My head was bowed when a pickup truck pulled up right in front of me. Before the engine stopped, I was on my feet, backing up, my hands raised to ward off whatever was coming.
An older man in a flannel shirt and a green cap got out of the cab, hesitating when he saw me. Then the door behind me opened and my dad shouted, “Jim! You found us.”
I turned to look at my father and then back at this new arrival, my body still tensed for flight.
The man, Jim, grinned at my father. “No problem at all, Bill. Enjoying that grandbaby?” He had a sheaf of mail and a newspaper in one hand and a cardboard box in the other. Now I could see the NJ Osprey Project decal on the back of his truck and the rod holder on the rack. This must be one of my dad’s fishing buddies.
“Sure am. And this is my daughter, Kacy.” Dad put a hand on my shoulder and maneuvered us both off the steps.
“Nice to meet you.” Jim handed Dad the mail and stood for a minute, looking at us both. “I can see the resemblance. You fish, Kacy?”
“Not if I can help it.” My response was automatic, and both men laughed.
Dad held up the box. “Well, I appreciate this, Jim. New phone. My old one just doesn’t hold a charge, so Charlotte ordered me this one. I was hoping it would come early yesterday, but you know, the minute you’re waiting for something …”
“That’s how it always is. Like I said, no problem. On my way. Sure you can’t play hooky? I’ve got an extra rod.”
“Next time.” Dad didn’t even hesitate.
“All right then. Just one more thing.” Jim went back to the truck and pulled something out, a glass jar with a big black bow. “This was sitting on your front stoop, so I brought it along.” He passed it to me. “Take care.”
But I didn’t hear Dad answer. I was holding a mason jar, filled with something like paste. Turning it my hands, I found the label.
I cried out and the jar slipped from my fingers, clipping the edge of the concrete step and rolling into the street.
A preprinted label said Friendship Starter.
CHAPTER
25
THE YOUNG POLICEMAN who showed up seemed unfazed by my frantic explanations about Lena and Brady and the FBI, but he wrote everything down. Jim explained how he’d seen the jar on my parents’ front step when he was picking up Saturday’s mail last night.
My dad kept shifting from one foot to the other, his arms folded across his chest. I knew how much he wished he could fix this, just step in and handle everything. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I’d come here to shelter from danger, but I’d brought it right to my parents’ door.
Even to my eyes, the little jar looked anticlimactic, but the policeman took it with gloved hands and dropped it into a plastic bag. Then he spent a long time talking to someone higher up. Where was his sense of urgency? This was a message from a killer.
Standing on the front lawn of this rented house, I felt so vulnerable and exposed. I didn’t know anyone here; no one was looking out for us. It was just me, my parents, and Grace.
I called Alondra for the fifth time, but it went straight to voice mail again. Emergency, I texted. CALL ME. If Lena had found my parents, maybe we weren’t safe here either. Nothing, not the apartment nor the utilities nor even the mail, came here in my sister’s name, but I didn’t want to take a chance.
As the policeman came back, I asked, “What did they say? Can’t you stay here or send someone to watch the house?”
He shifted from one foot to the other. “They said to bring this in. It wasn’t left here, though, so if they sent anyone out, it would probably be to that other house.”
“But we’re here!” He was going to leave us unprotected, and there was nothing I could do to make him understand. My dad put a hand on my shoulder, but I knew its weight and warmth was a false comfort.
This guy looked so young, probably used to straightforward speeding tickets and noise complaints. I knew the operator hadn’t understood when I’d told her about Lena. This wasn’t some random stalking or a paranoid delusion; it was a message from a killer. They should have sent FBI agents or a SWAT team, something serious. Instead I had a kid whose furrowed brow said he felt sorry for me, he wanted to do the right thing, but he’d been told to collect the evidence. “I hear you,” he said. “I tell you what. Let me take this in, and I’ll see what I can do.” He shook my father’s hand, nodded to me, and headed to his car.
I was about to shout after him, to ask how long it would be, should we move to a hotel, when my phone rang. Alondra. Finally, someone who could light a fire and get us protection.
She said, “I was on another call. Are you okay?”
“It’s Lena. She—”
“Lena is in Texas, Kacy. There have been some developments, but she’s here in Texas.”
“I know about the postcards, Alondra. But Lena left something at my parents’ house. The police were just here.”
“What?”
“She left a jar of sourdough starter. At my parents’ house! My mom and dad, Alondra.” I’d been holding it together, trying to appear credible to the police officer, but now my body started to shake.
“You’re not making any sense.”
“She knows where they live. And I called and called you.” Studiously ignoring my phone conversation, Jim waved good-bye to Dad and got into his truck. I didn’t even know where he was headed, but his little “no big deal” errand had ended up taking all afternoon and included a brush with a serial killer. I wished my dad would drive off with him, someplace remote and unfindable, out of harm’s way.
“But this is about sourdough starter?”
“Lena gave me some back in Texas, and when my dad’s friend picked up the mail, this other jar was on the front step.” I could hear it now, how banal and unthreatening this sounded, like all the stress had sent me around the bend, but I didn’t know how to convince her.
“And you’re sure it’s from Lena? Not just some neighbor or something?”
“Definitely.” I couldn’t offer the other jar she’d given me as proof; I’d thrown it out. I couldn’t point to her handwriting or a threatening message or so much as a smudged fingerprint, but I knew, knew, it was from her.
“And you reported it?”
“I called the number you gave me. They sent someone to pick it up, but I don’t think they understood about it, and about that picture I sent you, the one where I thought I saw Lena—”
“Kacy, I shared it with them. Take a deep breath. The feds are handling this. Lena is in Texas.”
“How do you know?” Dad was casually leaning against the front door of the house. He didn’t want to leave me alone out here, and that thought, that he was as scared for me as I was for him, pierced me. If Lena was really in Texas, we were safe here, and that was all I wanted. Just to rest together without fear. “Are you sure?”
She was silent for a minute. Then she said, “I’m going to send you something, and I swear to God, if I see it on the news or online, I will make you regret it.”
“I wouldn’t share it.” Please let it be proof that Lena’s in Texas. Far, far away from my parents and Grace.
“Okay. I’ll send a picture. Take a good look, then delete it. I’m not even supposed to have it, but I want you to believe me when I say the best thing you can do is stay put. Will you do that for me?”
“I will.” Send it. Send it now.
“I’m not gonna lie to you. I’m ninety percent sure Lena’s in Texas, but a few weeks ago I would have been ninety percent sure I didn’t know any serial killers. I’m going to call the FBI office up there. You need someone watching you, just to be sure.”
“I asked the cop who was just here, and he said he’d see what he could do.”
“Not good enough. Let me make some more calls. I know you’re going crazy waiting. I know this is hard, but if you just hang tight, I’ll let you know as soon as there’s news, I swear.” She spoke to someone out of range. “Okay, I have to go. Stay safe.”
“Wait …” But she was gone, and I was alone, and certain that eyes were watching from behind the curtains of every house on the street. After all, I was a stranger here, squatting in a sublet apartment, and the police had just left. Good. I hoped they were watching, and that if they saw Lena, they’d call the cops.
My phone buzzed with the picture Alondra had promised and a single word: Laredo.
Cupping my hands over the screen of my phone to reduce glare, I squinted at what appeared to be a security shot of a woman approaching the counter of a convenience store. Tall, broad shouldered, with her hair crammed under a baseball cap. A Skeeters cap. The color in the photo was washed out like a snap from the seventies, but her hair was somewhere between brown and red. This woman looked a lot more like Lena than the photo from Aimee’s feed.
And the time-stamped date was yesterday.
My shallow breathing slowed. Not Houston. But Texas. Laredo, five hours away from Michael. Almost two thousand miles away from me and Aimee. Right on the way to Mexico.
Could I believe this?
Maybe. I could picture Lena backlit on a beach, a sunset reflecting in her blazing hair, a margarita in her hand. Mexico sounded right.
That would mean we were safe here in this house. For now. But then this nightmare would never be over. Lena could always come back from her tropical vacation and get right back to work. Our home wouldn’t be safe, our friends, our family.
There’d be no end.
* * *
That night after pizza that nobody ate, Dad turned on the news. When the anchor announced, “New details in the story of a Texas serial killer,” my mother opened her mouth to protest, but then said nothing. Grace was in her bouncy seat in the kitchen. She wouldn’t understand anything she heard, I told myself. But it still felt wrong.
In silence, we watched the segment detailing the bodies found. Familiar places flashed across the television screen—the bridge I took to get to H-E-B, the new construction where Rachael had been looking at houses, my own street and even my own home—and over it words like found dismembered, buried remains, and grisly discovery.
Worse still were the pictures of the victims, photos taken in happier times. Marcus Fontenot in his military uniform, Shelby Jackson seated at a picnic table between two friends with their faces blurred out, Jessica and Damen Weber on their wedding day. The police had connected Brady and Lena to the abandoned-car killings, bringing their joint total to double digits. Together Brady and Lena had plucked these people from the side of the road or out of their own cars and butchered them.
And the news didn’t mention the man who’d owned our house before, or Sandy, or any of the people Lena might have killed in their own homes. Those deaths weren’t as grisly, but that almost made them worse. Sandy should have been safe, relaxing in her shower, but Lena had taken her life and for all I knew, no one was even looking at it as more than an accident.
My mother was twisting her hands together on her lap, the same way I did sometimes, and my dad’s mouth was a tight line by the time the program ended.
I stood up abruptly, and my parents looked at me like they expected me to make a speech. “I’m just …” I didn’t know how to finish that statement, so I gestured at the front door.
“Don’t go out alone,” Dad said.
“Just taking a look.” I cracked the door and peeked out. No sign of the police, no note or jar on the stoop. The sky was a brilliant cobalt, and the shadows were deepening.
“It’ll be okay. Just shut the door, babe,” my mom said over the opening music for the game show that followed the news.
I hated this. I hated watching my parents protect me, I hated leaving Michael alone. I was tired of being the fragile flower, the one nobody thought was strong or brave, the one nobody listened to or believed. I texted Alondra: No police yet. Is someone coming? Call me.
While my parents took turns shouting out answers in chorus with the contestants, I brought Grace into the bedroom to nurse her and put her down for the night. Once she was settled in my arms, I pulled out my phone and called Michael again.
Voice mail. Was he ignoring me? Maybe he thought I’d taken the easy way out, leaving him in danger. Maybe he thought if he pretended we didn’t exist, he wouldn’t miss us so much. Maybe he was hurt, or even dead. No, someone would have told me. But I felt sick and afraid.
Awkwardly, with one hand, I texted Call me ASAP.
Grace had one hand up against her forehead and the other flexed open, her tiny fingers spread wide. Despite the toxic mix of worry, irritation, anger, and fear, despite every dark possibility my mind could conjure, I could feel deep peace, untouchable, in these moments when she and I were alone.
But I’d felt the very same way on the night when everything started. I shivered. Would I ever feel safe again?
On my phone, I pulled up the article Rahmia had texted earlier. Studying the picture of Marcus Fontenot, I could almost conjure the day Lena and I had driven downtown. Like the other victims, he’d been part of a vulnerable population, but that hadn’t meant he was unloved or forgotten. His family knew he was missing, and they’d been working to bring him home. All the other victims had been real people with a network of relationships cut short at the moment of their death. Cut short by Lena and Brady, vicious hunters who preyed on the unsuspecting.
I dropped my phone on the bed beside me and caressed Grace’s warm head. I’d never be so trusting or unprepared again. I’d fight to preserve this undeserved peace, this uncomplicated love.
And my anger at Aimee, my wish that she “get what she deserved,” seemed like the petty thought of a child. Aimee had parents, I knew that, and an older brother. If the friendship I’d had with Lena wasn’t a total lie, then she might want to kill Aimee in some twisted solidarity. But human beings weren’t things to be smashed.
Grace relaxed, her rosebud mouth slack. I gathered her onto my shoulder, burping her with a gentle firmness, fighting the urge to clutch her tightly. If anything happened to her, I’d never recover.
And then my phone rang, and her body went stiff for a second as she startled. I shushed her, groping for my phone. A number I didn’t recognize with a Texas area code. A jolt of fear pierced me. Grace squirmed again, no longer asleep, as I raised the phone. “Hello?”
Michael said, “Kacy, it’s me.”
Relief at hearing his voice, familiar and unchanged, ran hot through me. “What number is this?”
“They took my phone. Alondra picked up this burner.”
“Who took your phone, the police? Why?”
He sighed. “The FBI. I guess they want to verify my story or something. It’s been a long day.”
I’d been imagining him safely in a hotel room, maybe watching football like my folks, maybe chatting with the cop protecting him. But instead he’d been back in the station under the fluorescent lights, being treated like a suspect.
“What happened?” And why hadn’t Alondra given me a heads-up?
“The same as before. How about you? How are your folks?” His questions had the easy flow of normalcy and routine, but this wasn’t the time for either of those, much as I longed for them.
“Loving the time with Grace. Did you get the picture? I guess it went to your phone. Couldn’t they forward your messages?” My last question was sharper than I’d intended. I couldn’t help thinking about all the things I’d done that Michael didn’t know. I’d been post-stalking Aimee, thought I’d seen Lena, had told Rahmia, Elizabeth, and Alondra, had gone to the museum alone, and had been thrown out by security. If he’d been sharing secrets that big with someone else, even his best friend, it would gut me.
“I’m not really in a position to make demands. They were questioning me for another couple hours at the station.”
“Alondra—” Alondra knew what was happening with my husband. But she hadn’t even given me a clue. She’d just let them grill him like he was guilty. She was supposed to be protecting him; so were the police. What was w
rong with them?
“Alondra was there. Apparently, Brady started talking, lying about me.”
We’d done everything right, told the police everything we knew, completely cooperated. They wouldn’t even know about Brady if it hadn’t been for Michael. Lies and secrets were poisoning everything. I couldn’t stop Brady from lying. I couldn’t make the police do their job. I couldn’t catch Lena myself. I couldn’t do a thing to save my family. “There’s no way the police would believe him—”
“I don’t know what they believe. They didn’t charge me with anything.” He lowered his voice. “But it’s not like I’m free to go, either. And they moved me to a different apartment.”
“Did Lena find you?”
“No, no.” He spoke quickly, but I didn’t believe him. “At least, they didn’t say so. I think they’re just covering all their bases.”
I should tell Michael everything, or at least that I’d seen Aimee. But then I’d have to tell him I had thought I’d seen Lena and I hadn’t stayed safely at home. The words caught, like when a hard candy gets stuck, not able to be coughed out, not able to be swallowed down.
Instead I said, “Someone left a jar of sourdough starter at my parents’ house. I gave it to the police.”
“Sourdough starter?” I should have known it would sound as stupid to Michael as it had to the cops. He’d spent his day at the police station, defending himself, and I was miles away making up stories.
“Like the kind she gave me from her aunt’s starter. But Alondra’s pretty sure she’s in Texas. Elizabeth got a postcard, dropped off, not mailed. And there’s security footage.”
“This is insane.” I could picture Michael running a hand over his head, ruffling up the hair the way he did when he was frustrated. “And you thought she was leaving your parents a message? Where is she?”
“I wish we knew. If they’d catch her, this whole thing would be over.” At least we’d be safe. If Brady and Lena were both behind bars, Michael and I could go home together.
You Can Never Tell Page 24