by April Henry
“I’m going to do laundry,” I tell Grandpa. Sitting slumped on the couch, he just nods.
After I start my wash, I knock on the door of Charlie’s apartment. When he answers, he’s still dressed in funeral clothes, that too-big suit that must belong to his dad. Still, it makes him look older. I can almost imagine him being the detective he wants to be.
“I need to talk to you,” I say.
He keeps his hand on the knob and doesn’t open the door any wider. “What about?”
“Tori’s murder.”
“I don’t think we should talk anymore, Adele. My uncle was just searching your apartment. It seems you’re the prime suspect.” His mouth twists. “And last night someone told me what happened at the party, how you kissed Luke and then Tori kicked you out. None of this looks good.”
“All that’s true, but I didn’t kill Tori.” My voice cracks. “Please—can I come in?”
After a moment, he opens the door wider. Taking two quick steps ahead of me, he sweeps a sleeping bag and pillow off a battered navy blue couch and into a closet. All the units on the ground floor are one-bedrooms. I wonder whether it’s Charlie or his dad who’s stuck with the couch. I’m betting Charlie.
“Where’s your dad?” I haven’t met him yet, but a couple of times I’ve seen a guy in the parking lot who must be him. He’s tall and brown-eyed like Charlie and Detective Lauderdale, but not nearly as skinny as either.
“At our old house.” Charlie rolls his eyes. “Trying to sweet-talk my stepmom into taking him back. The house is in her name, and she makes a lot more money than my dad. So cheating on her was a pretty stupid thing to do. Not to mention not very nice.” He exhales forcefully. “But he never thinks with his head.”
I’m not sure what to say in response, so I settle for a simple “I’m sorry.”
He sits on one end of the couch, so I take the other. There’s four feet between us. It’s kind of a weird arrangement, but there isn’t anyplace else to sit except two mismatched chairs in the dining nook. And it would be weirder if I’d sat in the middle.
“My uncle told me they released the autopsy results today. And it was like you said. Tori was strangled.”
“Not with hands.” I touch my neck. “With something narrow around her throat.”
Charlie’s eyes narrow. “How do you know it was a ligature?”
“Because I’m the one who found her body. I saw the mark.”
He puts his hands over his face. From behind them, he says, “Just stop, Adele. Stop talking and get yourself a lawyer.”
“What do you mean?”
He runs his hands through his hair, tugging on it. “Because it seems pretty likely that you’re guilty. And I’m going to tell my uncle anything you say.”
“The cops already know I found the body. But I didn’t kill Tori. I don’t know how I can prove that to them or you or anyone, but I didn’t.” The words are as much for myself as for him. “Besides, won’t there be evidence that shows I’m not the one who did it?”
His expression becomes thoughtful. “Well, that ligature furrow around Tori’s throat is going to tell the police a lot. An electrical cord leaves a different mark than a metal chain or a shoelace or a clothesline or a belt. And some people bring a ligature with them and others just improvise. If they can figure out what the ligature was, then it might tell them who did it. They might even be able to get fibers from it. How wide was it? Did it break the skin?”
Closing my eyes, I try to remember. “It was pretty thin. I think thinner than a pencil. And it looked like it made a groove in her skin but didn’t cut it.” I open my eyes and take a deep breath. “Detective Geiger took my locket. It’s on a thick black cord.”
“They’ll check it for Tori’s DNA.”
“And they won’t find any,” I say, hoping I’m right. “Everywhere I go, I see things that could have killed Tori. Electrical cords, the cords on blinds, lanyards, dog leashes … I heard that after I left the party, Tori started dirty dancing with Ethan. And that made Jazzmin really mad. Maybe Ethan wanted more and Tori wouldn’t give it to him. He wears that survival bracelet made out of paracord. And Jazzmin always has on one of those cloth headbands. Either one of those could have been the murder weapon.”
“Except Ethan sits in front of me in math, and he’s still wearing that stupid survival bracelet. And a headband—it would probably just stretch. I could totally see Jazzmin sulking, but sulking doesn’t lead to murder.”
“Okay, what about Tori’s creepy neighbor? Mr. Conner? That old guy who always wears a bolo tie? He tried to give me a ride home after I left the party, and he didn’t want to take no for an answer. And Tori told me he liked to spy on her when she was sunbathing.”
“She did?” Charlie tilts his head. “I didn’t think you guys had been friends since back in grade school.”
“She just mentioned it.”
“Well, Mr. Conner makes a lot more sense than Ethan or Jazzmin. Did you tell Detective Geiger about him trying to give you a ride?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I’m sure they’re looking at him.”
“And there’s her dad. He came home a day early, and I heard he got really mad when he realized she was throwing a party. Maybe he snapped.”
“Maybe,” Charlie echoes dubiously.
“There’s one other person I was thinking might have done it. Tori was spending time with Tom Hardy. The student teacher.”
Charlie’s head jerks back. “What do you mean, spending time?”
For an answer, I press my lips together and raise my eyebrows, echoing Tori’s coyness.
Charlie shakes his head. “Yeah, right. I don’t think so. No teacher would be that stupid.”
“But she told me.”
He sighs in exasperation. “I don’t understand you, Adele. You keep acting like you have the inside scoop on Tori, but you weren’t her friend. At least not for years. When did she tell you all this stuff?”
It feels like I’ve climbed up on the edge of a bridge and am looking into the iron-gray water far below. “Do you really want to know the truth, Charlie? Because there’s no way you’ll believe me.”
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1, 5:28 P.M.
PROVE THAT I’M NOT
“Try me, Adele.” Charlie looks me in the eye.
After taking a deep breath, I jump in. “I can see the dead. Even talk to them. It’s why I know things about Tori that only a friend would know. Because she talked to me after I found her body.”
Charlie’s lips twitch as if he wants to ask a question. Or maybe laugh in sickened disbelief. Instead, he keeps quiet.
“I’ve been like this my whole life. It runs in my family.”
He raises an eyebrow. “So you can see ghosts?”
“I don’t know what they are. I can only see them if I’m near their bones. And they can’t go places where their bones aren’t. So it’s not like a haunting; it’s not like those stories when the spirit lingers where something bad happened. Not unless their bones happen to be buried there.” Thinking of Lisa, I add, “Or even just their skull.”
“And you were able to see Tori? Like she was alive?” Each word is spaced farther from the next and filled with more doubt.
I nod. “And talk to her.”
“If she could talk to you, why couldn’t she tell you who killed her?”
“She doesn’t remember. She was drinking pretty hard that night. Remember health class? I think she might have blacked out.”
Charlie rubs his forehead, then looks at me again. “When your grandpa told me you had issues, is this what he meant?”
“I’m not mentally ill, Charlie.”
He sighs. “Isn’t that what a mentally ill person would say? You wanted or needed to talk to Tori. So in your mind you were able to.”
“I’ll prove it to you.” I know I’m taking a risk, but I’m already in over my head. “Do you have a computer I can borrow to use the internet?”
He doesn’t move. “C
an’t you just use your phone?”
“The police took it.”
With a sigh, he retrieves a laptop from the dining room table.
“When I was talking to Detective Geiger, I saw a woman in the interview room. She pushed her way through the floor and started talking to me.” I click on the browser window. “She told me her name was Lisa McMasters and that her skull has been in the police evidence room for forty years. She was begging me to help her.”
Charlie doesn’t say anything. He just watches me with a worried expression.
I type in “Lisa McMasters” and then “missing” in the search bar. This is definitely a high-wire act, because I don’t know what I’ll find.
When I hit return, a few things pop up, but they’re for different women who are also named Lisa McMasters. A Lisa McMasters in Hawaii posted about loving pumpkin spice lattes. Next I try “Lisa McMasters” and “prostitute,” with the same lack of real results. Her name plus “truck stop,” gets me several hits on Pinterest for science projects. I don’t even bother trying to understand why, just go back up to the search bar and try again, this time with her name plus “North Carolina.”
That does get me something. A list of people who graduated high school in 1975 in a North Carolina town I’ve never heard of.
I point. “I’m pretty sure that’s her. She said she was from North Carolina and that she was killed in 1977.”
Charlie winces. “I hate to say it, Adele, but that doesn’t prove anything.”
There must be some way I can shake his certainty. I try a different tack and type in the name of the man she said killed her.
“John O’Reilly” does get a hit. Pages of them, actually. The first one is a Wikipedia entry.
John “Johnny” O’Reilly (born August 30, 1953) is a serial killer who has been on death row at the Oregon State Penitentiary since 1983. He was convicted in the murders of three women and is the primary suspect in four more. All of O’Reilly’s victims were prostitutes.
Inside me, something loosens. Like I’ve been holding my breath since I found Tori’s body and only just now let it go.
Charlie leans in. “Who is that?”
“It’s the guy she said killed her. And he’s been in prison since way before we were born. There’s no way I already knew about him. The only reason I do is because Lisa said she was one of his victims.”
“Hmm.” Charlie’s brows draw together. “And what did she say happened?”
“She said he was her customer. And that he killed her and dumped her body in the woods. Later hunters found her skull but not the rest of her body. She’s been in the evidence room ever since. She was begging me to tell Detective Geiger. She wants her family to know what happened to her, and she wants to be buried back in North Carolina.”
“Okay, I believe—” Charlie starts.
Relief surges through me. “Oh thank God, you—”
“Let me finish. I believe that you believe what you’re saying. But I’m afraid I don’t believe it myself. Your brain is probably just connecting little snippets of things you’ve read or heard and making a story out of them.”
I want to scream in frustration. Charlie doesn’t believe in things he can’t measure, can’t observe.
But is there a way he could?
“There’s a cat,” I say. “Or really more of a kitten. It hangs out by the dumpsters in the back of the complex.”
His features pinch together. “Why are you talking about a cat, Adele? Maybe I should take you back to your grandpa.”
“I’m talking about it because I’m the only one who can see it. It’s dead.”
“So?” He shrugs. “If you’re the only one who can see it, it’s not like you can show it to me.”
“But all the dead are connected to their skulls by this thing that looks like a rope of mist. And if I dug in the spot where the rope disappears and found a dead cat, it would prove what I’m saying. It would prove that I’m not making things up!”
The closest thing Charlie has to a shovel or trowel is a large metal serving spoon. Five minutes later, we’re standing by the dumpsters. I’m glad it’s dark now, so that we’re less likely to attract attention. In a low voice, I call the kitten. Finally, I see it peeping through the bushes. I put my hand down, rub my fingers together, and it skitters up to me with a questioning meow. I stroke its knobby back, feel its rib cage vibrate under my fingers. And then I trace the tether from the back of its head to the ground.
Charlie watches, his expression a strange amalgam of interest and doubt, as I take the serving spoon and dig it into the ground.
And ten minutes later, we are both looking at a jumble of what seem like gray-white sticks.
Bones.
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 2, 11:37 A.M.
SHARP ENOUGH TO BITE
But even the bones didn’t persuade Charlie. He pointed out I’ve lived in my apartment complex for years. That I could have seen someone burying the kitten—or it could even have belonged to me. With every word, I felt more and more alone.
In the end, I reburied the bones and gave him back his spoon.
I’ve spent this morning holed up in my room, thinking about suspects and trying to avoid my grandpa and his sad eyes. I figure that Charlie’s right about Ethan and Jazzmin. It’s unlikely that they did it. That leaves the best suspects as Tori’s dad, her creepy neighbor Mr. Conner, and our student teacher, Mr. Hardy.
The same suspects I told Detective Geiger about. But it felt like he was focused on me. In order to persuade the police to look at them more closely, I need more than just my suspicions. I need proof.
I walk out into the living room, where Grandpa is watching a football game. “I’m going to run a couple of errands.” His only answer is a worried twist of the lips. But he doesn’t forbid it.
I ride my bike to a Barbur Boulevard strip mall. I’ve seen the I-Spy Shoppe from the bus, but I’ve never been inside. It’s sandwiched between a Thai restaurant and a tanning salon. A bell tinkles above my head when I push open the door. From behind the cash register, a clerk in his fifties with a military-short haircut glances up, then goes back to reading a magazine. The store is a single room with blank cream-colored walls and industrial-gray carpeting. It feels oddly impermanent, like tomorrow it might turn into a tattoo place or an Iranian deli.
The display case next to the door holds a variety of items designed to conceal valuables. A fake rock. A false-bottomed planter. A completely unconvincing rubber dog poop that looks more like a gag gift. There are safes made from hollowed-out books, car batteries, and a giant can of Fritos. Everything is slightly off. Like, a can of Fritos? They seem designed more to appeal to a nine-year-old boy than to deter thieves.
But as I move to the back of the store, the contents of the cases become sleeker and more expensive. Car bomb detectors, night-vision goggles, GPS trackers, and a briefcase that promises to greet any unauthorized user with ten thousand volts.
And one case holds a dozen recording devices disguised as something more innocuous. They look like USB drives, teddy bears, electrical outlets, and smoke detectors.
Seeing my interest, the clerk puts down his magazine and comes over. “Can I show you anything?”
“I want to be able to record conversations without the other person knowing. And I won’t know where we’ll be talking, so something you need to attach to a wall or anything like that won’t work.”
“You need to be aware that in Oregon, it’s legal to record someone over the telephone without telling them. But that’s not true of in-person conversations.” His words sound rote.
I hesitate. But all I need is to give Detective Geiger a reason to look at the real killer. Not to prove it in court. “That’s okay.”
“I’d recommend one of these, then.” He unlocks the back of the case and takes out five pens. Some record audio and video, some only audio. I end up choosing the cheapest. Voice activated, it can record up to eight hours of conversation. And it actually can be used as
a pen. Outside the store, I take it out of its packaging. I clip it to the front strap of my backpack, then triple-check to make sure it won’t come loose.
Back on my bike again, I set off for Tori’s neighborhood.
But once I’m there, I’m not exactly sure what to do after I lock my bike to a speed limit sign. Things that seemed like good ideas in my bedroom or even in I-Spy now seem impossible. I’m not a spy. I’m a seventeen-year-old girl. But what choice do I have?
Taking a deep breath, I walk up to Mr. Conner’s door. And then I knock.
When he answers the door, he’s wearing a blue-and-red-plaid cowboy shirt that snaps up the front, topped with one of his ever-present bolo ties. This one has a silver clasp that looks like a howling wolf. Mentally, I measure the thickness of the black cord against the line I remember seeing on Tori’s neck. It seems about the same.
“Hey, I don’t know if you remember me,” I say. “My name is Adele. I used to be friends with Tori when we were little? And I was at her party? That Saturday?” Without meaning to, I raise my intonation at the end of every sentence, like I’m an uncertain girl asking questions, not a serious adult making statements.
He nods. “Yes?”
“Remember how you offered me a ride home that night?”
“Did I?” he says mildly. When I don’t say anything more, he says, “I was just concerned about you. Frankly, you seemed to be under the influence.”
“Did you see Tori leave?”
“No.” He shakes his head, his expression still vague and pleasant.
“Did you follow her? Because she told me that you liked to watch her.”
After a long pause, he says, “Look, Adele. You seem like a nice girl. Lonely, but I understand what it’s like to be lonely. What it’s like to be an outcast. What it’s like to feel that you are always on the outside and you can never, ever get in.” As he speaks, his expression begins to morph. His faint smile becomes a grimace, showing worn ivory teeth that still look sharp enough to bite. “But you’re no Nancy Drew. You’re just a silly girl with an overactive imagination.” He leans closer, his sour breath washing over me. “And you need to be careful, Adele. Very careful that it doesn’t get the better of you.”