Nowhere Girl
Page 32
I threw my arms around Patrick’s neck. “Oh, thank God.” I hugged him hard, but he stiffened with my touch. I pulled back. “What?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
“They still have to charge him with failure to report a death.”
“Will he go to jail for that?”
Patrick dropped his eyes. “It’s a misdemeanor in the fourth degree. There’s no jail time. Just a fine.” He stabbed the eggs with a fork and brought them to my lips as if I were a baby he was trying to feed. I took the fork from him and put it back on the plate. “It’s okay, Cady; it’s over.”
“It’ll never be over.”
“You finally know what really happened to Savannah. Doesn’t that change everything?”
“Did you know I tried to kill myself because of her?”
“What?” He grabbed my hands as if I might do it again right then. “God, Cady, no.”
“It was about a year after she died, and I didn’t want to live anymore hating my life, hating who I was without her, knowing I’d never see her again, that her case would never be solved, that some lunatic was trotting around with his wife and kids with my sister’s death in the lines on his face and in the tone of his voice. Breathing was too much effort. Opening my eyes in the morning without my sister was too painful. It literally hurt to push myself through the motions of eating and talking and smiling like my fucking life was okay with me.”
In the quiet of a house I hated, I told Patrick what happened. He knew that I’d begun cutting myself after Savannah’s murder, but he didn’t know that when I was seventeen and it didn’t ease the pain anymore, I’d begun researching, which was my custom; it was what I did best. I’d learned that slitting my wrists wasn’t guaranteed, even if I made the cuts vertical and got in a hot bath to encourage circulation. And too many people survived swallowing pills. I didn’t want to shoot myself; I was vain enough to want to look good, as good as I could in my size-twelve funeral dress in an open casket. And I hadn’t wanted my parents to have to clean up too much. Cutting had become a friend to me. It’d comforted me, taken care of me. It took away the constant sting of my life the way a glass of wine soothed frazzled nerves. It was fitting that it serve me one last time. One Saturday night, I found out from a boy in South Dakota who called himself Leviathan that the carotid was the answer. Deep into the night, with only my laptop on for light, he wrote me that if I got the carotid just right, it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes, and then the coroner would be able to stitch me up like new.
I decided to do it on a Friday. I hated Fridays, the weekend looming ahead like a big building with nothing in it. My parents were gone most Fridays, prepping the restaurant for the weekend, so I went into their medicine cabinet and took one of my father’s straight razors. He was so old-fashioned.
All day during school, I thought about what I would write in my suicide note. I owed my parents that much. I couldn’t have them blaming themselves for the rest of their lives. But over and over, during European history and chemistry, I could only come up with one word. Savannah. And then I knew. I didn’t need a note. No one would wonder if I’d had a secret breakup with a boy or had failed a class. They’d all know: it was too hard to live without my sister.
The most important thing was not to give myself away. I didn’t want someone catching on, calling the cops or having my parents get worried and stay home from the restaurant. I just wanted it done. The void of Savannah couldn’t be filled, but it could be dismissed, annihilated. When I got off the bus, I called my mom at work to let her know I was home and doing homework. I laid out my schoolbooks on the kitchen table and went to my room.
But my mother had come back, because the pipes had frozen at the restaurant, and my father had told her to get a hairdryer so he could warm them slowly without them bursting. It had been one of the coldest winters on record in New Jersey. I was unconscious when she found me, but because my head was turned to the side, she didn’t immediately see the cut. Later that night in the hospital, I overheard her talking to Dr. Bassett. She said when she put her ear to my chest to feel for a heartbeat, she smelled a metallic, tangy odor. Blood. And then she was on the phone with a 911 operator, who was telling her to use a pillowcase to put pressure on the wound. In the quiet of my hospital room, my mother told the doctor that when the paramedics got there, the look that crossed between them told her I was already dead. She begged them to save me, telling them that my twin had been murdered and she couldn’t go through it again. As I was slipping away, so close to Savannah that I could smell her honey shampoo, two young-faced, well-meaning men ruined my life by saving it.
It was music that made my mother check on me. I hadn’t turned on my radio; that’s what gave me away. I had always said I couldn’t live without music. And no matter what, I had the radio on or a CD going when I was in my room or doing homework. My high-honor grades had proven time and again that I concentrated better with background noise. But that Friday afternoon, I couldn’t decide what song I wanted to be my last—something upbeat like Sugar Ray’s “Every Morning” or something melancholy like Candlebox’s “Far Behind.” I decided to go without. When my mom came home for the hairdryer and didn’t hear any music coming from my room, some divine motherly instinct told her to get upstairs and check on me.
“So there you have it,” I said when I was done.
Patrick kissed my forehead. “Thank God your mother came home,” he said.
But it occurred to me then for the first time that it wasn’t my mother. “I’m sure it was Savannah. She sent my mother back. She saved me.”
He squeezed my hand. “Savannah loved you.”
“I know. She couldn’t save herself. But she saved me.” We didn’t speak for a long while until finally I said, “I remember so clearly the moments before my mother found me. I was with Savannah. I could smell her perfume, and the space I was in was so bright. I remember thinking she was the sun pulling me to her.”
Patrick had tears in his eyes. He pulled me to his chest and whispered into my hair, “Savannah may be a star in the sky now, but you’re the sun, Cady. You’re the sun.”
EPILOGUE
I left Greg right after I’d found out about Brady. He’d gone away for three weeks and come home to a woman neither he nor I recognized. There was no drama, no hurt words; it was as if we were roommates whose lease was up and it was time for us to move on. Gabby gave up her apartment and moved in with my brother at the same time I was cleaning out my house. My parents had flown up and had helped me move. I’d called them after Brady had gone to the police. I couldn’t talk because I was crying so hard, begging them to forgive me, but they’d said there was nothing to forgive. I just did what any girl who had loved her sister would have done.
David and Gabby offered me their guest room, but they were still in the early stages of their relationship, and I told them the truth when I said that I didn’t think I could stand to be around that much happiness. After we split, Greg called to tell me he was seeing Annika. He didn’t want me to hear it from anyone else. Although I’d suspected it for a long time, I had thought I’d be bothered by the news. That I wasn’t confirmed what I already knew: I was happier without him. And in a strange way, I was happy for them. He deserved someone who would love him more than I did.
Having given the house to Greg and not wanting to live with David and Gabby, I moved in with Chandler and Odion, took the guest room across the hall from Mads’s room and let her paint my toenails a different shade of pink every day.
The DA charged Brady with failure to report a death, an unclassified misdemeanor whose only penalty was a thousand-dollar fine. Despite Brady turning himself in and telling the police he was responsible for Savannah’s death, there was no evidence that he knew that she had autoerotic asphyxiation devices or had knowledge that she was going to use them.
Patrick got me into the courtroom when Brady was charged. He told me it was no big deal and, after writing a check, Brady would be done with the proceedin
gs in less than ten minutes, but something told me I had to be there. I had to see Brady. During that final court appearance, after Brady learned he was finally officially free, I approached him, touching him, pressing my lips to his face, thanking him for loving my sister, and whispering that no one blamed him. He stood silently embracing me, holding me so hard I couldn’t breathe. When he kissed me so gently on the lips I thought maybe I’d imagined it, I knew I’d never see him again.
After it was over, Gabby and David drove me to Chandler’s, but we stopped by the post office so I could get my mail. There was one letter in the box, and I knew before I turned the key that it was from Brady. It was dated a few days before. Having a second chance, he told me, meant he couldn’t waste it. The rest of his life had to mean something. He ended the letter simply by saying he was moving someplace where he could make a difference. That could have been anywhere—Harlem, rural West Virginia, or even right here in New Jersey.
As I stepped out of the post office, I could see Gabby and David parked in a loading zone waiting for me, but I sat on the steps and brought the letter to my chest. I hadn’t known it until that moment, but Savannah coming back to me in dreams, leading me here, to this place, had finally set me free. Brady’s guilt stopped him from coming forward sixteen years before, and it prevented us from knowing what really happened. But now, thanks to the dreams that led me to the prison, to Brady, and eventually to the truth, I was finally free. I was free of the hold my sister had had on me not only when she was alive but in the years since she’d been gone. I was free of the unhappiness of my life. And I was free to find someone to love. I reached in my pocket, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number. While I waited for Patrick to answer, I noticed the leaves were turning brilliant colors, the sky was a vivid magenta, and the evening felt optimistic as if everything were brand new again.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If not for Lisa Gallagher, I’d still be wondering what I am going to be when I grow up. Lisa, not only are you a fantastic agent and friend but you’re also a cheerleader, a picker-upper-and-duster-off-er, and the one who calms me when I’m about to freak and who makes me giggle when I feel like crying. Every day I am thankful for you.
Suzanne Kingsbury, you are the most fabulous development editor ever and an even better friend. You shaped Nowhere Girl from a big, gelatinous mess into a pretty, pretty piece of art. You always go way above and beyond, and I’d be lost if not for you. I hope I never have to write a book without you.
Thinking I’d written a never-to-be-guessed whodunit, I gave a draft of Nowhere Girl to my BFF, Sasha Sanford. She called me about forty pages into it and shouted that she’d figured out who had offed poor Savannah. Unfortunately, she was right. Because of Sasha, I asked a friend from college, John McGrath, a criminal defense attorney, to give me some ideas on how to kill someone and get away with it. It was not how I’d thought our first conversation in twenty years would go, but it was enlightening and entertaining just the same. Thank you to Sasha and John for helping me create such a fun ending. Well, it was fun for me, probably not so much for Savannah.
I am fortunate to be publishing my second book with the venerable St. Martin’s Press and Thomas Dunne Books team. Publishers Tom Dunne of Thomas Dunne Books and Sally Richardson of St. Martin’s Press are the best. Laurie Chittenden is a fantastic editor, and I’m grateful to work with her. The entire team helped birth this book that started out as a thought when I heard a song in my car. You all have worked tirelessly to bring Nowhere Girl to life. Thanks to Pete Wolverton, Brant Janeway, Emily Walters, Ervin Serrano, Angela Craft, Lisa Senz, and my publicist, Katie Bassel. Huge thanks to associate editor Melanie Fried for being on top of everything. You make my job easy.
My good friend and brilliant doctor Patrick Doherty once again was instrumental in helping me get all the medical stuff correct. Pat, I’m in awe of your knowledge, and, even more so, your patience. Thank you for your friendship and time spent answering questions. May I forever write books that involve medicine, so you can never get rid of me. As always, Pat is wicked awesome. Any medical mistakes are all mine.
Police officer Dave Chasteen is not only dedicated to protecting the public but is also a much cherished friend. Another lifetime ago, Dave and I worked together and had way too much fun. Many years after I left corporate life, Dave still had time to answer endless questions about DNA, crime scene procedures, and police protocol. I hope I kill off more characters in future books so I get to talk with Dave about the best way to do it. Dave, I adore you. Any mistakes about blood, cops, and trace evidence are on me.
Nowhere Girl was not the first title I chose for this book. Nor was it the second, third, or fourth. But it is the right one. I spent angst-filled weeks trying to come up with something perfect. Lucky for me, I am surrounded by many amazing people who were instrumental in helping me. Suzanne Kingsbury; Lisa Gallagher; Laurie Chittenden; my husband, Kurt Strecker; my kids, Cooper and Ainsley; Sasha Sanford; Erika Celentano; Carolyn Crehan; Erin Dayton; Sarah Cody Rector; Sarah Wadle; Dave Dyson; and John Peterson, I am grateful for your help. I would be drooling in a corner without you. And thanks to David “Short Legs” Loughborough for your help.
A huge and belated shout-out to my Drew University poetry professor, Bob Ready. Without your encouragement in college and in the years after, I’m not sure that I would be a novelist.
My family made this book happen. My mother, Nancy Moroso, has spent a lifetime supporting me in whatever I wanted to do. My grandmother, Ruth Boyd, always asks how my books are coming. My step-dad, Nick Nichols, takes great care of my mom and grandmother so I don’t have to worry about them. And my in-laws, Marie and Lou Strecker, love me like I’m their own and make me feel like a rock star.
If not for the love, patience, and encouragement of my husband, Kurt, and my kids, Cooper and Ainsley, I have no doubt that I would not be a novelist. The writing process is often overwhelming and never easy. But Kurt, Coop, and Ainsley keep me going by making me believe in myself. In the time that it took to write Nowhere Girl, Kurt was always ready with a glass of wine for each of us and an endless supply of words I couldn’t think of and answers to which sentence or phrase sounded best. To my three favorite people, I love you madly.
Right up there with my family are my fans. A thank-you to everyone who has written letters and e-mails and come to book signings to show your support. You are the reason I do this. Peace and love.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Susan Strecker resides in Essex, Connecticut, with her husband and two children. She is the author of Night Blindness, an Indie Next pick. Nowhere Girl is her second novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
ALSO BY SUSAN STRECKER
Night Blindness
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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NOWHERE GIRL. Copyright © 2016 by Susan Strecker. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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First Edition: March 2016
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Susan Strecker
Copyright