by Sherri Smith
“What the fuck are you saying?” Garrett’s voice thundered back at me. An angry, bone-splintering bellow. I flashed to something. Skinny G in computer club. An obnoxious group of eighth-grade boys sneaking in and unplugging his computer midgame. Garrett lost it. His face blazed red. He slid off his plastic chair and flung it at their ringleader, narrowly missing his head. It clattered hard against the wall. Garrett went for another chair. The bully, clearly panicked, backed out of the room. I’d thought Garrett would feel good about his retreat, but instead he sunk down and started hitting his head against the wall. A dull thud, over and over, until I got Mr. Arkin, who had to call his parents. I felt suddenly scared. In the deserted early morning I was alone with someone who could do whatever he wanted and get away with it.
I softened my voice cautiously. “I’m just saying, what if you’d been the one seen with her, talking to her when you shouldn’t have been, maybe if she’d stolen a kiss off of you when you didn’t expect it and someone saw? You could be in Lucas’s position this very second.”
“That would never happen. Where the hell are you hearing this shit?” Garrett hammered the steering wheel once, sounding off a weak honk. Followed by a breathy silence. “I would never plan a trip to St. Roche with a high school student. But Lucas did. Even you can’t write that off as misconstrued perception. You’re grasping at straws, Mia. You need to accept what this is and start telling me what you know and how you know it. You need to tell me where Lucas is.”
“And I’m telling you, you need to look at the Wilkeses.” Another thought hit me. If Kathy had bought off the guidance counselor, why not Garrett too?
Garrett made a blowing noise. “You’re a piece of work.” He shook his head once, like it was my loss that I couldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear, and pulled away from the curb.
We didn’t talk for the rest of the short ride to the station. Once there, Garrett fingerprinted me and took my picture. I spent the next four hours lying on a thin cot, bug-eyed and mind-fizzled, staring at the tiniest watermark on the ceiling.
20
DAY 8
WEDNESDAY
When I was released, Pruden stood nearby, cross-armed, and stared at me with slitted eyes as I signed some paperwork (the official reason I was put in jail was public intoxication) and collected my car keys. I wanted to yell, Really? I’m the one you’re worried about slipping through your butterfingers? Instead, I grabbed my keys and made a beeline out of there.
The PT was parked outside the station. In all of this, I’d forgotten I had Joanna’s file. I flipped up the car mat; it was still there. Of course it was; otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have spent the night in just the drunk tank. My bag was still zipped closed and parked on the floor. I didn’t know if it was a lack of a search warrant thing or because the WPD still had plans to surveil me and wanted to make me think I was in the clear.
* * *
Back at the apartment, I plucked Garrett’s GPS off the outlet and tossed it in the Dumpster. Inside, I sat on Lucas’s couch, bloodshot and grass-stained. My eyes felt raw, my jaw ached, I had an annoying ringing in my right ear. My arms felt and looked like they’d been through a blender.
Sounds from the pool crept through the window—children laughing, splashing. Someone was playing some headache-inducing club music. I took a Percocet. This time it really was for pain.
I scrolled through my call log and found Vanessa Lee’s number.
She answered after half a ring. “Hello?” Her voice breathy, excited.
“Hi, Vanessa, it’s Mia Haas. I’m wondering if we could we set up another interview? I have a lot to tell you, the Wilkeses—”
“Mia, what happened last night? Can you comment? I’ve tried calling you several times this morning.”
“Comment?” I was feeling that slight mental doziness that Percocet gave me.
“You’re all over the news today. Haven’t you watched?”
“No, I haven’t had a chance. I’ve been in jail.” I started in about how I was unjustly kept in a cell overnight, how my rights were probably infringed upon, but was interrupted by a muffled noise, like she’d covered the phone with her hand. “Are you recording this?”
“Oh. Yeah. Is that OK? It’s so I can be as accurate as possible when I write my articles.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
“So, can you comment about why you were at the Wilkeses’ home last night?”
“That’s what I want to meet about. Kathy Wilkes killed her daughter. I think she might have killed my brother.”
A pause. “Oh? What are you basing your theories on?”
“I saw Joanna’s medical file. She was hurt all the time. I think her mother was abusing her. The police aren’t looking into this. You have to print all of this.”
“How did you see Joanna’s medical file?”
“I went and got it.” Not a smart admission, considering she was recording the call, but I was past caring. “I have it here, and I can show it to you. You could see for yourself the frequency of Joanna’s injuries. Something else was going on in that house.”
“OK. Let’s meet. How about same place, in an hour? And you can show me that file.”
Vanessa’s voice had shifted to gentle and cheery, like a kindergarten teacher, and I knew she wasn’t going to write another article about the WPD’s incompetency or Lucas’s possible innocence. She wasn’t going to look at this file and publish a reproachful piece on the Wilkes.
I was her story now.
I sat there, mouth breathing into the line, trying to think but not thinking. The Percocet numbed my mind like a head cold.
“Hello?”
I pressed End.
* * *
I Googled myself, and a list of articles came up from newspapers across the Midwest. All with headings that closely paraphrased the first hit: SISTER OF SUSPECTED MURDERER ASSAULTS GRIEVING MOTHER.
There was a shot of me, a close-up. My arms were out at my side, midflail, so it looked as if I was posing in a messiah position. It was clearly taken when I was yelling at the cameras. My face was splotchy; grass was in my hair. And I did look crazy. I did. For a full minute, I wondered if I was. If the pills had made my brain go runny and soft. That maybe I couldn’t trust any of my own memories. That for me, reality was a multiple-choice questionnaire. That maybe I had pushed Mimi way harder than I believed, that I had intent to kill. That I wanted to crack her head open like an egg. What if I had her by the hair and I hit her against the counter, over and over, and just blacked it out because I couldn’t handle the truth? What if everything good I thought about my brother was invented? A see-no-evil head case like a wife completely oblivious to her husband’s child porn studio in the basement?
And then there was Eric. My most recent example of poor judgment of character. And any instincts I did have (if that sick, queasy feeling after I slept with him the first time could be labeled as intuition and not pure guilt) I quelled for a good time on his motorbike. What was wrong with me?
Even those things I thought were missing from the apartment—were they really missing, or did I move them and forget all about it? Had my brain gone that mushy? Sievelike. A few steps short of dementia? Was there a room next to Mimi’s with my name on it?
I dumped my phone on the coffee table. Slumped back.
God, I missed my brother. I missed him so, so, so much. This was agony. I felt like I was gasping for breath. Everything ached. My heart was wheezing in my chest, shuddering against my spine. I was scared, something beyond scared. I felt black. As if I were fading away, like a chalk picture on the sidewalk in the rain. He had made me feel anchored to something. To our upbringing, to our shitty childhood. We confirmed each other’s origin story. He was there. He knew. We were each other’s personal Rolodex for Mommy’s fault excuses. With a mother like ours, no wonder … we’d say to one another if we fucked up, as we patted each other on the back and tried again to be better people. No one else would know me like him, from beginn
ing to end.
I felt gutted.
Kathy had done it. Kathy and her son, Ben, killed Joanna, killed Lucas, and nearly killed me. Kathy had snapped last night. I could still feel her arm around my throat. She wouldn’t have stopped squeezing if Garrett hadn’t shown up. I would have died on their front lawn, and Big Ben would have tossed my limp body over his shoulder and dumped me next to Lucas, in our twin burial sites.
It had to be both Ben and Kathy. A mother-son killing duo.
I needed to find Lucas. I needed to know what happened to him. I needed a funeral and closure and to know exactly where he was, even if it was in a graveyard. And justice. I needed justice most of all. Then I thought about Zoey. Zoey and Ben. Their ages matched up. They must have been in school together. I texted her, asked to meet. She responded almost instantaneously.
OFF IN AN HOUR. MEET IN BAR.
I quickly jumped in the shower, brushed my teeth, tried to do something with my hair. I padded on a layer of makeup to conceal the bruises on my cheek and neck. All courtesy of Kathy. I re-dressed my arms and made sure to wear a long-sleeved blouse to keep them covered, cuffs left unbuttoned and loose.
I noticed Lucas’s hair gel and razor had been returned, but not the cologne. I blew out a gust of relief. See? I’m not crazy! They were sitting in a corner, between the toilet and the wall. So this was the caretaker’s apology? He still came into the suite without permission. Asshole. I needed to call the rental agency.
* * *
On my way out, I saw Dale Burton standing at Russ’s door. “More stuff is missing from my place, Russ, and I want it back,” he said. I thought of how Dale carried around a guns-and-ammo catalogue, and didn’t want to think about what the booze-addled caretaker was now packing.
Russ stepped out, his voice all wet squeaks. “I don’t know whatcha talking about.”
“Bullshit. You do know, and if I don’t get my shit back, then you need to pay me for it. Those were expensive hunting knives.” Dale poked him in the chest, hard enough that Russ stumbled back into his apartment. “You have two choices.”
Dale glanced over, saw me, gave me a told-you-so nod, and I nodded back appreciatively (confirmation of my sanity by an outside source was the gold standard after all). Turned back to Russ and kept talking in a lowered voice. Good for Dale, leaning on Russ. If I could, I would’ve joined him.
21
I sat down at the bar and ordered a coffee, black, from an unfriendly bartender who had a newspaper open next to a bottle of Windex. I could see my face in the paper, a close-up from the press conference. Stray watermarks made me look deformed. I watched the bartender pour my coffee; I couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t do something to it, like add a helping of Windex. He set it down on the bar, hard, so it splashed over the side.
I waited for Zoey who kept circling around a table of three guys in khakis and golf shirts nursing their beers, asking if they wanted anything more or just the check. One dewy-lipped guy, who I had pegged as a church pastor, delicately said no thanks to both. Finally Zoey flopped down on the stool next to me. “Fuck it, gave the table away. If they’re gonna milk a single beer for that long, I doubt the tip was gonna be much anyhow.” She leaned across the bar and had an almost flirty exchange with the angry bartender that ended with a joke I was pretty sure was at my expense.
I caught a whiff of coconut body butter, and I thought this was always how these girls smelled. Like a tropical holiday, all sun and fruit and soft beachy sand. He served her a large, sugar-rimmed glass of strawberry margarita.
“So? You here to attack me, too? I can’t believe you went after Kathy Wilkes. How are you even showing your face in public right now?” She took a long sip. With her other hand, she stroked her hair like it was a pet ferret. Had she always done this? Or had she developed this subconscious tic only after it became widely believed that my brother had chopped Joanna’s hair. Like she had to keep checking that her hair was still there. Proof of Lucas’s love because he hadn’t harmed a hair on her head. “He wanted to boot you outta here”—she nodded toward the bartender—“but I said no, she’s here to see me.”
“I wanted to meet with you because I wanted to apologize about what I said before. Lucas didn’t get anyone pregnant. I was wrong.” A lie, but I wanted Zoey back on my side. “And … and I think Lucas might be dead.” My voice went teary.
Zoey swiveled toward me, fast enough she almost threw herself off the stool. “What? The police found him?” Her bottom lip trembled.
“No. The police don’t share my belief.”
She clamped her hand against her chest—her breasts did not move—and let out a loud, brief shriek. “God, you scared me.” But her eyes had welled up with thick, heavy tears. It was the first time that I believed Zoey might have actual feelings for my brother, deeper than infatuation. I felt a puff of warmth toward her.
“As you know, obviously, I don’t believe my brother was responsible for Joanna’s death, and I’ve come to believe he isn’t on the run at all. I think something has happened to him. The police of course are not looking at it that way, and so I guess I’m trying to put things together on my own.”
“Like what?”
“Tell me about Ben Wilkes.”
“Big Ben? Oh, wow. I mean, I don’t know him all that well. Why? What d’you want to know?”
“You went to school with him, right?”
“Yeah. He’s quiet. Shy. I was a cheerleader when he played on the football team.”
“Was he ever violent toward anyone?” A profile. I could build one based on my TV wisdom alone. It seemed easy enough. I mean, everyone knew what to look for. Overbearing or promiscuous mothers, abusive or neglectful fathers … a profile that also sounded like Lucas.
“Oh, God no. Big Ben’s like a teddy bear. Just a real sweetheart. I mean, he’s a little touched, but that only makes him more gentle, I think. At one point, it became clear he couldn’t follow the plays all that well, and given his size, he could have just razed anyone on the field, but he didn’t seem to like tackling people. So he was spending most of his time on the bench, and I guess someone suggested he be the Bulldog mascot, and he just loved it. He’d put that furry dog head on and go out there and play the big goof. He was so good, he was seriously stealing the cheerleaders’ thunder. But then his parents didn’t like it. Thought he was being made fun of and made sure he was put back on the team.”
“Hmm. Did he do better then? With tackling?”
“Yeah, actually he did. A lot better. Why?”
So Kathy could groom her son to be violent. I explained to Zoey why I was asking about Ben. Her pert nose scrunched up.
“So you think Kathy Wilkes murdered her own daughter because Joanna didn’t want to move to New York with her, then had Ben help her frame and possibly murder Lucas as well?”
“I do.”
Zoey stared straight ahead, jabbed her straw around the margarita. I couldn’t tell if she was giving what I said serious thought, or was signaling the bartender to get rid of me. “Oh my God, you should talk to Carl.” She spun around on her stool, looking around the lounge. “He comes in here every afternoon.”
“Carl?”
“Yeah, he worked at Harold’s processing plant. He’s always going on about the Wilkeses.” She called the bartender over. “Carl been in yet?”
Bartender shook his head. “Not yet.”
Zoey turned back to me. “Talk to Carl—he’ll be here soon. Like clockwork, every day he comes in for a couple of beers.”
“What’ll Carl tell me?”
“Jus’ that he thinks the Wilkeses are evil. He lost three fingers last year working in their plant. He goes on about it all the time, hoping us girls here will take pity on him and give him a blow job or whatever he’s got going on in his head. He’s, like, forty and schizoid—as if anyone’s going there. Anyway, he knows all this shit about the Wilkeses. He’s always in before three.” It was quarter to two now. “I just can’t believe that my baby migh
t be dead.” Zoey licked the rim of her glass, and the sugar granules dissolved fast in her lip gloss. She grabbed the drink napkin under her glass and blew her nose.
The baby part jarred me, and it took a second to realize she meant Lucas. “So you believe me?” I asked, careful not to sound too incredulous about it.
“Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why would he have just dumped me like that?” And we’re back to why Zoey was dumped, but I didn’t care, so long as she believed me. Then she made this little startled noise, her eyes popped and her jaw fell loose, “Ohmygod, what if the Wilkeses threatened me too? I always felt like he was trying to protect me. Maybe he was protecting me from them. Like I said, I was supposed to go over after my shift that night and then I got that text, and that was that. I lied, by the way. I did keep the text he sent me. I just couldn’t delete it. As awful as it was, I kept it.”
“Can I see it?”
Zoey tapped and scrolled, then handed me her phone.
I DONT WANT TO BE WITH U ANYMORE. SORRY. I AM IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE.
“He didn’t write this.” I couldn’t see him dumping someone so harshly. He always made smooth exits, so whoever he was dumping believed they’d reached the decision together. If he did write it, it was to get the job done quick and effectively, like taking a chainsaw to an umbilical cord. And what was with all the capital letters, like he was shouting at her? In the box of school things that Eric dropped off, my brother had another classroom poster with a pensive-looking lizard asking, “What do people who type ‘Y’ and ‘U’ instead of ‘why’ and ‘you’ do with all their extra time?” Would Lucas use “U” instead of “you”? He was still an English teacher. So maybe he was protecting Zoey in some way? Or else Kathy or Ben used his phone to text Zoey and keep her away so that she wouldn’t walk in on them. But doing what? It’s not like they did anything to Lucas in his apartment. There was no blood, no sign of a struggle. How would they even have known that Zoey was coming over?