find anything?”
“You got it. But I was here then, Russ, and it doesn’t ring a bell. I’d remember a baby in a church.”
“Well, if you find anything, hold it. Don’t fax it. I’ll pick it up. And please don’t mention this to anyone.”
“Gotcha.”
He sat down heavily in his chair. It took everything he had in him not to rush over to Ava and talk to her about the case. To sit with her on her patio and hear her thoughts, hear her voice, which, even though she was raised in the United States, had the slightest hint of an accent. And to look into those strange, clear green eyes and see her smile back at him. He saw her in his mind, her hair pulled back, her crisp white blouse gaping slightly, the swell of her breast just visible.
“Russell, are you coming to bed?” Juliette stood before him. Her dark-blonde hair was tangled about her head.
“Yes,” he mumbled.
CHAPTER 16
He sat at the back of the church so he wouldn’t be noticed. Most of the people he’d known growing up in this neighborhood were long gone or dead, so the chances of being recognized were slim. The lights were dimmed; there seemed to be a hum to the quiet. He drifted back to the years he’d spent here as a kid, his life controlled by the church. His mother, before she died when he was eight, had been devout, sometimes in this church six days a week. And if he wasn’t at early-morning Mass or Sunday Mass or involved in the Catholic Youth Organization or choir practice, he was in school, sitting half the day in this same pew with his uniform on, his head bowed, saying, “Hail Mary . . .”
The nuns at school had been cruel. He still had a scar on his index finger where his hand had been slammed in the desk. His knuckles had been slapped so many times with rulers they’d grown numb to it. His bottom bore no scars from the paddle, but many a night he’d been too sore to sit down. He was no different from any of the others. Loyal, who had been a particularly restless kid, always moving, was tied
to his desk one day. Bill had had his chewing gum ripped from his mouth by bony nun’s fingers, and then had his face slapped with the same hand. The humiliations they’d all suffered became part of who they were as adults. And though he was afraid of the priests’ and the nuns’ punishments, he was more afraid of his father. To go home and say he’d been disciplined at school would mean more beatings. Worse beatings at home. So he said nothing.
He’d had his confirmation in this church when he was eight years old. He, Loyal, Ross, and Bill screwing around in the back before the service started, nervous excitement. Father Jenson scolded them and boxed their ears till their faces were red, ringing with pain. They were sent to separate corners of the room, to face the wall and recite Hail Marys. Bill laughed from his corner and couldn’t stop, causing a cavalcade of giggles from every corner. They were beaten with a strap, right before the service. He could still see Bill’s red hair, laughing freckled face burning, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes. How—after years spent in the church, the daily Masses, Catholic school, the children’s choir, altar-boy duties—after all of it, Bill could have gone on to become a priest was beyond him. He never could figure it out.
But it was that night after confirmation, that’s when it all started. The four of them standing on the curb of Frankford and Allegheny. The streetlights had flicked on. It was dark, but none of them would be missed at home yet. In hushed voices they’d made their confessions. Then they’d started walking. All of them talking fast, over one another, interrupting and then repeating. It was the first time they’d spoken the truth they all knew, out loud. Loyal’s face was caught somewhere between anger and fear. Bill’s head was down, dejected. Ross, the stoic, pretending to be unaffected, was digging in his pockets for a loose cigarette he’d pilfered from his father’s pack. They became permanently connected that night, their brotherhood of little boys. And before they scattered back to their homes, they’d made a pact.
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