by S. E. Green
But I don’t say anything and instead, turn around and leave. Daisy doesn’t want to be part of my world, my obsession. She’s making that loud and clear, and I need to respect that.
34
As I stroll down the dormitory hall some thirty minutes later, I hope Sabrina figured out her snoring because I now officially have no place to retreat.
Up ahead and to the right I note our door sits propped open and as I draw near, crying and blubbering filters out. A quick glance in shows Sabrina consoling another student.
Turning around, I walk back the way I came. I barely have a grip on emotions as it is. There’s no way I’m inserting myself into that scene right now. I’ll say something wrong.
Cutting past the elevator, I shoulder open the exit door, take one flight down, and as I’m rounding to the bottom floor, I run right into Zach.
“Hey.” He grins. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.” I point up. “Third floor.”
“I didn’t realize.” He chuckles. “Second floor.”
I guess that makes sense with both of us on the signup sheet for campus patrol.
He takes a few steps down. “Thanks again for the other night.”
“Oh, sure. That’s what friends are for and all that.” Friends, yes, that’s what we are. I stop him in the stairwell. “You’ll tell me the truth, right?”
His dark brows go up. “About?”
“Am I a good listener? Do you feel like you can talk to me?”
Folding his arms, he leans back against the wall. “Yes, you’re a listener, but you’re not a talker. When it comes to communication it’s typically one way with you. And when you do talk, I sense it’s filtered.”
“Filtered, as in lies?”
“As in carefully formulated.”
“That sounds like the politically correct way to say lies.”
To that, Zach shrugs. “Okay, then.”
“Do you feel as if I keep secrets?” I ask.
“Yes,” he answers without pause. “But this isn’t new behavior and it certainly shouldn’t come as news to you so why are you worried about this now?”
But I don’t answer his questions and instead, ask another. “Am I a good person?”
“Yes,” he answers, again without pause.
I breathe out, more worried about his response than I realized.
“You hold responsibility for things you shouldn’t,” he says. “You’re scared to make mistakes.”
“Good observation.”
“Whatever it is that’s brought this introspective side of you out, you’ll work through it. You always do. I know better than to ask you, so just know you can share with me if you want. You need someone you can trust to talk to. I’ve always wanted that for you.”
Me, too, and honestly I was thinking that might be Daisy.
Hiking his backpack onto his shoulder, he glances at his phone. “Good talk? Because I’ve got an evening class.”
I wave him on. “All good. Thanks.”
Zach takes the last few steps down and leaves through the exit door. My brother and sister are home right now laughing and eating dinner, glad I’m not there. And I’m here wanting to be there. They’re the whole reason I stayed local.
They want a “normal” sister. Okay, I can be “normal”. What would a normal sister do? Cook them dinner? I can cook dinner. I walked in on them laughing. I can laugh. Or I can fake a good laugh.
Bart Novak was laughing with his elderly friends in a warm and intimate way that didn’t come across as a show. He came across as having true joy and affection. Then again he’s had years to practice and fine-tune the show.
Practice makes perfect?
Maybe it is that simple.
Dare I say I can learn from him? Learn to blend. Mom certainly had the blending thing down pat. She probably learned the technique by observing all the killers she hunted.
Who the hell knows?
Either way, I’ve got to figure out how to mend whatever fences I’ve broken with Daisy and Justin. Bart Novak is done killing for now and not an immediate threat. I’ll bring him to justice, there is no doubt, but I should focus on my family more.
As I’m pushing through the exit door outside, my phone rings with an incoming call from Reggie.
Thank God. “Hey,” I say.
“Hey, so I’ve got some odd information.”
“Hang on.” With a glance around, I zip up my jacket and cut through a clump of kids to find a private spot to talk. “Okay, go ahead.”
“That house with your mom’s degraded DNA sample has quite the history. There have been three suicides at that house. Fifty years ago, forty years ago, and one last week.”
Of course, I already know this, but I wait and listen.
“In addition to finding your mom’s degraded DNA, the team found one single strand of long brown hair that they’ve approximated is fifty years old and matched as female. They found an identical strand of hair in the car a few days later where another suicide occurred.”
In the picture I saw online, Bart’s mother had long brown hair. Interesting. I’d lay a solid wager they’re going to find another strand on the hanging victim. “And my mom’s degraded DNA?”
“I don’t know. I still can’t figure out what put her in that house. I’m not giving up, though. But I thought you’d find that hair thing interesting.”
“I do, thanks.”
“I tried digging into the suicides forty and fifty years ago at that house, but evidence collection was done completely different and I didn’t find anything. If there is anything to find its probably sitting in a box in a dusty police warehouse.”
“Yeah, probably. But the facts are, years ago a team showed up on the scene, saw a suicide, and called it a day. There was nothing to collect because no crime occurred.”
Reggie says, “You and I both know something fishy is going on. I also did some digging to see if they got a DNA match on the hair strand, but nothing is there.”
And nothing will be there. Bart Novak’s mother won’t be in a police database. Bart Novak won’t either. He’s squeaky clean. He hides the real him from everyone except his victims. The investigators will be on a wild goose chase. There’s no way they’ll match anything to Bart. He’s too well hidden.
But I really don’t want Reggie digging in and finding Bart. “If you could just focus on that degraded DNA and what put Mom in that house that would be great.”
“For sure. Like I said, just wanted you to know what I had found so far.”
“Appreciate it.”
We hang up, and I stand outside the dorm, thinking through things.
Bart is paying his respects by leaving a strand of his mother’s hair on the victims. It’s his ritual. But has he done it over the years? I don’t know. Likely not.
To me, a strand of foreign hair would link everything together. Unless he hid the hair at the scene or went back to leave it afterward. He sure didn’t hide anything this time, though.
But this time was different. It was the 50th anniversary of this mother’s death.
Or…he’s hoping connections will be made. He’s done with his kills and he wants to be found.
I don’t know. A successful serial killer who wants to be caught? Something’s off.
Bart found his mother hanging at the old marina. And somewhere along the way, he kept a portion, if not all, of her hair.
Which means, he has it.
Somewhere in Aveda Retirement, Bart Novak has strands of his dead mother’s hair. He keeps her with him all the time.
And I’m going to find it.
35
The following afternoon I sign in as Maggie Cain at the Retirement Home and ask the desk clerk, “Any idea where Bart Novak is? I met him yesterday and would love to say hi.”
The clerk’s face lights up. “I adore Mr. Novak. Everyone around here does.” She holds out her hand. “Holleen, nice to meet you.”
“You, too.” So everyon
e around here adores ole Bart, huh? That’s not something someone would say about me, but Bart, he’s out there—all open, friendly, and generous.
“Maggie Cain,” Bart’s voice comes from behind and I turn to see him crossing the lobby to where I stand.
“You remember me?”
“I never forget a pretty face with a keen mind.”
I’m not sure anyone has ever described me like that, but I go with it. “I was just asking Holleen here where you were. I wanted to say hi.”
“That’s very kind of you. I was just heading to reading hour.”
“Reading hour?”
Holleen says, “Once a week a preschool group comes and several of the residents take turns reading to them. Today is Bart’s turn.”
Bart winks at Holleen. “It’s the reason we’re all here. To give back.”
It’s not why I’m here.
He nods across the lobby toward a cozy outdoor area with cushioned wicker chairs and warmers intermittently placed. A group of kids and elderly people sit waiting, everyone clumped under blankets and some sipping warm drinks.
I follow Bart out and he motions me to sit on a bench next to a woman dressed in scrubs, presumably a nurse. While I do he makes his way through the crowd of kids, leaning down here and there to touch their little heads.
“How long have you all being doing this?” I ask the nurse.
“Oh, just since Bart moved in about a year ago. It was his idea and everyone really took to it.”
Shifting, I tuck my hands into my jacket pockets. “This is my second day. Everyone seems so close and happy.”
“We are. It’s a great place to work and live.”
Bart nods at an elderly lady as he picks up the book he’s supposed to read. Polite. Well adjusted. Liked. Admired. Loved. This man is not meeting my expectations.
“It’s nice that you’re here,” the nurse says. “We don’t get a lot of kids your age who want to volunteer.”
“Just looking to give back, that’s all.”
Bart makes himself comfortable under a blanket, taking a second to clean his glasses. Holleen comes through the patio door and over to me, motioning me to scoot to the middle of the bench.
Between the nurse on one side and Holleen on the other, it’s a bit too close for my comfort level. But it would look entirely too odd if I got up now before story time. Instead, I cross my legs, tuck my hands further in, and try to make myself a tiny bit of space.
“Just one big happy family,” I say.
The nurse chuckles. “That it is.”
“Bart’s a real special guy.”
“He is. We really lucked out when he moved in here. He keeps things energetic and fills the place with love. He’s everyone’s father, brother, grandfather. He fills a lot of voids.”
Bart Novak, man of the year.
Leaning over, Holleen shushes us. “Storytime is starting and Mr. Novak doesn’t like it when we talk.”
36
Like me, Bart Novak has been shaped by a history involving our mothers. We both have a family we love, albeit his is one he created at Aveda. He cares for those he holds dear.
Unlike me, he has an extroverted personality. Was he always that way? Does he have some gene I don’t? My mother was extroverted too. A learned behavior among serial killers? I don’t know.
I try to envision myself being extroverted—smiling, making jokes, woman of the hour—and I almost laugh. My family would think I was high.
Downshifting, I pull into our neighborhood, winding back through the homes, and I parallel park along the street. I note Mom’s Lexus that now belongs to Daisy parked a few spots up. A quick peek into the garage shows Victor’s home, too.
When I walk inside, Victor lays sprawled on the couch with Justin beside him, sharing a bowl of BBQ chips, drinking root beer, and watching hockey. Usually, Victor is in his office working. I’m sure this father-son time is a direct result of the recent issues with Justin. I’m glad Victor is conscientious of spending time with Justin, but I’m also very curious if he knows anything more about the degraded DNA.
“Hey,” I say.
Victor glances up but I don’t get the usual smile from him. What, now he’s mad at me too? What the hell is going on with my family?
I focus on Justin instead. “Whatever happened to football?” I ask.
My brother shrugs. “Not my thing.”
“Where’s Daisy?” I look around.
“In the basement looking through Mom’s stuff,” Victor says.
What?
I don’t say anything else and instead, take the stairs straight down. I step into the basement to find Daisy sitting on the carpet with all of Mom’s boxes open and spread out.
She looks up. “I’ve been going through everything of Mom’s and stuff is missing.”
Yeah, because I took it. “Like what?”
“She was organized, everything dated. But some of these files skip dates like papers are gone.” Daisy points. “Here she references a journal, but where’s the journal?”
“Why are you so wrapped up in Mom? I’ve told you everything I know.”
“And I want to know more,” Daisy snaps, and it takes me off guard. “What’s wrong with that?”
I sigh. “Dad knows you’re down here.”
“Yes, I told him. I also told him that you overheard him on the phone and about the degraded DNA from Mom. I told him we drove to that house in Alexandria.”
“You did what? That was between you and me.” It also explains why I just got the cold shoulder from Victor.
“I’m not keeping secrets from Dad. Why should I?”
“You didn’t tell him about Mom’s affair—”
Victor clears his throat, and I spin around to see him standing on the bottom step. Shit.
We freeze in place. I don’t say anything. Neither does Daisy.
His jar hardens. “What affair?”
I take a breath, my brain spinning with half-truths. But the half-truths, the outright lies, the secrets—those are what has brought us to this moment. It’s why my family is mad at me. Everything I do and say to my family has the best intentions. But sometimes it’s time to speak the truth and know that people are about to get hurt.
Daisy opens her mouth to talk and I stop her. “Let me.” I turn back to Victor. “Mom had a locker at the Dunn Loring Station. I found a key and I went to retrieve the items. It was a box full of letters, some between Mom and Marji, and others between Mom and my real dad, Seth. Love letters. Some dated fairly recently. There were also photos of them, some old and others new.” Of course, I leave out the gruesome details of those photos.
Victor’s jaw tightens more, his muscles popping, but I have to push through. I have to tell him the rest. I swallow. “I also found a paternity test that proves Daisy is my full sister. Genetically, she is Seth’s daughter too.”
“Where is this box?” he demands.
“I was mad and burned it at Patch and Paw in the crematorium.”
With a sigh, he runs his fingers through his thick black and gray hair. “I knew it. Goddamn it, I knew it. I knew she was seeing Seth.”
My eyes widen. That was not the response I was expecting. I was expecting shock, not anger. I glance over to Daisy to see tears gathered in her eyes. Tears for Victor.
“You’re my dad,” she whispers.
“Of course I am.” He looks between us. “You are both my daughters. Not Seth’s. Mine.”
My throat rolls with a raw swallow. I’m so grateful and lucky this man raised me. “Dad, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about overhearing you on the phone. I guess I thought you’d come to us when you knew something. I don’t know. I shouldn’t have gone to Daisy behind your back. I’m sorry.”
His hazel eyes move between us and they take on a loving, but firm look. “You listen to me. I will not have my daughters lying to me. We will be a family of no secrets. Do you hear me?”
No secrets but the biggest of all. Mom was a serial kil
ler and I ended her life.
But instead, I nod.
“As soon as I know something about the degraded sample, I will tell you.” He looks between us again. “I love both of my girls very much.”
“Love you, too,” we echo.
He turns then, giving us his back, and he walks back up the steps.
When he’s all the way upstairs, I look at my sister sitting in the pile of Mom’s stuff and my heart sinks. I wanted to share this with Daisy, but now I don’t. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into anything or make you feel like you had to keep secrets. I’m so sorry.”
With a sniff, she wipes her eyes. “We’re good.” She closes a folder and slides it back into a box. “Dad said there were a lot of things in here that Mom was obsessed with. I guess killers she couldn’t catch.”
Or killers she wanted to study.
Daisy waves her hand over Mom’s stuff. “All these notes on murders. It’s enough to drive someone crazy. I can’t believe she did this for a living.”
Going with the honesty trend, I say, “You’re right, stuff is missing. I took it.”
“I figured as much.” Her lips twitch. “A little light reading?”
I chuckle. “Something like that.”
We’re silent and then she says, “Do you think you can just let all of this go? Do you think you can find another hobby that doesn’t involve tracking serial killers?”
“What, like doing my nails and straightening my hair?”
“No.” Daisy laughs. “Guess not.”
“If you want to see the things I took, just ask. I’m happy to show.”
But she doesn’t answer and instead pulls over another box and lifts off the lid. She’s more interested than she wants to admit. But I won’t push. I’ll let her come to me.
37
I’m going to lose my family if I don’t continue being honest and sharing. It’s not enough to be present. I have to communicate, and while it doesn’t have to be all honesty all the time, it does have to contain some meaningful truth.
Like what happened last night in the basement with Victor and Daisy.