The two officers behind the counter started talking. The man who attacked Melissa was named Sanford. Had been suspended for drinking on the job, practically lived at a bar—a place called the Station—owned by a couple of retired cops.
He left with a smile on his face.
Valerie got up and left him sitting at the table without a word. Michael sat there for a few minutes before she came back carrying a wooden box.
“Here.” She plunked it down in front of him. “Open it.”
There wasn’t much inside. A nametag—the kind waitresses wear. Melissa was engraved across the yellowed plastic in loopy cursive. He recognized the old Wander-Inn logo. A picture of Melissa and Tommy—the kind one of them took themselves. They were both grinning, faces pressed close together. It looked well-worn, like it’d been handled a lot over the years. There was a scrap of paper that looked like it had been torn from a pocket-sized notebook. On it were three words: Make me ugly.
Puzzled, he dropped it back into the box. There was another scrap of paper at the bottom of the box. He picked it up and read it.
Leave him or I’ll finish what I started.
It was written in different handwriting than the other. He looked up at Valerie. “What’s all this?”
She rounded the table and sat across from him. “It’s Melissa. All that’s left of her.” She picked up her coffee mug just to set it back down. “I can sit here and tell you I don’t know what you’re talking about, that I don’t know who Melissa is, but frankly, I’m tired of the lies.”
He nodded. “You met her in Yuma? She got a job waitressing at the restaurant where you worked?”
She lifted a shoulder and let it drop, didn’t bother to ask him how he knew. “Yeah. I was working my way through community college with plans for interior design school in LA. She just wanted to support her brother and sister. We just clicked together, you know? You ever have a friend like that?” She looked at him. “I suppose not.”
He ignored that and lifted the scrap of paper. “She tell you why she left Jessup?”
“Sure. She got a little too flirty with her mother’s boyfriend, and he decided to take her up on her offer. Melissa got cold feet, but the guy wasn’t hearing it. She fought back and he tuned her up. She decided to involve the law—her daddy—and rather than see her man strung up, her mother kicked her to the curb and tossed the twins out after her. Then she and the guy took off for parts unknown, never to be seen again.” She cracked a humorless smile. “Did I tell it right?”
He nodded. He’d heard the story plenty of times over the past year. When he asked Lucy about it, it was the one thing she refused to talk about. “But that’s not what happened.” He tossed the scrap of paper on the table between them.
“No. That is what happened. Sort of.” She tipped her chin at the scrap. “The boyfriend came at her because he was a raping pig, not because she asked for it.”
“Pete Conners tried to rape her?” He said it quietly but the calm delivery must’ve sounded as forced as it felt because for just a second, she looked afraid—like she suddenly realized that he wasn’t someone she should’ve invited into her home.
“If Pete Conners was her mom’s boyfriend, yes.”
Lucy’d never mentioned it. Surely something like that would’ve been worth mentioning—that her daughter’s boyfriend had tried to rape her granddaughter a few days before she disappeared.
“But that’s not why she left.” Val changed the subject, reached into the box, and pulled out the picture of Melissa and Tommy.
“She loved him. Pined for him. Called her grandmother every day to ask about him. Was he okay? Did he hate her for leaving? The answer was yes to both.”
“Can you blame him, Valerie? He got stabbed and beat near to death over her only to find out she was a whore just like her mother. And then she took off rather than face the mess she’d caused.” He didn’t really believe what he was saying, was only trying to bait her, but she just smiled.
She dropped the picture and picked up the scrap of paper on the table between them. “He’d asked her to marry him, and she said yes. They had plans to leave Jessup together. No amount of gossip or speculation would’ve made her leave him.” She flashed him the scrap.
Leave him, or I’ll finish what I started.
“She left him to save his life.” Val dropped the piece of paper in to the box along with the picture and shut the lid.
Thirty-nine
Sabrina stared at the box. It was smaller than she thought it would be: a four-inch cube wrapped in red paper with colorful balloons dancing along its surface. It was tied with the same red satin ribbon he’d tied around the girl’s wrist. Attached to the ribbon was the same kind of gift tag. She swallowed hard. She didn’t want to touch it. She could still see the girl’s battered face, empty sockets aimed straight at her.
The box was big enough to hold a pair of eyes.
She looked up. Strickland was sitting at his desk, ignoring her. His desk was a mess again.
He was obviously still angry. She looked back down at the box. She’d put it in an evidence bag—
“Thought you already had a birthday.”
She looked up to find him glaring at her. The glare faltered when he got a load of her face, like his resolve against her was momentarily weakened, but he didn’t ask her what happened. She was sure he already knew. Gossip spread quickly among cops.
“I did. In July.” She chewed on her bottom lip.
“You okay?” The glare eased up a bit more.
She hesitated. She needed his help, and to get it she was going to have to play it straight. She shook her head. “No, I’m not.”
He rolled his chair over and dropped down in it, close enough to whisper. “Then let me help you. Tell me what’s going on.”
She shook her head again. “I can’t. Not here.”
He muttered a curse, started to pull away from her.
“But you’re right. Something’s going on with that guy, Michael …
and the dead girl I found in the park.” She said it all in a rush, before she came to her senses.
He nearly shot out of his seat, she had to reach over and grab his arm to keep him in his chair. “Did he kill her?”
“No.” She let her gaze fall to the box on her desk. He looked at it, vibrating like a divining rod when comprehension finally struck. Same red ribbon. Same gift tag.
“Is this evidence?”
“Probably.”
“We should bag it.”
She nodded, used an evidence bag to scoop it off her desk. She turned to drop it in her bag, but Strickland stopped her.
“You expect me to let you leave this building with uncataloged evidence in an open murder investigation without so much as an explanation?”
She looked him in the eye. “I expect my partner to trust me and back my play.”
He gave a low whistle. “Wow … you fight dirty, Vaughn.”
“I’ll explain everything—I swear. I just need a little time to figure some stuff out.”
“How much?”
She had no idea. It all depended on how much she could find out and how long it took her to put it all together. “Did you run her prints?”
Strickland worked his jaw for a second or two, probably trying to decide whether to answer her or tell her to fuck off. “Yeah. She popped as a potential runaway from El Paso. Kaitlyn Sawyer. Been missing four days.”
El Paso. Made sense if he was driving, and four days gone fit the time frame of how long Lucy’d been missing. “Has the coroner’s office called about the autopsy yet?” she said.
“Black called about a half hour ago. Said she’s knee-deep in autopsies but that ours made it to the front of the line because of the brutal nature of the injuries inflicted on the victim. Autopsy is set for nine tomorrow morning.” He swiped a hand over
his face and looked like he wished he never met her. It stung. “I want specifics, Vaughn. A specific time and place where you’re going to tell me what’s going on because, I gotta tell you, this is it. I’m at the end of my rope with you.”
“I’ll explain everything tomorrow after the autopsy. I’m gonna be your plus one.”
The puzzle pieces were falling into place, but they seemed to be in endless supply. The more pieces he fit together, the more confusing the picture grew. Michael stood, needing to move around before he got mired in the past. He snagged the coffee pot and topped off his mug. He did the same for Valerie without asking. He put it back and sat down.
“Did she tell you what happened the night Tommy was attacked?”
“If Sabrina wants you to know about that, she can be the one to tell it.” She pushed the box aside.
“Okay. Then tell me about the night she disappeared.”
Val was quiet. He began to think she wouldn’t answer him, but she did.
“It was her birthday. Some of us brought in a cake and sang to her. After work, I was supposed to give her a ride home, but I had a date, and I—I couldn’t.” She faltered, cleared her throat. Took a deep breath and started again. “I let her walk. It would’ve taken me less than ten minutes to drive her home, but I let her walk. She never made it home. She was just gone and nobody knew where or how. All that was left was that damn birthday cake she’d dropped in the street when he grabbed her.” Her voice broke, the guilt and sorrow she still carried after all these years were like a length of stones draped around her neck, her head bowed beneath their invisible weight.
“You blame yourself?” It was a ridiculous notion, one she clearly clung to.
She shrugged. “She was gone—stayed gone for eighty-three days and every single one of them was my fault.” There was no arguing with her. He knew that kind of conviction, that absolute certainty that you were to blame. It stared back at him every time he looked in the mirror.
“A priest found her.” It wasn’t a question, he’d read the police reports, seen the crime scene photos of the blood-soaked bench she’d been draped over.
She nodded. “He called 911. When they arrived, the paramedics thought she was dead but when they checked her eyes, her pupils were still reactive. They rushed her to the hospital. It took seventeen hours of surgery to repair the damage.” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “They removed three feet of intestine. She had a lacerated liver, a punctured lung. Every bone in her face was broken—both her arms, one of her legs. He stabbed her fourteen times, obliterated her uterus. She had to have a full hysterectomy.” She paused, took a shuttering breath. “She should’ve died—it would’ve been more merciful if she had. When she finally woke up, she opened her eyes, and I could see it: Melissa was gone.”
He didn’t have to ask, he knew what she meant, had thought the same thing himself. “They fixed her face.”
“Yeah. They flew in a plastic surgeon from Boston who specialized in facial reconstruction. I gave him pictures of what she looked like … before. He told her that he couldn’t make her look exactly like that, but he’d come close. He promised to make her beautiful again.” She laughed. “Do you know what she told him? She said make me ugly.” She rolled her eyes. “She couldn’t actually say anything, her jaw was wired shut. She wrote it.” She jerked her chin at the box. The scrap of paper he’d seen suddenly made sense. “The poor guy looked like she asked him to perform her surgery drunk and blindfolded.” She gave him a shrug. “That was when I knew that she was gone for good and there’d be no getting her back.”
“But you stuck around? Why?” he said.
“Everything is different: her voice, her face, the way she takes her coffee. But sometimes I still see Melissa in the little things. The way she ties her shoes, the way she eats her French toast. Sometimes I think that having her so close but still gone makes it impossible for me to ever really let her go.” Valerie smiled. “She makes a lemon pound cake every year … it used to be Melissa’s favorite. She never eats it; I end up throwing half of it away, but she still makes it. Can’t cook for shit, but she can bake.” Her eyes filled with tears and she let them drift to the counter. “Sometimes, when I really miss Melissa, I’ll go upstairs and watch her get ready for work, just so I can see her tie her shoes. Or I’ll make French toast just so she’ll put peanut butter on it.” She looked at him and smiled. “Crazy, right?”
“Not crazy—lucky.” He paused, wondered if he should continue. As soon as he told her why he was here, she’d throw him out, but he figured it didn’t matter anymore. “The man who killed Melissa killed my sister a year ago. He’s still out there, and I came here to ask Sabrina to help me find him,” he said quietly. Valerie stared at him while he waited for her to find her voice.
“What did she say?”
Before he could tell her that she’d told him to go to hell, a voice spoke from the doorway.
“I said yes.”
He turned to see Sabrina standing there, looking at them. He had no idea how long she’d been there, or how much she’d heard. Her face was a mess, the skin above her eyebrow split open. The right side of her jaw was puffy and swollen. He didn’t have to ask. He knew who did it. He put Sanford on his to-do list.
She looked at him and nodded her head. “I’ll do it. I’ll go back with you.”
Through the determination, fear shone plainly on her face. Suddenly, taking her back to Jessup was the last thing he wanted to do.
Forty
The place was crowded for a weekday afternoon—noisy with the constant clack of pool balls and Hank Williams’s country twang. He pushed his way in and headed for the bar. It was the kind of place where beer came in a bottle and ordering an Appletini would get your ass kicked. He snagged an empty stool and gave the bartender a nod. “Beer. Jack chaser.”
A bottle of Bud was all but tossed at him along with the Jack. “Eight bucks,” the bartender said. He threw a ten on the bar and downed the Jack. He nursed the beer and waited. He didn’t have to wait long.
Sanford showed up, coming through the back door like he owned the place. He took the stool closest to the door he’d just come through. Without being asked, the bartender slapped a glass in front of him and gave him a long pour of something brown. Sanford downed it like he was dying of thirst, and the bartender hit him again before walking away. This one he took his time with. He stared into his glass between sips, like a gypsy reading tea leaves. Every now and again he’d drain it, and the bartender would come back. After the fourth or fifth trip, the bartender gave up and just left the bottle. Before long, Sanford was totally wasted, his shoulder slumped against the wall his stool was butted up against.
He couldn’t help but think of the last guy who thought it was okay to touch what belonged to him. Not that dumb cocksucker Tommy—no, he’d gotten lucky and lived. He was thinking about the one in Yuma … what was his name? Andy. That’s right—his name had been Andy.
Ol’ Andy made a lot of mistakes that night, the first being he decided he needed pancakes after a long night of hard drinking. He and his pals rolled into the greasy spoon his Melissa was working at and ordered up breakfast. Then Andy made mistake number two.
He grabbed her ass.
After finishing breakfast, he and his friends left. He’d followed them for hours. From Yuma to some little bend in the road that was nothing more than a gas station and a roadside stand that sold Mexican insurance to border-crossers. They pulled into the gas station, and Andy disappeared around the back of the building. His third and final mistake was forgetting to lock the bathroom door.
He’d cornered him in the stall and asked him his name, the tip of his knife pressed into the vulnerable flesh beneath his eye. The kid’s eye rolled in its socket, skittered away like it was trying to make a run for it. Andy stammered his name out right before he stabbed him—one thrust at an upward angle. He drove
the blade deep under the rib cage, puncturing his lung, making it impossible to call for help. He let him fall to the floor, blood pouring from the single wound. His face was mashed against the dirty tile, lips puckered, moving like a fish out of water. He looked surprised, like he didn’t understand the why of what’d happened.
“Someone needed to teach you some manners, Andy. You can’t just go around touchin’ what don’t belong to you,” he said, but the kid still looked confused. His mouth was still moving, making a hissing sound. It took him a second to understand what he was trying to say. He reached out and gave the kid a hearty clap on the shoulder. “It’s alright—I accept your apology,” he said.
Stepping on Andy’s forearm, he pinned it to the floor. He wrapped his gloved hand around the kid’s wrist, jerked up, hard—snapping it in two. He used the saw-toothed edge of his knife to hack through the meat of his arm. He took it with him when he left.
He looked at Sanford’s whisky-bloated face, then down to the hand he kept wrapped around his glass of brown liquor. The knuckles were swollen, scraped from where they’re rammed into Melissa’s face over and over. Sanford was sporting a few bruises and his nose was nothing but a wad of angry red meat slapped on his face, but it wasn’t enough. He drained his beer and stood, walked over to where Sanford was slumped over.
It was time to teach him some manners.
Forty-one
“No. You’re not leaving. I won’t let you.” Val sat on the sofa—arms crossed over her chest, a mutinous glare pointed her way. Once the plan was formed—once she’d agreed out loud to leave with Michael—she knew Valerie would give her trouble, but this was ridiculous.
Sabrina sat in the chair opposite the sofa, elbows braced on her knees, head buried in her hands. She threw a look at Michael. He was leaning against the far wall, hands dug in his pockets, staring at the floor. He glanced up at her then bounced a look between her and Val. Finally his gaze settled on her. His eyes said nothing she didn’t already know. Putting distance between her and her family was crucial to their safety.
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