by Lorena May
“And that must be another sister?” Darby whispers back as a petite red-head follows behind them.
“Yes, her youngest sister, Angela.” Jen stares. “She looks just the same; hasn’t aged a bit.” Behind Angela, Mia’s parents walk up the carpeted aisle, her father holding her shattered little mother up.
Darby wipes a tear from her eye, feeling in her jacket pocket for the Kleenex she most certainly will need. Robert Buckingham, his face a composed mask, leads his three children down the aisle, holding the hand of Mia’s daughter who wanders aimlessly beside him, white-faced and dazed.
Mel sits stiff and straight, his sharp eyes scanning the gathering. Jen, on the other hand, fidgets, nervously wiping tears from her cheeks, crossing and uncrossing her arms and legs, her knees bouncing.
Is Kristen Harmer here? Darby wonders. Anyone else who looks suspicious? She scans the backs of heads, seeing several blonde women. No one stands out.
After the service everyone streams out of the chapel to walk to the gravesite. Darby, Mel and Jen pick their way along the road, both women challenged by the gravel under their spike heels.
“I’m used to boots,” Darby chuckles as she teeters along.
Jen giggles. “I’m strictly a sandals and sneakers girl!”
“Jen, do you recognize anyone here from the time you and Mia were friends?”
As they approach the gathering of mourners standing around Mia’s coffin, Jen carefully surveys the crowd, a look of deep concentration on her face. She and Darby step back a little, looking on from some distance.
“Her mom and dad and her sisters are there,” Jen says, indicating those closest to the grave with a nod of her head. She continues looking. “There’s Cindy Maher. She was Mia’s next-door-neighbor, just a little older than us.” Darby eyes the short, stocky, dark-haired woman Jen is discreetly pointing at.
Next to her, a tall, blonde woman grasps the arm of a young man. “Do you know who that woman is?” Darby asks, her eyes indicating the blonde.
Jen peers at the woman, her eyes narrowed. “She looks familiar somehow,” she murmurs. “Is that Marnie?”
“Could it be?” Darby feels a jolt of adrenaline. What a break that would be!
Jen shakes her head. “No, it’s not Marnie. Definitely not.”
“Any chance it could be Adrian?” Darby asks, breathlessly. Hoping.
Jen tilts her head, studying the woman who is clinging feverishly to her young man’s arm.
“Adrian was tall and broad-shouldered like that woman,” she muses. “But she had dark hair. I don’t know . . .”
“Do you know a woman named Kristin Harmer?” Mel asks.
“No. No one by that name.”
When the graveside ceremony ends, the Buckingham son, a tall, good-looking boy, passes each funeral-goer a lily from Mia’s bouquet. One by one, they place the flower on the coffin, eyes down-cast, murmuring words heard only by themselves and possibly – hopefully – by Mia, wherever she is. As Darby places her flower on Mia’s casket she whispers, “Mia, I am so sorry. So very sorry”.
Walking back toward the chapel, Jen touches Darby’s arm. “I need to get back to school. I’ve only booked a sub for this morning. But I do want to speak with you. Can I come to the precinct around 4:30 this afternoon?
“Sure,” Darby says. “I’ll make sure I’m there.”
Jen dashes off, cutting across the grass to the parking lot.
It’s difficult in high heels, but Darby takes Mel’s arm and propells him forward, aiming to catch up with the tall blonde woman who seemed so distraught at the gravesite. “The only person fitting restaurant-lady’s description appears heart-broken,” she says, looking her partner in the eye. “Could she be the one who had dinner with Erin and golfed with Mia? Let’s see who she is.”
As they reach her, still clinging to her friend’s arm, they walk alongside the couple. Darby speaks casually to the blonde who ploughs ahead, her eyes bright. “Such a shame,” Darby says. “Did you know Mia well?”
The woman blinks. “I did,” she says. “She was my best friend. I can’t believe she’s gone.” Her eyes became glassy.
“Had you been friends a long time?” Mel asks, his manner companionable, empathetic.
“We met in Vancouver,” says the blonde, clearly anxious to talk about their relationship. “The Vancouver College of Art and Design. Our rapport was instant and we’ve been close ever since. We worked together, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” Mel says. “I’m so sorry for your loss. He holds a hand toward the woman. I’m Mel McDougal and this is my friend, Darby Greer.”
“Brittany Cross. And this is my friend, Kevin Gallant.” They talk as they walk. It turns out that Brittany and Mia worked together for years, each in her own business, consulting with one another and covering for each other when needed. They volunteered, fund-raised and attended events together. But Brittany did not golf.
IT IS 4:30 SHARP WHEN Darby’s phone rings. “There’s a woman and her daughter here to see you.”
As she opens her office door to enter the hallway, Jen and Lillia appear, both looking white and shaken. Darby ushers them in. “Have a seat. How can I help you? she asks, feeling more than a little curious. Surely she didn’t bring her daughter along to check on her husband’s cheating?
Jen sits forward, biting her lips. Absently, she rubs her daughter’s arm. Lillia sits bug-eyed, her face almost green.
“Lillia has something to tell you,” Jen says, looking intensely at the terrified girl sitting next to her.
Lillia sits trembling, tongue-tied. Darby moves from behind her desk to crouch in front of the poor child. “It’s okay, Lillia. You can tell me.”
Lillia bursts into tears. Jen reaches over to touch her back. Her voice is firm. “Lillia, you need to do this.”
“Talk to me, Lillia,” Darby says.
Lillia wraps her arms around her now-trembling body and looks at Darby through wet eyes. “I did a terrible thing,” she mutters.
Darby keeps her voice steady. “What did you do, Lillia?”
“I slut-shamed Felicity on Facebook.”
It takes a moment to register. Darby straightens, looking somewhat aghast. “It was you that posted the pictures and comments about Felicity Lang?”
Lillia nods, her face wracked with pain. Darby rises to perch on the edge of her desk, looking down on the distraught teen. Jen speaks. “Lillia has apologized and explained what she did on Facebook. A couple of weeks ago she confessed to the Lang’s. Now she is ready to face whatever consequences you need to impose on her.”
Darby speaks firmly, looking into Lillia’s eyes. “You know what you did is very serious.” Lillia nods. “I’m sure you know that Felicity almost died as a result.” Lillia nods again, tears streaming down her cheeks. “The Lang’s could press charges.” Lillia nods. Darby hesitates. I don’t want this to be too easy . . . On the other hand, it probably hasn’t been . . . “I am not going to charge you unless they do,” she says, finally. “But you know, don’t you, that if you are ever involved in cyber-bullying again you will be dealt with severely?”
Lillia nods somberly. When she speaks her voice cracks. “I know I will never do anything like that again. I promise.”
They sit there in silence. Finally, Jen rises, grasps Darby’s hands in hers and says, “Thank you, Darby.” Her misty blue eyes look into Darby’s shining dark ones.
Chapter 28 ~ Jen
Saturday, May 26
The kids and I carry on as normally as possible. We make lunches and I go to the gym first thing each morning. We all go to school. Once we’re home Logan plays with friends while Lillia hides out in her room. After dinner we speak to Darren on the phone. He doesn’t want us seeing him in jail. Prison would not look good on him. It’s not who he is.
This evening as I sit at the kitchen table after the kids have gone off to their separate rooms I gather my courage and confront him on the phone. “Sergeant Greer says that you weren
’t in Calgary at a convention the night Erin was killed. Where were you?”
“I’m sitting here in this hell-hole and you’re going to give me the third degree?” He sounds incensed.
It’s a ploy he uses, I realize suddenly. If he gets angry I stop prodding. I’m not falling for that now. “Yes, Darren. I am. You weren’t home that night. You told me you had a convention in Calgary. Where were you?”
“Fine. You can ask whatever you want. But I don’t have to answer.” And he hangs up. I feel my insides boiling. I’m like a pressure cooker that is about to explode.
It may be a mistake to do it now, but I march into Lillia’s room. She sits cross-legged, staring at her phone. She looks up, baffled. “Mom!”
“Lillia, you need to tell me what’s going on.” My muscles feel tight, my heart-beat rapid but I will not give in this time. I must know.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“You don’t talk to us. You don’t go out. You don’t do anything lately but sit here in your room. What is going on now?”
She sees the determination on my face, and she blanches. “I – I don’t have any friends. I have no life.”
I soften, and sit beside her, leaning against her bedroom wall. “Because of the incident with Felicity?” I ask.
She nods, tears springing to her eyes. “The other girls hate me for telling her. They don’t even know that we told the police, but they think they’ll get in trouble because of me. They say I betrayed them.”
“And how do you feel about telling her?” I ask softly, sitting beside her, rubbing her arm.
She thinks for a moment. “I think it’s helped her. She is about the only one who talks to me, though.” She looks at me and a half-smile creeps into her face. “Part of me feels good about that.”
We lean back, and I tell her about the guilt I’ve felt all these years; my regret over bending to peer-pressure. My fear of rejection or confrontation. A fear that has kept me from being myself. We talk and talk and talk. “It’s tough, I know, to feel you have no friends. But that will change over time. It’s harder to go through life knowing you’ve done the wrong thing.”
SATURDAY MORNING, I run around taking Logan to soccer, then dropping Lillia at gymnastics. When we’re home I leave them cleaning their rooms and put on my trendiest outfit; white t-shirt, lulu lemon pants and fitted denim jacket. “Where are you going?” Lillia asks as I poke my head into her room.
“I’m meeting Kim, a lady who works with your dad, for lunch.”
“You look great!’ she tells me.
“Have fun, Mom,” Logan says as he carries his laundry to the basement.
“I’ll be home soon!” and I breeze out the door. It’s horrible that Darren is being held in jail, but I tell myself that it’s only temporary until they find the real killer. In the meantime, I feel a sense of liberation.
THE RESTAURANT KIM chose to meet at is what she called a “hidden gem”. It’s a beautiful old house with a large, wrap-around verandah. Ornate white pillars set the tone; classy vintage décor. Kim is there when I arrive, waving happily at me. The sun shines on her auburn hair, reflecting a golden glint, showing off her beautifully moulded cheek-bones, beneath large, stylish sun-glasses. She’s wearing a silky blouse in a soft blush color that drapes attractively over tight jeans. Her long legs are crossed in front of her, a wedge heeled sandal hanging from her fine, tanned foot.
I sit across from her feeling, as usual, frumpy and inadequate. Nervous about coming across as boring and dull in contrast to her charisma and beauty. Jen, stop it! You have your own qualities, I scold myself.
“You’re looking lovely, as always,” she says, her smile warm. I melt under her charm. We order white wine and sip and chat; she makes it so easy. Then we eat. Kim has lamb merguez with herb roasted potatoes, Romesco Aioli and a side salad. I go for candied salmon with organic quinoa, brioche and asparagus. We eat and drink and talk about everything under the sun; our thoughts on politics, religion, careers, life-styles . . . I don’t even mention Darren. A warmth wraps itself around me. Sun, wine, delicious food, thought-provoking conversation; heavenly diversion.
As we pay the bill Kim winks and says with a devilish grin, “I have something to show you.”
I follow her across the verandah, down the wooden steps to the parking lot.
“I cabbed it here,” she says. “Can we take your car?”
“Sure,” I say automatically. “What is it?”
She chuckles a little. “You’ll see. I’ll give you directions,” and she opens the passenger-seat door to slide in. She has me drive a little way out of town. My curiosity is piqued, and I’m flattered. She’s sharing a secret with me? After ten minutes or so, driving along the highway, she instructs me to turn into a motel parking lot. It’s a cozy-looking place. Log cabins with mountains in the back-ground. I can hear a stream bubbling nearby.
But I don’t feel lulled by the beauty of the place. Why are we here? I remember Darby’s words. If anything seems out of the ordinary . . . And I feel my heart pounding in my chest; my insides pulsating. “Kim, I don’t think . . .”
“Don’t think. Just come,” she says, her voice rigid-sounding. I stop the car and turn to look at her. Her eyes glitter. She reaches into her pink Gucci purse, and pulls out a set of motel keys. “I’ve been wanting to show you this.”
My breath becomes shallow. “Uh – what is it?”
I watch her face transform. Beautiful one moment. Terrifying the next; twisted lips, bared teeth, eyes glaring. In her right hand she holds a small gun. It’s pointed at me.
“Park.” Her voice is cold and flat.
The knot in my stomach spreads throughout my body, and I feel numb. I breathe in gasping rasps. But I do as she says, and park the car, emerge and stand in front of it as she steps out, her gun hidden in her hand, pointed at me all the while. Can someone see us? Oh, please, someone! Help!
She moves to stand near me, and I feel the hard butt of the gun in my back. “Give me your phone,” she says. I reach into my pocket and hand it to her.
“Number 13.” We walk together toward the door. She opens it with her left hand, and shoves me in. I see a round table by the window with matching plaid curtains and table-cloth. Further back in the room is a bed next to a sink and counter, with a small, white fridge and stove tucked in the corner. The walls are log, and paintings of mountain scenes hang here and there. A room which would be, under different circumstances, appealing.
“Sit down,” she says, indicating one of the white, wooden chairs by the table. Her voice is syrupy now. Fake sweet. She smirks. Suddenly those prominent cheek-bones, large almond-shaped eyes, and full lips are evil-looking. I’m looking into the face of Satan. Where have I seen that face before?
She sits across from me and shoves a thick, folded paper at me. Her voice takes on a false cheeriness. “Go ahead. Open it.”
With trembling hands, I reach for it. I’m shaking as I take it in my finger-tips. Fumbling, clumsy I struggle to open it. At first the print swims before my eyes. I focus. In letters that appear to be cut out of magazines, is the sentence “You Will Pay,” spread across the page. I feel my throat close up. I can’t breathe through my nose. I can’t breathe through my mouth! I wheeze and feel a tiny breath of air reach my lungs. I rasp and struggle to inhale. She sits across from me silently smiling; a malignant grin.
It takes a while before I can speak, and when I do the words come out in feeble little bursts. “Why? What is this for?” I feel like a deer standing before the hunter.
She snickers. “In due time, my dear. First, I want you to look over at that bed. The bed that Darren and I share. The bed where we make wild, passionate love.”
It’s as though the words echo back at me from a chamber, and I shake my head a little; mystified. She and Darren? . . . I will pay?
“It was so easy,” she drawls. “He couldn’t stay away from me. Obviously he wasn’t getting what he needed at home.” She looks me up and do
wn with sheer contempt.
Suddenly I’m filled with rage, hot sparks, building inside me. But I spy the gun, still pointed at me, and I let my wrath churn around in my chest. I grit my teeth and say nothing. I won’t give her the satisfaction.
“The things I did for him. . .” She is enjoying herself thoroughly. “He’d never experienced before. He’d die for me, he said.”
I can feel my breath hard and mighty. My nostrils flare, but I sit. Silent.
“Have you ever licked his salty skin?” She giggles. “Everywhere? Till he squirms?” Her laugh is a quick chortle. “I lick . . . and I nuzzle . . . and I nibble . . . she closes her eyes dreamily, tilts her head back and smiles a lazy smile. “Can you picture it? Mmmm. . . He’s putty in my hands. I always had to force him to go home to you.”
Heat flushes through my tense body, but I sit. Immovable.
“And you know what?” She jerks her head forward. Her eyes shoot sparks. “I hated it. I hated him. I hated every moment.”
I hate him too. But I hate you more. I stare at her impassively.
Her demeanour shifts again, and she looks me up and down, her eyes skimming my body. She licks her lips. “You, on the other hand . . . I can almost taste your honeyed juices.” She arches her body provocatively. I feel my stomach churn. She chuckles; a low, throaty sound. “Later.”
As I sit on the hard-backed chair looking around the dim cabin my mind swirls with impossible schemes. Can I over-power her? No, not only is she bigger and stronger than I, she has a gun. No. Maybe someone will see my car? Unlikely. We’re outside town, and I left home on a lunch date. No one will be looking for me. What can I say to convince her to let me go? It must have been her that shot Erin and Mia. If they weren’t able to stop her my chances aren’t great.
“Why are you doing this?” My voice is a little peep.
She tilts her head to the side, and narrows her eyes. “Aha. Finally. Why do you think?”
I’m at a loss. I shake my head, baffled.