He yanked his shirt off, dropped it on the floor. Then he unbuttoned his pants and pulled down the zipper. He kicked off his pants one leg at a time, having to reach for the dresser to keep from falling over. He stood in front of her wearing nothing but his briefs and socks.
She didn’t even take off her coat.
“Into bed,” she said and turned down the comforter.
He was too drunk, tired, to do anything other than what she asked. He crawled into bed, closed his eyes as soon as his head hit the pillow.
“Sleep tight,” she said and kissed his forehead. He didn’t hear her leave. He should’ve asked her to stay. He wanted her to stay. “I miss you,” he mumbled to the empty room.
Hours later Parker’s cell phone went off. He rolled over, searched for it on the nightstand. His head pounded. His mouth was dry. The room had the hazy feel of morning.
“Hello.” His voice cracked.
“We got something.” It was someone from the lab. Maybe Mara, the tech who had helped him on a previous case. His brain was slow waking up.
She continued. “Someone scratched initials onto the bat. It’s actually not that hard to scratch aluminum.”
“Anything on the serial numbers?”
“No. They’re too worn to read clearly.”
“Okay. Send a picture of the initials to my phone,” Parker said, pressed the heel of his palm into his eye where the headache throbbed behind it.
“Will do,” Mara said. “Any idea who S. S. could be?”
Parker ran through his short list of suspects. Nothing jumped out at him. He’d have to comb through the file, see if there was a name with those initials. “Not yet,” he said.
“Oh, hey, we got nothing on the lighter other than it was pink,” she said. “I’ll get those pics to you ASAP.”
“Thanks,” Parker said and hung up.
He sat up. His stomach rolled. He might get sick. He had to get to the station, call Geena, figure out whose initials were S. S. and what their connection to Lester might be.
His clothes had been thrown on the floor haphazardly. Then he remembered Becca driving him home from the bar, refusing to kiss him, putting him to bed. He could already feel the regret moving through his insides, settling in his chest, and he wasn’t even out of bed yet.
He dragged himself to the shower, let the hot water run down his back. He dressed. His car was in Benny’s parking lot. He called Uber. His phone went off again. Mara had sent a close-up of the softball bat with the engraving—S. S., surrounded by a heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DECEMBER 1986
Trisha hid against the side of the house, watched Carlyn and Dannie walk down the sidewalk in the direction of the bus stop. Dannie was wearing her long puffy coat that made her look three times heavier than she was. Carlyn had tucked her hair underneath a knitted hat, her backpack stuffed full of books. Their heads were down. They were careful where they stepped, avoided the patches of snow and ice covering the walkway. They weren’t talking, as far as Trisha could tell.
Trisha scooted around the back of the next house and slipped up the side yard unnoticed. She didn’t know why she was spying on her friends. She didn’t know why she’d done half the things she’d done lately. But she wasn’t going to school today, not after last night, swinging the bat at Lester’s head, sleeping in Carlyn’s bed. She hadn’t bothered asking Carlyn to skip with her. She hadn’t played hooky with Trisha in weeks. And Dannie had been missing so many days lately, staying home and taking care of her mother, that if she missed any more, the school had threatened to hold her back a year, not allow her to graduate.
Her friends made it to the end of the block. Trisha scurried behind two more homes, pressed her back to the wall of the last house on Second Street. The cold aluminum siding cut through her layers of clothes. Other kids emerged on Broadway. No one saw her. No one was looking for her.
Not even her friends.
Trisha waited until the buses pulled up. She spied Scott in the crowd. He was looking up and down the street. Perhaps he was looking for her. Then he climbed on the bus with Carlyn and Dannie and everybody else. Once the buses started pulling away, Trisha stepped onto the sidewalk in full view, wondered if Scott would notice, if her friends cared.
It was Carlyn who looked out the back window and saw her, put her palm against the glass as the bus rolled down the street.
After the buses had gone, Trisha shoved her hands into her coat pockets. She wrapped her fingers around the pink lighter, squeezed it in her fist. She walked fast, head down, breathing into the collar of her coat, which she’d zipped all the way up to her chin. The air was so cold it stung her skin. The occasional car drove past, but other than the sound of traffic, the town was quiet.
She continued walking toward the woods and the trail that would take her up the mountain. Four inches of snow had fallen. The streets were wet, salty. But the woods were untouched by plows and traffic and people. The snow was so bright it hurt her eyes to look at it directly. The branches drooped with the weight of the ice. The woods were silent. It was the kind of silence that buzzed in your ears, the quiet before the storm. They would get more snow tonight. The weatherman had forecast a blizzard, over a foot of snow coming their way. It wasn’t expected to hit until this evening. Trisha had all day to waste before it became too dangerous to be on the mountain in the freezing-cold temps in the middle of a winter storm.
She found the trail and ascended the hill. Snow seeped into her jeans around the tops of her boots. She stopped to pick the bigger chunks of ice out so her feet wouldn’t get wet. Somewhere behind her twigs snapped. Her head shot up. She looked around, listened.
It must’ve been an animal, a squirrel. She lit a cigarette, stuffed the lighter in her jeans pocket. The smell of smoke would drive whatever it was away. She took several steps before stopping. The hairs on the back of her neck bristled. She had the feeling of being watched. She looked behind her, then all around.
“Who’s there?” she called, her voice echoing, bouncing off the rocks and trees.
She dropped the cigarette and took off up the trail. She didn’t know why she went up and not down the mountain. She wasn’t thinking. Her only thoughts were to get away. She was out of breath. Sweat soaked her hairline. She climbed onto the large rock that was underneath the tree with the Kilroy was here carving. She looked down the mountain through the bare branches, the fallen logs, the rocky, snow-covered terrain.
Not far in the distance she spotted him walking up the trail. She recognized the Phillies baseball cap, the insulated flannel jacket, the bottle of whiskey swinging from his hand.
Lester.
He staggered, took two steps forward, one step back. He was drunk. She had a better chance of getting away from him when he was drinking. She was sure she could outrun him. But her feet weren’t moving. Fear spun in her stomach like the blades of a helicopter. Her breathing came in rapid bursts. She couldn’t believe he’d followed her.
“What do you want?” Trisha’s voice rose, knowing he could hear the panic in her tone. She was already crying. Please, no. Please don’t, she begged silently.
“Don’t yell, princess. I’m drunk, not deaf. Shouldn’t you be in school?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “They’ll be looking for me. I should go.”
Before she could move, he took a step toward her.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked. “You meeting a boy? Is that what you’re doing?” He stuck his tongue out, wiggled it in a lewd gesture.
“You’re disgusting.” She lost her footing on the rock and slid. Lester reached out, caught her. The pack of cigarettes fell from her coat pocket.
“What do we have here?” He put the whiskey bottle down and picked up the pack of smokes. He plucked one out and put it between his lips, patted his pockets in search of a lighter.
He was blocking her way, but maybe she could get around him. She stepped to his side. His arm shot out.
“Where do you think you’re going? Thought we were going to have us a little party.” His rancid breath hit her face.
She winced.
He grabbed her arm.
“Let go of me.”
“Come on, now.” The cigarette dangled from his lips. “Where are you hiding that lighter?”
He shoved his hand into her coat pockets. Then he searched the back pockets of her jeans, smiling as his hand lingered on her ass. She twisted away, but he pulled her close. He was so much stronger than anyone gave him credit for. Even when he was drunk, he was so darn sturdy. He put his hand deep into the front pocket of her jeans. His fingers closed around the pink lighter.
“Aha,” he said and pulled it out. He squeezed her arm tightly while he lit the cigarette.
“Let go of me,” she said again.
He pulled her closer. “Now see what you’ve done.” He took a long drag, then blew the smoke in her face. “You’ve gone and got me all worked up.”
“I didn’t do anything.” Trisha tried to wriggle from his grip. She knocked the pink lighter from his hand. It sank in the snow and disappeared.
Lester reached around the back of her neck, pushed her head down. “Come on, don’t fight me,” he said, dropping the cigarette in his struggle to control her.
She clenched her jaw, her mouth closed in a tight line as she tried to break free from his grasp. Her senses heightened: the sound of his raspy breath, the rise of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed, the scent of sweat on his skin.
She wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t make her.
She spotted the whiskey bottle on the ground by her feet, reached for it, twisting, turning, stretching, straining, until her fingers wrapped around the neck. She pushed back with all her strength and brought her arm up. She swung as hard as she could. The bottle struck him on the side of the head. The glass broke in her palm. Whiskey sprayed.
The hand he’d wrapped around the back of her neck dropped to his side. He tilted backward as though in slow motion, falling, falling, falling. His body hit the ground, the sound echoing through the woods. She stared at the broken bottle in her hand, watched as it dropped from her fingers.
Blood dripped from her palm, stained the snow at her feet. She watched it fall as though it were coming from someone else’s hand and not her own. There was blood around Lester’s head.
He wasn’t moving.
She wasn’t moving. Time became a hazy thing while her mind tried to catch up to what she was seeing, what she’d done.
He still wasn’t moving.
She wasn’t aware of backing away from him, her palm now soaked with blood, her fingers sticky.
Run.
Trisha turned and ran. She didn’t think about anything but getting away.
She slid down the snowy trail. She didn’t look back. Oh, how she hated him, how every inch of her hated him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Trisha knocked on the late Evelyn’s door before she stepped inside. The furniture in the living room had been taken out, thrown into the large dumpster Dannie had rented that now sat in front of the house. A couple of neighbors had complained to Trisha’s mother and Linda about how it looked trashy having a dumpster on the street. Dannie had promised it would be removed within forty-eight hours.
The couch where Evelyn had lain for the last four decades was the first item to be tossed. The cushions were stained beyond cleaning, greasy from the oils seeping from Evelyn’s skin and hair. The end tables and entertainment center had been donated to family services. Dannie’s oldest daughter had confiscated the television set for her bedroom.
Trisha walked across the worn carpet into the dining room. The table was covered with boxes, mostly the kitchen items they’d packed the other day. There were voices coming from the basement, her mother’s and Linda’s. Upstairs a door opened. Trisha headed up the steps. She found Dannie in the spare room next to the bathroom: the room they hadn’t been allowed to enter when they were teenagers. Dannie had said it was a junk room, storage room, old clothes and knickknacks, nothing worth seeing.
But everywhere Trisha looked there were statues and images of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, the Last Supper, the Resurrection. Oh, this was definitely something worth seeing. Crucifixes decorated an entire wall. There was an altar in the corner where several candles had been burned, the wax dripping onto the wood. A small bench was placed at the foot of the altar, where someone was meant to kneel. Dannie’s back was to Trisha.
“Hey,” Trisha said.
Dannie jumped. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Trisha picked up a figurine of the Virgin Mary. “Was this why you kept us out? You didn’t want us to see all of your mom’s stuff?” It was as good an explanation as any as to why the room had been off limits. Never mind the sheer creepiness of it.
“No,” Dannie said. “I didn’t want you to see it because it was mine.”
“Really? Wow.” Trisha said the only thing she could think of. “I mean, wow.”
“I know,” Dannie said. “I was obsessed with it back then. I guess I went overboard.” She glanced at Trisha. “But I needed to. It helped me cope with a lot of things.”
“Like your dad leaving?”
“Yes, that was part of it.”
Trisha didn’t have to ask what the other part was, knowing it had to do with Lester. “What are you going to do with all of this stuff now?” she asked.
“I’m going to keep some of it. The rest I’ll take to the church. They can sell it at the bazaar.”
Trisha nodded. She was sure there was something more she should say, but she couldn’t think of anything.
Dannie picked up a bust of Jesus. She stared at his face when she said, “The police left me a message this morning. They want to talk with me.”
Trisha had expected this. She moved to stand at Dannie’s side. “You’re going to tell them exactly what I tell you to.”
Dannie nodded, kept her eyes on the bust. “What is it you want me to say?”
“You don’t know anything about what happened to Lester. We were at Carlyn’s. There was a snowstorm. We didn’t leave her house.”
Downstairs the front door banged open. Voices carried up the stairs. “Mom,” one of them called. “Where are you?”
“Up here,” Dannie said. “My girls.” A panicked look crossed her face.
“Tell the police exactly what I said,” Trisha whispered and turned when two teenage girls entered the room. They were both wearing their Catholic school uniforms: plaid skirts, knee-high socks, button-down shirts with matching varsity band jackets.
“Ugh, Gram’s Jesus room,” one of the girls said.
Trisha turned to Dannie. “Gram’s Jesus room?”
“Yes,” Dannie said, shooting Trisha a look. “Girls, this is an old friend of mine from school. Trisha, this is Jenny and Marie.”
Jenny, the taller of the two and the one who looked to be the oldest, said, “Hi.” Marie cowered behind Jenny without saying a word. It was something Dannie might’ve done back in high school.
Carlyn appeared in the doorway. Her face registered surprise at the sheer quantity of religious figurines scattered around the room. “Wow,” she said, having the same reaction as Trisha.
“Okay,” Dannie said, trying to usher everyone out. “I’m not going to have you make fun of me. I mean, Gram,” she said to her girls. “I need more boxes before I can pack this stuff up, anyway. Scoot. Out you go.”
“Jeez, Mom, don’t get so defensive,” Jenny said from the hallway. The girls waved to Carlyn as they passed by her.
It bothered Trisha that Carlyn knew Dannie’s kids. It was just one more thing, another twist of the knife her old friends had stuck in her back. She picked at the skin on her forearm. It was about time for another drink.
“I’ve got some more boxes at my house you can use,” Carlyn said to Dannie. “I can go get them. Want to come with me?” she asked Trisha, touching her fingers to Trisha’s elbow.
&nbs
p; Trisha jerked her arm away out of habit.
“Sorry,” Carlyn said.
“Please, don’t take it personally,” Trisha said. “I’ll ride along with you.” She’d do anything to get out of the Jesus room. Her mere presence was one big stain on its holiness. She waited for Carlyn to go ahead of her. When she and Dannie were alone again, she said, “Your girls are really great.”
Dannie nodded.
“You’ll tell the police what I told you?”
“I don’t remember it any other way,” Dannie said.
Trisha looked up at Evelyn’s house before getting into Carlyn’s car. Dannie stood in the window, watching them go.
“Feeling better?” Carlyn asked once they had turned off Second Street and were heading down Broadway.
“About what?” Trisha watched the houses as they drove past, the blur of holiday wreaths hanging on doors, blinking lights, Christmas trees in windows.
“Since the last time I saw you,” Carlyn said and glanced at her. “The other night at the bar. Scott.”
“Right,” she said, which wasn’t an answer, but she refused to rehash the embarrassing evening. Nothing she could do about it now, anyway.
They were quiet, sitting at a traffic light.
“I see you went shopping,” Carlyn said and pressed on the gas when the light turned green. “I’m glad you bought some warmer clothes to wear.”
Trisha continued staring out the window. “I have your gloves,” she said. “They’re back at my mom’s somewhere.”
“Keep them,” Carlyn said. “I have another pair.”
“Right,” she said again. She wasn’t some charity case. Carlyn had no idea the kind of money Trisha had at her disposal.
Within minutes Carlyn had pulled down an alley and parked alongside a garage that appeared to have been converted into an apartment. They got out of the car. Trisha followed her down a narrow sidewalk, past what looked to be a garden, but it was hard to tell with all the snow in the yard. They walked underneath a pergola where grapes would grow, the vines climbing, stretching, bearing fruit waiting to be picked, fermented into wine. They crossed a patio, the chairs covered in plastic to protect them from the weather during the winter months. Finally, they reached the back door, stepped into the kitchen.
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