The Devil Made Me

by Lorena May

  Em sits, feeling breathless, waiting for the onslaught.

  Darby leans toward her, sadness clouding her features. “Em, I’m not one hundred percent sure it’s Scarlett, but we’ve recovered the body of a young woman from the river.”

  Em stiffens, but remains silent. Thoughts and pictures crash and smash, pell-mell through her mind. She gasps for air. It’s been slammed out of her.

  “I’m so sorry,” Darby says, wiping a tear from her eye.

  They sit. The ticking of the clock on the wall, voices outside the room, the hum of the fridge fill the silence. Finally, Em speaks. She feels as though her mouth is full of cotton.

  “Wearing a red dress?”

  Darby nods.

  “Can I see her?”

  “That would be helpful. Then we’d know for sure if it’s her.”

  “Yes.” The two women stand. Darby debates a moment, then, tentatively she reaches out to hug the grief-stricken woman who stands stiffly in front of her. Em lets her.

  THE ROOM IN THE MORGUE is sparse and bare, with nothing but two rows of large stainless-steel doors one stacked above the other. As Darby and Em enter Darby speaks to the mortuary attendant while Em slumps against a wall, her face ashen, pupils huge.

  Darby rests her hand on Em’s arm. “Do you feel ready for this?”

  “Yes.”

  They follow the attendant. He pulls open a drawer, and slides the slab out, lowering the sheet on the corpse lying there. A low, tortured moan escapes Em’s lips as she stares at the body of her sister. Scarlett lies in quiet repose, her hair pulled back, eyes, closed. Her face is lifeless. The devilish spark, her exuberance, her vibrant spirit is gone.

  Em approaches the table, tears streaming down her face. She bends to kiss her sister’s cheek, touch her hair, whispers, “Oh, Scarlett. Why? ...”

  Darby stands back, speaking softly with the attendant. “Do they know the cause of death?”

  “We haven’t done the autopsy yet, but she does have a large contusion on her head. Large enough that it could be the cause. Possibly the body was tossed around after drowning. We’ll know later this week.”

  Finally, Em leaves her sister’s side. The attendant holds a bag toward Darby. Em sees Scarlett’s red dress, ripped and torn, through the clear plastic. “I’ll send your sister’s personal effects with Sergeant Greer, for now,” he tells the distraught woman. “Until we determine whether or not there was foul play.”

  Em nods mechanically, and walks out the door. Darby follows.

  EM STARES STRAIGHT ahead as they drive back to the Hogshead. A myriad of thoughts swirl chaotically in her head. Why was Scarlett in the river? She seemed happy - not suicidal - that night. What ‘wrong people’ was Scarlett mixed up with? Did they kill her? Did Jed? To keep her from talking about what they witnessed as children?

  Em feels a steely resolution overtaking her. Scarlett would not have wandered to the river for no reason. She would not kill herself. If Em tells the police about the man who is threatening them will Abi be hurt? Or killed?

  Darby glances at the rigid woman sitting in the passenger’s seat. “How are you doing?” she asks.

  Em doesn’t answer for a moment. Then, “I know this couldn’t have been an accident. And she didn’t kill herself.”

  Darby waits for her to continue. She doesn’t. “You think someone killed her?” Darby asks finally.

  “She was happy that night. Excited even.” Em chews on a cuticle. “But she did seem anxious. She said she’d be back soon. Why would she walk through that forest and fall or jump in the river?” Em is suddenly animated. “Yes. Someone killed her. We need to find that person.” She clenches her jaw and adds, after some thought, “or persons.”

  “I understand that a dangerous-looking guy came to your house and threatened to hurt Abigail if you didn’t come up with twenty-thousand dollars,” Darby says, slowing for a red light, turning to pin Em with her eyes. “Do you think her death is connected?

  Em breathes a sharp intake. “You know about that?” How?

  “Matthew told us, and it’s a good thing he did. We won’t do anything to put Abigail in danger. I only know that some guy appeared at your house driving a black jag. The description we have is of a big, burly guy, bald with a scar on his right cheek. He told them that Scarlett was messing with the wrong people, and that you needed to come up with twenty-thousand dollars by Friday.”

  Em chews her lip a moment. “I looked in Scarlett’s room and found an envelope with ten thousand dollars in it, and an expensive-looking man’s ring.”

  Darby’s eyes flash with curiosity. “A ring. Interesting. Let’s go back to the detachment and take a look at Scarlett’s effects. See if we can piece anything together. I’ll drop you at your truck after that.”

  Em feels a surge of what might be, under happier circumstances, excitement. “Thanks for including me,” she says.

  ONCE SHE IS GLOVED, Darby scatters Scarlett’s belongings on a tray to be taken for finger-printing and DNA testing later. There is not much there.

  “That’s the red dress she wore that night,” Em says, staring at the contents - or lack of - before her. “And that’s her purse.” She points to a small, white, leather hand-bag. Darby opens it. Her lipstick, mascara, blush – are partly dissolved into an oily, sickening mess.

  Darby pulls a pink thong and matching bra from the bag along with sodden, wilted high-heeled shoes. “Her phone is not here.” The police woman’s brow furrows.

  “But she sent me texts.” Em gives the detective an incredulous look.

  “Can I see the texts she sent you?” Darby asks.

  Em pulls her phone from her pocket, and fiddles with it a moment, bringing up the texts she’s received from her sister. She hands the phone to Darby who stares at it intently.

  ‘I’ve decided to stay away for a bit.’

  ‘I’m ok. Stop worrying.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s impossible for me right now. I’ll pay you back when I get home. Just pay the money. Please don’t contact the police.’

  Scrolling back, Darby’s eyes flicker with excitement.

  She sees a text from Scarlett: ‘u busy 2nte?’

  Em: ‘no’

  Scarlett: ‘Hogshead?’

  Em: ‘ok’

  Scarlett: ‘OMWH cu soon!’

  A note of enthusiasm creeps into Darby’s voice. “The first text she sent you after her disappearance was, ‘I’ve decided to stay away for a bit.’ Right?

  Em feels a rush of adrenaline. “Yes. They’re very different. I sensed that at the time, but... I guess I wanted it to be her.”

  Darby throws her a look of understanding. “Of course you did. Who wouldn’t? It seems likely it’s an older person sending these texts from her phone. Or maybe someone who doesn’t text much. Okay if I photograph the stream of texts between you and Scarlett?”

  “Sure.” Em nods vigorously.

  “Em, if it is Jed you could be in danger. I want to get a search warrant, but we need to get your permission to testify, if necessary. Would you do that?”

  Em is silent, thinking. “Yes,” she says, finally.

  “And, Em, I’d like to talk to your father, David Sims. Do you know where we can find him?”

  Em looks heavenward, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Last I knew he was living on the streets in Red Deer.”

  “I’m sorry,” Darby murmurs. “She places her hands gently on Em’s forearms, looking fixedly into her eyes. “We’ll find this fu - this creep,” she says. “Whoever did this.” This fucker!

  Chapter 16

  - Darby~

  The Ritz is the most upscale restaurant in Rockydale. A pianist sits at a Grand piano in the corner playing ‘Lara’s Theme’. Chandeliers and candles on small, round tables emit soft light, and waiters in black and white dart here and there pleasing well-heeled patrons.

  Darby takes another sip of wine. It’s been a horrible day, but she’s learning to compartmentalize and put it aside for now.
The picture of Scarlett crumpled in the ditch – lying on a slab in the morgue – a life extinguished far too soon. She shoves the images to the back of her mind and concentrates on the moment. Take a deep breath. Another sip of wine.

  She looks across the table at Jim, who is telling a funny story about his struggles with putting up Christmas lights. His dulcet voice and amusing banter wash pleasantly over her, and she listens dreamily, chuckling along with him. They talk about his horse, Duke, and hers, Bojangles. They compare the animal’s idiosyncrasies; their comical behaviors. Jim chuckles, telling her about the funny little dance Duke does when Jim arrives at the stables.

  She counters. Bojangles lets out a bellowing whinny as soon as she senses Darby nearby; before even seeing her. “I’ve tested her. She has a sixth sense. No matter how quietly I creep . . .” Darby’s laughing eyes sparkle.

  “Maybe we could take Skye and her new friend riding this week-end?” Jim says, his dimples furrowing in his cheeks as he smiles.

  “I have Sunday off,” Darby says. “I think she’d love that. I’ll ask her tonight.”

  They dine on filet mignon in a rich mushroom sauce, fresh, perfectly cooked vegetables and garlic mashed potato. And more wine.

  “I’m glad you agreed to see me again,” Jim says, affection glowing in his eyes.

  Darby breathes in a rush of air. The fleeting, relaxed feeling slips away. I owe him an explanation. She trembles inwardly, searching for the right words. “I- I’m sorry I behaved so weirdly that day at the pub,” she says. “I had a bad experience. I can’t get involved with anyone.”

  His brow furrows a little. “Can’t?”

  She looks away, running her hands through her hair. Hair that just two hours ago she spent time blow-drying and styling. “Won’t. It was pretty bad. I panic at the thought of romance.” Chewing her lip, she peers at him through glossy eyes. “I’m sorry, Jim, if you hoped for more. I just want to be friends.”

  He nods, slowly, pressing his lips together. “Okay”.

  A thought occurs to her suddenly. She tilts her head, looking at him through narrowed eyes. “That night - did you follow me home?” She picks up her wine glass, drinks. Liquid courage. “I thought I saw someone sneaking around the front yard.”

  He looks at her, setting hands on the table, palms up. “I was worried about you. You left so suddenly.”

  He followed me? A chill creeps up her spine. “And then you went to Fort McMurray for six months?” She feels the laughter disappear from her eyes.

  “A job came up.” He sets his jaw. No longer smiling.

  Chapter 17

  Em~

  How can Scarlett be dead? This is a nightmare. Soon she’ll wake up. None of this will have happened. Em lives in a fog with one stream of clarity. The need for revenge. Not just revenge. The need to know. What was Scarlett into? Who had her sister become, really? Was she just the happy-go-lucky, live-for-the moment, loving person Em had always known? Or was there a darkness she kept secret?

  When Em arrives home Sheba rushes to greet her, tail wagging, making little moaning sounds deep in her throat. Does she sense something amiss? Falling to her knees, Em buries her head and threads her fingers through the dog’s long, soft fur. All the pain, the horror, the sorrow she feels escapes her chest in long, loud sobs. She cries with abandon while Sheba nuzzles her neck, and patiently, gently comforts her. No friend is more loyal than a dog.

  She kneels there, breathing in the crisp winter air and the tangy smell of pine trees that line that path to the house. It’s dark early now, and a soft sunset - oranges, pinks and purples - is sinking behind the hills. Em looks into the sky and cries, “Scarlett, can you see this? Are you part of it? Can you hear me? I wish I’d told you how much you mean to me. Wish we’d talked. Wish I wasn’t such a loser. Wish I’d let you in. Why you?” She raises her face to the sky and wails like a wounded rabbit. Scarlett! Beautiful . . . fun . . .laughing. . . lover of life . . .

  Slowly, she stands and they walk to the front step, the snow crunching beneath their feet. It is dim and silent when Em opens the door. No one is home. She sloughs off her boots, hangs her parka on the hook in the porch and steps up into the kitchen. A piece of paper on the counter tells her, in Abigail’s neat, round printing, that Abi is with Matthew. He’s taken her to his parent’s house for dinner. She may be home late.

  Em sits at a chair, her head in her hands, elbows resting on the table. She is depleted; empty. She stares out the window into the darkness. A full moon shines in the distance now. All around are shadows. Blackness.

  Her phone buzzes. A text. It’s Luka. ‘How are you?’

  She answers, ‘ok’.

  ‘What did police say?’

  She trembles as she texts back. ‘Scarlett’s dead’

  His response is slow to come. ‘You alone?’

  ‘Yes’

  ‘Want company?’

  Em takes a deep breath. Does she? A week ago she’d have said, ‘No. Definitely not.’ But tonight she wants him there.

  ‘Yes,’ she replies.

  SHE’S STILL SITTING at the kitchen table in a trance, when his headlights beam through the window. She hears the car door slam, and footsteps on the porch. A lurch of excitement charges through her chest as she rises to answer the door. Opening it, seeing his face, eyes filled with tenderness, is like being swathed in a snug blanket on a bitter night. Tears well up behind her eye-lids as the tension slips from her body. She falls into his arms and cries softly. The warmth and firmness of his chest, his strong arms wrapped around her, his gentle voice . . . He feels so solid. So good.

  “Come. Tell me the happy things about your sister,” he murmurs into her hair, slowly releasing her. She walks to the fridge, grabs two Coronas, hands him one and, without speaking, wanders into the living room. Shuffling across the nubby old carpet she lands on a couch that has seen better days. Gathering her legs beneath her, she looks up at him, her face shining. “She was crazy. A good kind of crazy.” Em smiles.

  Luka drops onto the love-seat across from her and chuckles a little. “Great dancer!” he says.

  Her eyes take on a far-away look. “She loved to dance. To party and laugh and sing. She always did. When our mother was alive we’d gather around the piano. Mom played and we sang. Scarlett could play too. Sometimes my dad would put on his calypso records and she’d dance – she’d perform - not just for us, but for anyone who was there.”

  “I think she – what is it you say? Lived life to the fullest.”

  Em smiles, her eyes glossy. “She did. I always admired her. She looked like my mom. Blonde and beautiful. And she became my mom, kind of, when Mom died.” She looks at Luka, her eyes filled with pain, and her voice cracks. “She’d bandage my cuts and scrapes and kiss them better. Hug me when I was sad.” Tears stream down Em’s cheeks. “She tried so hard with me – to make me popular and nice like her. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t speak or laugh or do the things she tried to show me.” She shrugs, closing her eyes and lowering her chin into her chest. “She loved me anyway.”

  Luka moves, tentatively, to the couch where Em sits silently crying, and bends to hug her. She sobs softly into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Emily,” he whispers. “So sorry.”

  She wants him near her, and reaches up to wrap her arms around his neck, gently pulling him down to sit beside her. “My dad,” she says. “I don’t know if it’ll register, but I have to tell him.”

  “Register?”

  “He’s a junkie. A bad junkie.” She grinds her jaw, staring into space. “Our mother died giving birth to Abigail. Dad worked on construction. He’d always been away a lot and suddenly he had us to look after. I think he got in with the wrong people and started dealing drugs. And using them.” She sighs deeply, staring at Luka to gauge his reaction. “Pretty different from your family, eh?”

  Luka shakes his head slowly. “We are not so perfect, Jamila.”

  She looks up at him through questioning eyes.

&n
bsp; “My family is very strict, very traditional. Unforgiving.” He clamps his mouth shut.

  “My dad lives on the streets now,” she continues. “He tried, I think. Raising three girls can’t have been easy . . .”

  “He had help?” Luka asks.

  “Sometimes a housekeeper, but Scarlett mostly. Scarlett was the loving one, and I was the responsible one.” She shrugs, grimacing.

  “Have you lived together always?” Luka asks.

  “Abi and I lived with my dad until I finished school, but he was pretty much falling apart. I got a job delivering for UPS in Red Deer and Abi and I moved to a small apartment. She finished school there.”

  “Scarlett didn’t live with you then?”

  “Scarlett went to Calgary and worked in a restaurant. I was never sure where she was or what she was doing.” Em’s face contorts and her voice becomes squeaky. “I feel like I should have known. I should have helped her.”

  “But she’s the older one.”

  Em’s face is grim. “I’m the sensible one. That was my role. And I fucked it up.”

  “But you did eventually move in together here?”

  “Yeah. I’d saved a bit of money, and Abi was working by that time. Scarlett was sick of the city, she said, so we bought it together. Just last year.”

  “So you did help her.”

  Em blows a puff of air through her lips. “I didn’t. I didn’t listen to her. We were so close once, but I let her down.”

  “You went with her to the Hogshead when she asked,” Luka persists.

  Her head falls back against the sofa. “Yeah. But we didn’t talk much. She’s always done a lot for me. And it’s not like I had anything better to do.”

  She looks up at his face. The light growth of stubble on his strong chin. His clear, earnest eyes, the muscle twitching in his jaw. Strangely, despite her grief, she wants him. She aches with need. Twisting to face him, she strokes his cheek with her hand, and touches her lips to his. He jerks upward a moment; surprised. Then, he kisses her back. Full and soft, his kiss is tender at first, becoming ardent, more and more passionate. Fiery warmth spreads throughout her body. The tang of hops greets her tongue as she slips it into his mouth. His musky scent, burly arms pulling her closer, broad shoulders beneath her fingers . . . She is limp with lust. Lost in passion and could it be? Love?