by Hayton, Lee
If she weren't careful, her mom would be hauling her to the doctor’s office, and not her pediatrician. It would only take her shrink a matter of minutes to coerce the truth out of her, the one person who’d always gotten her to talk.
Nicole put the baggie of soda into the zip pocket of her bag. She smiled, wondering if a spying teacher would report her for drugs. The brilliant white was indistinguishable from cocaine, except for the quantity. There weren’t enough men in town to shag her way into that amount of coke.
Her amused smile faded when she thought of Jeremy. He hadn’t returned her calls for a fortnight and first period was the only class they shared today. Except that Nicole had spent it trapped in a stall, so they hadn’t shared anything.
Next week.
If she got her nausea under control, she could corner him after class next week. Or just wait beside his bike until he finished up for the day.
Nicole’s face burned red with the inherent shame of that option. Out there on display for everybody to see. While there was still a small chance to escape this situation with her pride intact, she’d choose that option, thank you very much.
The bell for the end of first period rang. Nicole flushed the toilet again before opening the door and walking to the sink. An older girl with blonde hair was standing in the corner, confident thumbs flying across her phone keyboard. She glanced up, startled to see another person in the room, then hunched her shoulder and got back to work.
A month ago, Nicole would have felt smug. Just another dipshit texting a boy who didn’t want to know. Amazing how quickly that feeling departed when her own relationship hit rocky ground. Now she was the one sending hesitant messages that went unanswered.
The urge to binge had built up over the past week. If only Nicole had kept binging and purging all along, her periods wouldn’t have started again. This whole mess could’ve been avoided. The treatment her mother forced her into “for her own good” ironically made her healthy enough to sprout a fetus. Thanks, life. You’re doing a sterling job, fuck you very much.
“Nicole, you’re here.”
Mo walked into the bathroom and dragged eagerly at Nicole’s arm.
“I thought you were wagging. Quick, or Jeremy’ll be gone.”
Nicole faked hurrying while she dragged her feet. She wanted to see Jeremy, ached to see him, but she didn’t want her relationship to be over. If she confronted him and he dumped her, for realsies, there was no going back. Maybe she should hold off until after the abortion? Then they could talk without the fear of eighteen years of child support hanging over his head.
The bell for second period rang, and Nicole put a hand to her head. An echo resounded, tapering slowly. Another headache on its way. Great. A migraine could only add to the fun.
“I need my books,” Nicole said, and pulled her friend from the flow of corridor foot traffic over to her locker. “What do we have, now?”
“English.”
When Nicole turned to Mo, books in hand, she saw her friend frowning, biting at the cuticle on her forefinger. Her dry skin made them poke out when she pushed them back to apply nail polish.
“Stop it,” Nicole said and slapped Mo on the arm. They’d been through this scenario a hundred times before. If Mo got it between her teeth, it would pull away in a strip, leaving her bleeding. Mo caught infections like a Venus Flytrap caught insects. She just waited, and another one would crawl along sometime.
“What’s that?” Mo pointed into Nicole’s locker.
She frowned and squinted. The aura forming in tandem with her headache cut a pulsing zig-zag line across her vision. Nicole put her hand in and felt an object, soft and hard. Pulled it out. “It’s a bracelet.”
She slipped it onto her wrist and closed her eyes for a moment, holding back grateful tears. Jeremy must have put it in there, after class. The kind of small trinket he’d left her half a dozen times during their rocky relationship. He didn’t hate her, then.
Mo pulled at her arm, rough with urgency. “Let me see.”
It had a brown elastic base with feathers woven into it. When Nicole looked, she couldn’t see any knots or threads. She’d have to sew them in place if she wanted to keep it intact. Otherwise, they’d soon drop out. Christ. Jeremy must’ve made it himself, then. Even the cheap pieces of crap from the street market had higher standards of workmanship.
“We need to go to the police.”
Nicole shook her head and immediately regretted it. A pulse of pain throbbed in her left temple, spreading. She’d lost track of what Mo was saying. “Why do we need to go to the police?”
“Weren’t you in school when the cops came?”
Nicole shook her head with tired resignation. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
Mo sighed and let go of her wrist. Nicole rubbed it as though she’d been manhandled. “A couple of detectives came into Mrs. Sanderson’s class to talk about the murders.”
Nicole raised her eyebrows, what murders?
“They’ve found two teenage girls killed this week.” Mo shook her head and frowned. “I don’t know how you’ve missed it. The detectives came in to talk about being careful, not going out alone at night. That sort of thing.”
“So why am I going to the police?” There must be a thread of sense here, somewhere. Nicole’s head started to pound evenly across both temples. The aura flashed in time with her pulse.
“The girls who were murdered,” Mo said. “They were all found with feather bracelets on their wrists.”
The savage disappointment so soon after her relief, left Nicole breathless. She rocked back on her heels as though struck, fingered the cheap, nasty piece of elastic that cut into her skin. Too tight. Cutting off her circulation.
So Jeremy was still avoiding her?
The pulsing flashes grew brighter, brighter. Mo was saying something. Nicole could tell from the tone it was reassuring, and she smiled. Mo always made things feel better. When Nicole’s knees and shoulder hit the linoleum floor, it was like falling into a feather mattress.
#
“One of your schoolgirls is at the front desk,” Haggerty called across the squad room. “Go and see her, will you?”
Edwards cocked an eyebrow. “Was he talking to you or me, Collins?”
“Me. If the Captain been talking to you, he would’ve done you the courtesy of looking at your beautiful face.” Victoria’s cattiness earned a “meow” from Stanton.
“We can’t all be Haggerty’s favorite,” Arbeck said. “And let’s face it.” He rubbed his hand against the cotton of his shirt, then blew on his fingernails. “When you're in competition with the best . . .”
“Well, I haven’t been given that opportunity yet.” Collins earned herself another “meow” as she left the room.
The one schoolgirl was two. A tall blonde girl whose skin blossomed with acne and whose emaciated frame looked like she should be tucked up in bed resting, and a shorter brunette who was rocking a glistening bob. The blonde was staring out at the street, feet pointing in that direction. The brunette was nibbling at the edge of her finger, her skin blotched red at her open neckline.
Given half a chance, they’d bolt.
“Hey.” Victoria raised her hand in greeting as she walked to meet them. “I’m Detective Collins. I was just on my way out for a coffee if you’d like to join me.” She leaned forward to the brunette who seemed to be in charge. “The pot in the station house hasn’t been changed since this morning, and it was bad then.”
A shadow of a grin passed over her face. She pulled her finger away from her mouth, leaving a dot of blood on her upper lip. “Okay.”
“I don’t have any money,” the blonde girl said and turned to walk away.
“My treat,” Victoria said cheerfully and pushed past her to lead them both out the door. “It’ll spare me making the mistake of buying a donut.” She patted her stomach.
The blonde scratched at the side of her face, and Victoria saw a nas
ty bruise mottling her cheek. She pointed. “What happened there?”
“What?” Her eyes opened wide, then relaxed. “Oh, I fell. At school.”
“She gets terrible migraines,” her friend offered. “Had one this morning and just went—” she smacked one hand against the other.
“Do you need a doctor?”
“I saw the nurse at school. Look, I think that we’re just wasting your time—”
Victoria held up a hand to cut her off. “You made me come downstairs, so the least you owe me is a cup of coffee I can write off as an expense.”
“They let you do that.”
No. “Yes, if it’s work-related.”
The blonde relaxed, and her pace increased so she could keep step with Victoria.
“Here we go.” Victoria pushed open the cafe door and saw the look of disappointment on both their faces, the Starbucks at the corner holding more appeal. “The coffee’s better here,” she lied. The coffee was terrible, but it kept the place empty for semi-private chats.
Victoria paid attention as the blonde ordered a mochaccino—giving the name Nicole—and the brunette ordered a latte under the name Mo. She’d regret that. The café staff always scalded the cream.
“So, how can I help?”
The smiles from ordering turned to frowns. Nicole looked at Mo, gave her a raised eyebrow, and Mo jerked her head toward Victoria in response. After a silent tug-of-war, Nicole opened her bag and rummage in the bottom for something. Victoria felt her heart stop as she saw the feathers poking from the side of Nicole’s fist.
“Let me see,” Victoria said gently. When Nicole didn’t offer it to her, Victoria took her closed hand between her own and slowly pulled her fingers apart. The cheap elastic band had a fray of cotton poking from one side, and there were twelve taupe feathers threaded into its loose weave.
She didn’t have an evidence bag on her, but it would have been useless anyhow. Nicole’s palm was sweaty; any residue would be contaminated with it. The lab could get a sample, exclude her, but Victoria doubted there’d be any point. The others had nothing on them after testing, the killer was careful.
There were a few tissues in her bag, and Victoria used an aloe vera infused sheet to pick up the bracelet. She turned her hand, so it fell into her palm, tissue beneath. “When did you find this?”
“This morning. It was in my locker.”
The first two coffees arrived, and Victoria smiled a thank you at the waitress, then waited while she fetched the third. Once she was behind the counter again, Victoria folded the tissue and pulled it close to her. “Did you see who put it there?”
Both girls shook their heads, but Victoria felt a small thrill of hope. Schools weren’t dark alleys or abandoned shop doorways. They’d have surveillance going. Maybe even a CCTV pointing at the lockers. Keep calm. He wouldn’t go in there if he’d be seen. Sage advice that did nothing to stop the jump in her heartbeat.
“I saw your talk,” Mo said. “The one about your sister.”
Victoria nodded but kept looking at Nicole. Her face was down as she stared into her coffee, strands of hair falling across her face. Greasy strands. The girl wasn’t taking care of herself, though the Prada ballet flats with buckled straps said she could afford to.
“I was really sorry to hear about her dying.” The catch in her voice said she meant it.
Victoria threw her a tight smile. “Thanks for that. I’ll be happy if my talk stops another girl becoming a victim.”
“I ain’t no victim,” Nicole said. The words sounded like she’d stolen them out of the mouth of an uneducated TV teen. “Do you really think the killer would be troubling me?”
The pain on her face, scars from emotional absence more prevalent than her teen pimples, made Victoria bite her lip. How little did she think of herself that even a killer’s hit list was placed out of reach?
“I said it was probably just a boy at school. Jerking her chain,” Mo offered. Her frown told Victoria otherwise. That and the finger once again creeping up to be nibbled. “Sometimes they like to bully girls, like that. When they break up.”
Nicole shot a hurt glance across the table, and Mo colored and looked away. A recent break-up then. Obviously one still fresh enough to cause pain.
“That could be,” Victoria said. “Boys are idiots most of the time. But I’m glad you both came to see me. If it’s some jerk-off from school, then I’ll give him a lecture at the station, so he doesn’t try it again. The important thing is to keep us informed. That way, we can watch out for each other.”
She looked at Mo. “Now, if you heard me talk then what are the important things to remember?”
Slipping back from confidant to an authority figure.
“Don’t go anywhere alone and always let someone know where you are.” The tired cadence of reciting rote learning.
“Perfect. So, Nicole, if you’re heading out anywhere, no matter how safe it seems, you let Mo know and ask her along. Mo, you do the same.”
The girls nodded, but a frown crumpled Mo’s forehead again. Nicole was staring out at the street. Her eyes blank, and her mind elsewhere.
“I don’t mean to upset you with my next question, but are you pregnant, Nicole?”
The girl shook her head, dislodging the sudden beads of sweat that sprung up on her forehead. One rolled down into her eyebrow, like a misplaced tear. “Why? Who told you that?”
“No one,” Victoria said. “Don’t worry, I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just . . .” She tried to think of a rationale that wouldn’t offer them worry neither girl should have. “Just a line of inquiry.”
Mo gave a small cry, and when Victoria turned, she saw the girl’s finger was bleeding. She’d torn a strip of skin from her cuticle down to her first knuckle. Victoria pulled a fresh tissue from her bag and pressed it against the wound. The white spotted with blood, like roses in snow.
“Do you want to finish up your coffee and come back to the station? I’ll type everything up in a statement for you to read through.”
Neither girl looked happy, but Victoria coaxed them along. Once back at the station house she pulled an evidence bag off her desk and put the tissue wrapped bracelet inside, sealing it shut.
It could be a teenage boy playing a prank, but until Victoria could disprove it originated from the killer, she could hear the evidence ticking.
The countdown had begun.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Martia Halloway was taking a call when she saw the man. For a moment, she frowned, not able to place the face. Her conversation paused as she scrolled through her mental Rolodex: the country club, the parks committee, the neighborhood watch. None felt right. His image was associated with fear and revulsion, not the efficient thrill of meetings.
“No Sheila,” she said, returning attention to her mobile. “We can’t schedule it for a Friday night, or Bobby won’t be able to attend.” She laughed, the sound brittle in the mid-morning lull. “But he’s the one we want there. Without him, there’s basically no point.”
The man wasn’t dressed like someone in her circle of friends. Tie and shirt were the standard attire. Shaving was also a prerequisite. As he walked by on her left, Martia wrinkled her nose. Showering was also standard. Was he someone she went to school with? Why her father had forced her to go to public high school, she could never understand. Well, she could, it was spelled M-I-S-T-R-E-S-S, but she found it objectionable. Even three years after his death, God rest his soul.
On the phone, Sheila eagerly explained why it would still work, but Martia couldn’t concentrate enough to debate the issue. “I’m about to get in the car,” she said. “I’ll give you a call when I get home.”
She hung up without waiting for an answer. To keep talking would risk their friendship.
When she slid her mobile into her handbag, it snagged on the top edge of the inside pocket. Instead of slipping in safely, it fell down onto her keys. After fishing it out again, saying gosh out loud and goddamn in her hea
d, Martia saw a light scratch marring the sensitive screen down the left-hand side.
For a second she closed her eyes and imagined throwing it into the street. Insurance would cover it—there’d be a brand-new model sent within a week. Martia regretfully slid it back, inside the pocket this time. Insurance theft was still theft. If she told Bart, he’d offer her a screen protector. Sensible, but Martia hadn’t shelled out a thousand bucks to cover up the gorgeous shimmer of the screen with a five-dollar plastic shield.
Oh, she could place the man now. There’d been a kid in her elementary class. One of the Walsh boys, Martia could never tell them apart. He smelled revolting. He didn’t wash. Or his mother didn’t wash him. Whatever way around it was at that age.
Satisfied, Martia tossed her handbag into the passenger seat, then moved around to get in the driver’s side. The man was standing outside the high school, staring up at the windows. He looked angry.
Yeah, buddy. Get used to it. Having a teenager makes you angry. Try that when you also take the time to shower, dress properly, and put on makeup, then we’ll talk.
The man squinted as a shard of light picked him out in sharp relief, casting a shadow behind him onto the sidewalk. He turned his head away, and a memory slid into Martia’s mind. Staying at her cousin Robert’s because the kitchen was being done up, and she was allergic to the noise. A man had knocked on the door, introduced himself. She’d thought a sales pitch was about to start and raised her hand to stop him but was handed a provoking flier instead.
“Did you know that a registered sex offender has moved into the area?”
Martia tried to say she didn’t live in the area, but the stranger recited a suspicious list of facts and figures before she could draw a breath. He ended by pointing at the flier, ordering her to read it thoroughly, then walking away.
Bizarre. That kind of thing didn’t happen in Martia’s neighborhood. She’d talked to Bart that night and informed Robert that the noise of kitchen renovations didn’t bother her anymore. The next night she’d been back at home, knocking back the aspirin.