by Nina Laurin
She continues rambling, without missing a beat. “And they took it. They took it all. Can you imagine? Heartless people. It was her money, which means it was mine too. I could have used it around here.” Her gaze unfocuses. “For the funeral, of course.”
“Of course,” I say. Of course.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I thought Eli would initially refuse to talk. But on the contrary, he seemed enthused—especially when he found out I was writing a book. Sure enough, any attention-loving, narcissistic person would be elated to be the subject of a book. I don’t suppose it made a difference to him that the book was not exactly portraying him in the most positive light.
One of the first things he did when I told him was ask, petulantly, Will my sister be in it too?
I asked him how he felt about his estranged sibling. Eli Warren looked at me with surprise, which I suppose was feigned.
“How am I supposed to feel about her? We’re twins. We have the same thoughts.”
He didn’t elaborate further, only to say, I just hope she reads your book once it comes out. She’s a very bookish person, you know. I’m sure she’ll love it.
—Into Ashes: The Shocking Double Murder in the Suburbs by Jonathan Lamb, Eclipse Paperbacks, 2004, 1st ed.
Fifteen years earlier: before the fire
What did I see?
Andrea asks herself that question over and over. Was this because of the stolen money? Did Sergio hit my brother? Or did Eli fall over somehow? Did he trip? Did he drop something heavy? Did I fall asleep at my desk and imagine the whole thing?
She hasn’t asked Sergio. The thought never crossed her mind. Not so much because she was afraid but because no matter how she’d phrase the question, it would come across as an accusation.
Eli had made her angry. When she asked him, head on, he just shrugged. Then he told her, in his most condescending tone, to go do homework or something. The next morning, he wore his hat pulled low over his face, and if he had a bruise, she couldn’t see. That afternoon the bruise was there though. At least, a bruise. She tried to figure out if it was on the right side, tried to remember where exactly Sergio hit him, if he did hit him. She couldn’t.
Eli shrugged again and gave a lopsided grin. “If Mom asks me, I’ll say I got into a fight at school.”
He didn’t address another word to her all day. When they got home, their mother saw the bruise. She gave her son a look Andrea couldn’t read. There was no sympathy in it, only what looked like anger, with a hefty dose of fear. And doubt.
Andrea didn’t dare say a thing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I drive straight home, taking the long route to steady my nerves. I’m halfway home when I remember about the CD. Irritated, I stab my fingertip onto the Play button. It picks up right where it left off.
“Eli’s teacher sent him to your office?”
“Yes. The seventh-grade gym teacher. There had been an incident involving another student.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“For confidentiality reasons, I can’t mention any names.”
“Understandable.”
I grind my teeth. How am I hearing about this for the first time just now? I try to remember. I was too absorbed in my petty twelve-year-old problems back then: not having the right clothes to fit in, not wearing a bra when other girls did, not having the courage to shoplift that lip gloss I wanted. It was long before I noticed anything weird about the way Eli acted. Did something happen that winter? Did I hear anything through the middle school rumor mill? Not that anyone was in a rush to pass on the latest juicy gossip to me, the girl no one liked.
“In gym class, there was an altercation between Eli and another student.”
I note the careful, deliberately vague choice of words. It tells me absolutely nothing, and I understand that’s the intention.
“The other child wasn’t hurt, thankfully, so the school decided not to get the parents involved. The teacher and the principal sent Eli to my office. The intent wasn’t so much for me to evaluate him or determine whether he presented a danger to anyone else at the school but for me to give him a lecture. That’s not what I was told to do directly but it was understood.”
“Did you evaluate him nonetheless?”
“I had a conversation with him. Not a long one. But it was enough for me to get a glimpse beneath the surface, Jonathan.”
“The surface?”
“Yes. Clinical sociopaths—they’re cunning, even as children. You know this, I am sure. But for the readers, I’ll reiterate: The face the sociopath presents to the world is not his true face. Underneath the charm and easygoing likability lurks a whole other being, devoid of remorse or empathy. The sociopath’s victims will eventually see this other face, and the change is quite drastic. It can be extremely unsettling to see that mask drop, and at first, people are reluctant to believe it. They make up all kinds of excuses, try to explain away what they had seen.”
“You make him sound like some kind of werewolf or vampire.”
“That’s what a sociopath is, in all senses but the literal. It is that bad. And whenever the sociopath is forced to reveal his true self, when he loses control of his public perception, that’s when he can become extremely dangerous.”
“Do you believe that’s what happened with Eli Warren?”
“I did not evaluate Eli Warren after the fire. But that day in my office, I saw the true face of Eli Warren, the one his peers or other teachers did not see.”
I realize I’m clenching my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering and busy myself with turning up the heat in the car. But cold isn’t the problem. The fans begin to whir—more like howl—and hot air fills the car, too much too fast. Within moments, I’m sweating and have to crack open a window.
“Can you tell me about this conversation?”
“I can tell you the main points. My approach, in those kinds of cases, is usually not to threaten the child, be it with punishment, suspension, telling the parents—you get the idea. First, I ask for their side of the story and try to figure out the motivations behind what they did. And then I go from there. To be honest, in this case, it was difficult to imagine. But still. I wanted to give him a chance to explain himself.
“Eli sat there, across my desk, and his body language didn’t signal any kind of distress. No nervousness. No remorse that I could see. He was relaxed, looking around. As I asked him questions about what had happened, he’d shrug and then casually try to shift the conversation. This went on for maybe fifteen minutes, and then…Well, it’s hard to describe. I guess the best explanation is that he just got fed up. In answer to my next carefully worded question, he just shrugged and told me exactly what it was he did. He sounded annoyed more than anything else.”
I find myself thinking that it does sound like Eli.
“I asked him why he did it. To my dismay, he smiled, this big, sincere grin of a twelve-year-old child. He leaned over the desk and said, and I’m paraphrasing but the meaning is essentially the same, Listen, Mr. Ainsworth, you’re going to go to the principal and tell her it was a misunderstanding and I’m a good boy. Or else I’ll go home to my stepdad and tell him you touched me. And then I’ll show him where and how. Naturally, I was shocked.”
“I can only imagine.”
I pause the CD and focus on the roar of the wind in the car window. It’s cold and humid and smells like exhaust but I let it whip my hair out of my ponytail and around my head. I take a deep breath, clench then unclench my hands on the steering wheel, and—oh, what the heck—close my eyes. I picture my car’s wheels loosening on the damp asphalt, the car going gradually, gracefully off track, across the yellow line, right up until the moment it collides with the concrete barrier. I can almost taste the metallic blood in my mouth, feel the shattered glass and twisted metal, smell the fire. It’d be like yesterday but times a hundred, and faster, I hope. It’s so easy.
Then a long, hysterical honk snaps me out of it. My eyes fly o
pen. The first millisecond is a moment of mad terror, like waking up from a nightmare and not knowing where I am. But reflex overrides my deer-in-headlights brain, thank God—or my imagined scenario would have been a real one. I grip the steering wheel firmly, turn, and swerve back into my lane. The other car gives another honk as it passes me. My skin tingles in an almost erotic feeling. Inches from death.
I glance at the display on the CD player that reads PAUSED, my mind teeming with scenarios, some of which venture uncomfortably close to conspiracy theory territory. I remember Ainsworth’s curious but kind gaze. That’s why he left the room that time, I think, confused. Because it wasn’t anyone else—it was Eli I was talking about. And there had been a precedent.
Now I realize there was more to it than I ever knew. The knowledge fills me with an uneasy feeling. With resolve, I press Play.
“As shocking as it was, I managed to regain my composure. I asked him whether he knew what harm such a false accusation could do to someone. He just smirked at me—like he knew and he didn’t care. I have seen my share of problem children but I’d never seen anything like this.”
“Later, he made the same accusation about his stepfather, Sergio Bianchi. But the investigation concluded that there was no basis for that accusation.”
“As I’m aware.
“While in custody, he also attempted to make a similar accusation about you, Mr. Ainsworth.”
“Yes. Officers came to my home to interview me about the matter.”
It’s one of those moments that make me remember I’m not listening to the real interview—just a transcript. Because the actor’s voice is too smooth; it doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t pause for shock the way Ainsworth would have. The way any sane person would.
“What do you think Eli Warren’s motivations were in doing what he did?”
“It’s hard to say, Jonathan. I wish I’d had a chance to talk to Eli again. But what is certain, even at his tender age, is that he is a danger to himself and others—mostly others. Who can tell what he’ll turn into as an adult?”
“What do you think of the sentence?”
“I do not think it’s sufficient. Not by a long shot.”
The neutral voice on the recording announces the start of the next chapter. I don’t have it in me to listen anymore so I spend the rest of the drive home listening to random pop songs on the radio.
The town house greets me with stillness. The air is stale but I don’t want to open the windows. I go get my laptop and take a seat at the dining room table and then get up again to pace. I peer into the fridge, take out the two leftover slices of pizza from last night, and throw them in the microwave. While they’re reheating, I check my phone: a bunch of irate texts from Chris, which I delete—can’t face them for now—and a terse voicemail from Cynthia letting me know the funeral is tomorrow and I’m expected to come say my goodbyes at eleven thirty sharp.
I start to compose a text to Milt but then let it go and erase everything. If I told him what I was doing, he’d only try to talk me out of it, as any sane, logical person would.
I sit down, open my laptop, and enter Ainsworth’s name into the search field.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The next morning, I park by the funeral home a little past noon, about half an hour late. Yet my car is one of only four in the entire parking lot. This is not off to a great start.
And now I have to get through the whole thing without even a glass of wine to take the edge off. I’m edgy, too full of coffee and running on not nearly enough sleep. I should be somewhere else right now, I find myself thinking pettily. I should be stalking Ainsworth, shaking answers out of him. I should be looking for my brother. Should, should, should.
Instead, I’m here, at a funeral home that smells like jasmine air freshener. I should be up for some kind of record. I must bring my stepfathers bad luck.
There are more people inside than I expected. They must have parked elsewhere. I have no idea who they are. Most of Jim’s connections (I’m not sure the Boudreaux family ever had genuine friends) were the result of Cynthia’s relentless networking. And she then networked her way to a more-than-profitable divorce. Too bad the splitting up of assets coincided with the 2007 financial crisis, and the fancy house and cars suddenly turned out to be worth a lot less.
I see her now, making excruciating small talk with a tall, bony woman in a skirt suit. Cynthia is put together as usual, not a trace of the disheveled wreck from last night. But under her makeup, she looks gray somehow, lifeless, extinguished, and for the first time it occurs to me to wonder why she’s the one organizing her ex-husband’s funeral. Did she ever think they’d get back together? Did she hope until the end?
That would be the stupidest thing to hope for, and Cynthia has never been stupid.
I can tell the conversation between Cynthia and the woman in the suit has come to an uncomfortable lull so I decide to move in to the rescue. My stepmother looks away from the woman and at me with the same listless gaze. “Andrea,” she says. I can feel the woman’s curious gaze inspecting me, from my frumpy, hastily put together outfit of black trousers and sweater to my face, lingering a touch too long on the scar tissue visible on my neck. I bristle but ignore her. Instead, I take Cynthia’s arm and lead her away, with only a brief apologetic look at the woman.
I want to ask her if she’s all right but the look she gives me makes me reconsider. It’s leaden, unwavering. “Thank you for coming,” she says neutrally.
“Who was that?”
She shakes her head dismissively. “Someone from…back in the day.” When they still had high-society friends and hangers-on. She must understand what it is I’m really asking, because she adds, “No, he wasn’t seeing anyone. Or if he was, I don’t know about it.”
A heavy silence hangs between us, punctuated with the soft plinking of the sad classical music pouring from the hidden speakers. Their divorce, over a decade ago now, came out of the blue. One day we came back from school and Jim Boudreaux had moved out. Next thing I knew, there was a FOR SALE sign sticking out of the acid-green front lawn, and it just snowballed from there. We weren’t given an explanation. Or at least I wasn’t. Did he leave her for another woman, now that the political career wasn’t happening for sure and there was no need to maintain the family-man front? Did Cynthia find out about some fling on the side and kick him out? Neither of these would be terribly surprising.
Cynthia reaches and grips my arm above the elbow with unexpected strength. She pulls me closer and then makes a motion like she’s drawing me in for a hug. That’s when I smell the whiskey. Masked carefully by some violently minty mouthwash but apparent all the same.
“Men like Jim can’t be expected to be loyal,” she says in a quiet, steady tone. “I know that. A truly wise woman won’t make an unnecessary fuss over such trivialities. Remember this, Andrea. It’ll serve you.”
She’s nuts, I find myself thinking, incredulous. Cynthia never struck me as the type to forgive cheating. But then again, I’m one to talk. Or to judge. Especially her. The one person who deserves contempt here is lying in a nice, glossy coffin, cold and dead and safe from any unfortunate consequences of his choices.
I try to extricate myself from Cynthia’s viselike hug and feel a rush of intense anger. My fists clench, and I all but shove my stepmother away. She regains composure in a heartbeat. A couple of people give me looks, and suddenly I feel like I can’t breathe in here, in the air freshener and heavy smell of morbid-looking lilies that sit on every surface.
“When you get older, Andrea,” Cynthia says, “you’ll learn. Try to be more understanding with people. Appearances aren’t always real. Not everything is the way it looks.”
She manages to be both smug and condescending in spite of her advanced state of inebriation. Oh, the things I could tell you, I think, and clench my fists harder. All your understanding, all your retrograde bullshit would go right the fuck out the window. You’d be flipping tables of canapés and smashing
those flower vases.
I flee to the back of the funeral home before I give in to the temptation to say something. As I slip out through the back exit, it occurs to me that I haven’t seen Leeanne yet. And sure enough, she’s perched on a narrow ledge by the exit door. She’s smoking a joint that sends me into a violent fit of coughs.
“And here I hoped you weren’t coming,” Leeanne says.
“Same.”
She chuckles and holds out the joint. I make a grimace that must speak volumes, because she sneers and shakes her head in mock dismay. “What, it’s not good enough for you? And I thought—”
“Where the hell did you even get this stuff?” I say. “From a tenth grader?”
“If you have anything better, feel free to share.”
I wonder just how bad it would be to sneak around the building to my car. And then to just drive off without a goodbye.
“By the way,” I say instead, “your mom is completely shit-faced in there. You might want to go check up on her.”
“That’s rich, coming from you. At least she didn’t pawn anyone’s jewelry, did she?”
I groan inwardly for the hundredth time in the last twenty minutes. “I keep forgetting about that.”
“If anything, you’re the one who should be getting shit-faced. It is all your fault, after all.”
“You’re crazy,” I say, hoping my tone conveys contempt and nothing else.
Instead, she drops the joint, gets up, and crushes it into the ground with the toe of her shoe. She’s not wearing sweats today but her nice clothes, which seem to fit poorly over the ten or so pounds she’s gained. She jabs her fingertip at me, her gaze sharp and accusatory and not at all stoned. “You,” she says with another jab of her chewed-up fingernail. “Because of you he left. And because of you, he’s dead now. Happy? You always hated us. You hated our house, you hated me, you hated my family. It’s all ruined now, for good. Happy? You and your fucking brother.”