Later, when she’d fallen half-asleep her mom came inside and sat beside her, reeking of alcohol. Dakota started to roll away from her, but it hurt too much when her mom whimpered, so she stayed put.
“I’m sorry things are hard right now,” her mom whispered. “It’ll get better. I promise. Your dad has a meeting next week with the hospital disciplinary board. I’m sure this whole thing will blow over. You know how charming he can be.”
Dakota hated her mom like this—spineless. She’d rather her the other way, with a backbone of steel and a fistful of rage. “Hey mom . . . didn’t you have a dog named Roscoe?”
She kept her eyes closed, heard the sharp intake of her mother’s breath. “Yes. What made you think of that?”
“Oh, just this book I saw at the library. After I finished Mindhunter. There was a character named Roscoe in it. Whatever happened to him?”
Her mother didn’t answer for a long time, and Dakota wondered if she’d left. But the bed still felt warm and sunken in beside her, so she didn’t dare open her eyes. It would break the spell. “I thought I told you he ran away.”
“Did he ever come back?” Dakota thought of the collar she’d hidden in her rain boot.
“It’s not something I like to talk about. But you’re getting older now, aren’t you? I think you’re old enough to understand. Your grandpa killed Roscoe. That’s how sick he was. That’s why I left there and went to live with my mom. And that’s why I don’t want him around you. He’s dangerous, honey.”
Dakota lay very still. Her heart sounded strangely muffled in her ears. Like it was buried under a mound of dirt.
“Are you sure?”
But her mother had already gone. On her desk, she found her mother’s literary peace offering—Silence of the Lambs—with a note tucked in between the pages. Do not read at bedtime.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
(Monday August 8, 2016)
Boyd waved at Dakota from across the parking lot. He must’ve gotten there early. She glanced around for anyone she recognized—anyone who could out her to her mom—before she waved back. She left the Napa Valley Swim Club behind her and headed for the VW, anxious to hear Boyd’s news.
“Hi,” he said, shuffling from one foot to the other. He opened the passenger door for her. “I got my AC fixed.”
“I thought you couldn’t afford it.”
He shrugged, climbing in beside her. “Yeah. Funny story. One of my mom’s friends needed some help building a website for her baking business, and she hired me. So . . .”
“Oh. Okay. Well, in that case . . .” Dakota leaned over and cranked the air to full blast. Boyd laughed a little harder than she did.
“In that case,” he repeated her words. “I sort of brought an early dinner. I thought we could take it to the park down the street. If you have time. And you’re hungry. And you’re not a vegetarian.”
Dakota fidgeted with her seatbelt to avoid looking at him. He seemed different. Or maybe she was different, her heart still raw and bruised from last night. Your grandpa killed Roscoe. “That’s a lot of ifs.”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to. We can just talk here.”
But she knew it wasn’t okay by the way his voice deflated like a day-old party balloon. “It’s fine. My mom’s not coming to pick me up until five. I’m starving. And I’m about as vegetarian as Chewbacca.”
“Actually, Chewie is an omnivore. He’s not opposed to veggies. And a little-known fact, he loves fast food.”
Ten minutes later, they were seated across from each other at a picnic table, with Boyd unveiling double cheeseburgers and fries in Styrofoam containers. Something about the way he looked at her, the way he gave her his extra ketchup, made it feel like a date. A supremely awkward one. Worse than the time Hannah’s dorky cousin had asked her out.
Boyd held up a French fry. “Cheers,” he said, tapping it to hers. “To Cagedbird and Chewie, the dynamic duo.”
He smiled broadly, and Dakota shrank from the brightness of it.
“So what did you want to tell me?” she asked.
He removed a photograph from his wallet and laid it on the table in front of her with a sigh. “There’s something I haven’t told you. It’s the reason I started with all this Shadow Snoops stuff in the first place. The reason I created Leia.”
Dakota examined the picture. Two twin girls, her age, with side ponytails and matching striped sweaters and carbon-copy joy in their eyes.
“This looks like . . . uh, victim number four. Miriam Woodbury.”
“Wow. You really know this stuff. It is Miriam. And that’s her twin, Martha. My mom. This was taken just a week before Miriam went missing.”
Dakota sat, stunned. She watched Boyd take another bite. “They had a dog too, right?”
Boyd nodded. “Bucky. They’d adopted him from the SPCA. My mom told me they’d just picked him up a few weeks before. Which got me thinking. So I looked back through everything on the site, plus some stuff my mom has in storage.”
“And?”
“Not enough intel for Leia to work with. But there was this TV show clip about victim thirteen, Carrie Munroe. She had a basset hound named Buster. Her parents went on the news right after she disappeared, and they mentioned Buster had been a rescue dog. Apparently, he was fiercely protective of Carrie.”
“Do you think all the dogs were rescues?”
Boyd shrugged. “No clue. I’m not even sure the SPCA keeps records like that, especially not for thirty-something years.”
“We have to try, though, right?”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Dakota polished off the rest of her fries, politely declining when Boyd offered his. He cleaned the table too, waving her off when she tried to help.
“Does your mom talk about it? About Miriam?”
“Not anymore. The media hounded her a lot back then. Everybody was fascinated by the whole twinless twin thing, wondering if Miriam talked to her in her dreams. Or maybe even ID’d Shadow Man. Plus, I think she blames herself. She was supposed to be with Miriam, walking to the park with Bucky. They went every day after school. But she had a stomach bug, and her mom made her stay home.”
“I’m really sorry that happened to her. To your family. We’re gonna take this guy down.”
Boyd chuckled. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
“Hell yeah, I do. We’ve got Leia—and Yoda.”
“And Chewie,” he added, pointing to himself.
Dakota frowned. “Who am I then? I feel left out.”
“You’re just you,” he said, softly. “Dakota Roark, superstar investigative reporter. You don’t need an intergalactic superhero name.”
She laughed, but her stomach knotted. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. Of him. The way he was acting.
“Hey, you know, you should give me your number, so we can talk offline. About Shadow Man stuff. If you want.”
“Oh. I can’t. My parents check my phone sometimes. They’d start asking questions.” That used to be true at least. Before the Roark apocalypse.
“I can get you a burner phone. They don’t have to know.”
He spoke to his hands, never lifted his eyes. Dakota scooted off the bench and stood there, wondering what to do.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was weird, wasn’t it? I say stupid things sometimes.”
“It’s okay. Everybody does. I should probably get back to the pool though. My mom will lose it if I’m not there on time. She can be pretty scary when she’s mad. It’s not something you want to see.”
Dakota started walking, knowing Boyd would follow. In a way, she felt powerful. In another, as small and disgusting as the spider in her grandfather’s shed. Easily crushed by something bigger.
“What do you mean? She doesn’t hurt you, does s
he?”
“It’s not a big deal, Boyd. Just take me back, okay?”
“Not until you tell me.”
He looked at her then. Not like half of a dynamic duo. Or Hannah’s goofy cousin. But the pitying way an adult looks at a child. She felt ashamed for what she’d thought. What she’d accused him of in her mind. Not every guy was like her father.
“I know there’s some stuff going on with your family,” he said. “I saw the story about your dad on the news. You can talk to me about it if you want.”
Dakota shook her head and kept walking until she reached the parking lot and Boyd’s VW. She heard him behind her—his breathing, his heavy footsteps. He opened his door first, then reached across to hers. She got inside and waited for something to happen. She couldn’t say what. Only that nothing did.
AFTER
Chapter
Twenty-Six
(Monday, October 8, 2018)
Luciana’s face speaks volumes.
Volume One: Confusion. When she opens the door to the student break room, her eyes dart between me and Cole. A man whose face she recognizes only because I’d once begged her—only half-joking—to fashion an ex-husband voodoo doll. You need a picture for that, right? I’d asked.
Volume two: Shock. Her jaw drops a little, and she mouths, ¡Ay, Dios mío!
Volume three: Pity. Without so much as a scowl at Jane, she slinks into the room and takes the last seat in the Grieving Parents Group. It’s the quietest entrance Luciana’s ever made here. Possibly anywhere.
Pretending to check the clock—I’d felt every single second like a lash to my soul—I peek at Cole on my left. He’s staring straight ahead, his face a blank slate. But he smells of cigarette smoke, and I suspect the work call he ducked out to make ten minutes ago involved a Mister Marlboro. So what if he’s not the rubber ball I thought? He’s still better at faking it than I am.
“Good evening, everyone. I’d like to start things off tonight. This is my ex-husband and Dakota’s dad, Cole Roark.”
I pause, but Cole stays mute. In the seat to my right, Sawyer shifts, and I try to steady my breathing, to match it to his, my own personal metronome. Jane fidgets with her wedding ring—she’s still wearing it. Debbie, the newbie, gives me a small smile of encouragement. And Luciana raises a single eyebrow. It’s as much of a statement as those M&Ms she’d crunched to death a few weeks ago.
I keep talking—that’s my job as the Lead Basket Case—but I hold back, too.
What I say: “As many of you might have seen on the news, there were some developments in my daughter’s murder case last week.”
What I don’t say: There’s a good chance my dad is the serial killer known as Shadow Man, and my daughter was his seventeenth victim.
What I say: “It’s been quite a whirlwind, and we’re both still reeling.”
What I don’t say: We spent Sunday reliving the awkward silent-treatment phase of our marriage and waiting in vain for DNA results to confirm said Shadow Man’s identity.
What I say: “Cole is visiting from Seattle.”
What I don’t say: Where he started a new life with a woman who accused him of sexual harassment because he wouldn’t leave me for her.
What I say: “He asked to be here with us tonight.”
What I don’t say: To keep tabs on me.
“Cole, would you like to address the group?” I turn to him cautiously. All those unspoken words, bricks in a wall between us.
Just when I’m positive he’s going to pass the grief baton, he surprises me. A sharp inhale and then, “I’m not exactly sure where to begin. Talking has always been Mollie’s thing. I thought I had to be the strong one. That only she was allowed to break down. But I’m realizing that was a mistake—keeping it all bottled up. Because Mollie thought she was alone in this . . . in this nightmare . . . and I’m sorry for that. You think I would’ve handled it better since I’m a pediatric oncologist. I mean, I’ve lost my share of patients. I’ve seen grief. I thought I knew what this would be like. That I was some kind of expert. Hell, I had no fucking clue.”
The room is quiet, save for the hum of the soda machine in the corner. When I look at Cole again, he reminds me of the man he used to be.
“The crazy part is I still see her sometimes,” he says. “It’s not her—not really. I know that. But a girl will catch my eye at work or the gym or the fish market downtown, and it’ll punch me in the gut. I probably look like a total headcase, but in that split-second, I’ll forget she’s gone. That she’s never coming back.”
My eyes find Luciana’s, and she nods. She’s always told me I’m lucky to see Dakota. That it’s a gift from her spirit. A sign she’s okay. Mi querida, there are no mistakes. But me, I take it as a different sort of omen. That her spirit is restless and searching. For vengeance, for closure. Just like mine.
“It happens to me sometimes too,” Debbie says, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Last week I was riding the bus, and there was this kid a few rows in front of me—he couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty. He had the same cornrows as my Malcolm. I used to do his hair myself. Do you know I was so convinced it was him, I said his name? The kid never turned around, but I followed him for a block before I heard his friend call out to him. Wasn’t my Malcolm after all.”
Jane shares too. Since Scott moved out, she’s convinced she’s heard Harper crying. When Luciana offers her a tissue, I’m certain it must be laced with arsenic. But Jane gives her a grateful nod and blots her eyes without incident.
“I know what you mean,” she tells Jane. “Isabella laughs sometimes when I do something crazy. Which is pretty much every day. You know me. Muy loca. How can anyone tell us that it’s not real?”
The question is a dare to the universe for somebody to smack us back down to earth. When my cell buzzes in my back pocket, I already know. The same way I’d known when Dakota didn’t come back that night. Or the next. When Gus had wandered back alone. When Cole had said, Come home, Mol.
“It’s Detective Sharpe.” I announce before I remember where I am. Who I’m supposed to be here.
“Answer it,” Cole says. The group doesn’t miss a beat, chiming in with their agreement. The chorus of voices thrums in my head, pushes me forward. Even as my own dread pins me to my seat. I’m still not certain, and never will be, which is worse. The knowing or the not knowing.
“Hello?” I’m half-standing when I answer, intending to bolt out the door. To preserve one last shred of dignity. But I stay there, hunched and frozen. Like Detective Sharpe’s put a spell on me.
He says all the usual things. I’m sure he does. He must. But all I hear above the roar in my brain is this: “On Saturday, we obtained a sample of your father’s DNA from the door handle of his pickup truck. The lab determined it’s a match to the trace sample we collected from that discarded dog collar back in ’92. We’re in the process of executing a search warrant on the junkyard now.”
Sawyer catches me by the arm, passes the phone to Cole, and guides me back to my chair. If not for him, the Lead Basket Case would’ve ended up on the floor. Stone-cold sober this time.
****
Dark and empty, the parking lot at Napa Valley College resembles the dreary landscape of my soul.
I’ve sent them all away. Luciana, home. Sawyer, to the Blue Rose. Cole, to his hotel room. It’s only me and a thousand memories, thick as the cobwebs in my father’s hunting shed. Fleeting as the shadows. Even Metallica is no match. So I silence the radio, close my eyes, and let them play my own warped home movie.
Six years old, I’d clung to my mother’s hand as the judge addressed me. He’d reminded me of a king on his throne with his long robe. His gavel like a scepter.
“You say your father touched you on your private areas?”
I’d nodded, feeling like I might be sick. But I couldn’t puke. Not here in the k
ing’s chambers.
“What were you wearing when that happened?”
This wasn’t a question we’d practiced. I’d turned to my mother in a panic, certain the wrong answer would mean doom for the both of us. The king’s dungeon. A hungry dragon. No prince to save us.
“Don’t look at your mother. Just talk to me.”
Instead, my eyes had veered across the aisle to the other bench, where my father sat with his shoulders slumped and his cheeks wet. Was he crying?
Right then, my mother’s lie disintegrated inside me. The way witches in fairytales disappear in a puff of black smoke. Dad had never hurt me. He never would. Not unless I deserved it. Like the time I’d jumped out from behind the sofa and scared him. Of course, he’d shaken me so hard my teeth rattled. I’d reminded him of Charlie.
I’d believed that. I’d actually believed it. Until that day—fifteen years old and branded a spy. Stripped down to my bra and panties in the hunting shed.
I’d felt like an alien creature, the way he’d stared at me.
“What are you hiding?” he’d asked when I’d tried to cover myself. And he’d flinched when I’d whimpered.
He’d taken a step toward me. Then another and another. Grabbed my wrist and pulled me to him, his fingers twisting, burning me like a rope. Every whispered word came on a cloud of malt liquor, but at least he sounded like himself again. “Put your goddamn clothes on, Mol. And don’t you dare ever let any man humiliate you again. Understand me?”
It’s ironic, then, that when I open my eyes, Cole’s face is in the driver’s side window, frowning. His fist poised above it, about to knock. We both startle.
“Do you know how dangerous it is to fall asleep in your car? In an empty parking lot? God, Mollie.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” I say, rolling down the window. “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you went back to your fancy hotel to watch pay-per-view and call your girlfriend.”
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