I removed the book from my bag and opened it to the poem in question. Aunt Laura read through it and then said, “You know, no matter what Olivia told her teacher, it could be the truth, or it could be a lie.”
“Have you ever known Olivia to be dishonest?”
She considered the question. “I have not. However, I believe she would if it meant protecting someone else.”
Aunt Laura was making a valiant effort to debunk Olivia’s story. I didn’t blame her. I reached for the folder Olivia’s teacher gave me and set it on the table. “Leslie Bartlett had this folder in her desk drawer. It contains several other poems Olivia wrote during the years she took creative writing. I came straight here when I left, and I haven’t gone through them yet.”
“Well, let’s have a look, shall we?”
We opened the folder, browsing through half a dozen poems. Five of them were inspired by birds, trees, and sunsets. They all had notes written at the top in red pen. The same type of note Leslie Bartlett had written on the other poem I’d read. The writing said: Olivia Spencer 2016, Olivia Spencer 2017, Olivia Spencer 2018. I figured these were the poems included in The Looking Glass. The last poem was different. It had no writing at the top, and unlike the others, it had a title: “Malevolence.” I set it on top of the stack. Aunt Laura scooted her chair closer to mine, and I began to read aloud.
* * *
deception marks her pain
she looks upon his face and
realizes she’s been forsaken
the illusion she once had
has been broken …
shattered into irreparable pieces
* * *
she doesn’t know him
or maybe she never knew him
* * *
he extends a hand toward hers
and she flinches, drawing back
he tries again, demanding she
appease his request
once again, he is refused
* * *
his eyes narrow revealing a bitter coldness
she’d never seen before until now
* * *
she turns with a singular thought in mind
RUN … run until you can’t run any longer
* * *
she prepares to take flight
halting as fingers
twist around her neck
reeling her back
back toward him
back toward the long, dark void
* * *
she struggles, wrestling to release
herself from the strength of his grip
but it’s too late
* * *
from this moment on
he owns her
body and soul
there’s no escaping him
not anymore
* * *
Poem finished, I set it over the others and glanced at Aunt Laura. She shook her head at me. “This is heavy stuff, Gigi. As much as I want to spare her the pain of it all, it’s time to call Barb. We need to find out what in the hell is going on.”
Chapter 12
Barb arrived about thirty minutes later and joined us outside. Aunt Laura was prepared, having set Barb up with her own glass of rum and Coke. I was anxious to rattle off the questions running through my mind as soon as Barb sat down, but Aunt Laura stopped me, convincing me to allow her to be the one to break the ice.
“Last night, Georgiana looked through the poetry book she found in Olivia’s bedroom, and … well, a couple of the poems are disturbing, to say the least,” Aunt Laura said.
Barb crossed one leg over the other, glanced at me, then at Aunt Laura. “All of the poems Olivia read to us were all about simple, everyday things. None of them were serious in nature.”
Aunt Laura shifted in her seat. “Barb, I’m going to be straight with you, because I know you’d prefer me to come right out with it. Two of the poems were about sexual assault. What I mean to say is, we believe they’re about a woman who had been raped.”
Barb gasped. “Raped? Why would she have written about such a thing?”
“Olivia’s teacher wondered the same thing. When she asked her about it, Olivia said the poem was about you.”
Barb raised a brow. “About me? In what way?”
“According to Olivia, when she was sixteen, you told her you had been raped when you were younger.”
The rum and Coke Barb was holding slipped from her hand, the plastic cup tipping over on the ground, saturating the wooden deck with liquid.
“What in the hell are you talking about, Laura?” Barb asked. “You can’t be serious. And as for this teacher … I don’t care what she’s told Detective Germaine. She’s got it all wrong.”
Aunt Laura gave me a slight nod, passing the baton.
“I think it would be best if we show you the poems so you can see for yourself,” I said.
I had both poems queued up and ready. I passed them over to Barb and then sat back, waiting while she read them. Barb scrutinized every word and then teared up, burying her head in her hands.
“I—no,” Barb said. “I have no idea who these are about. But I can assure you, they’re not about me.”
Aunt Laura and I exchanged glances.
Barb looked at me. “I don’t even know if I want to ask this or not, but I will. What else did Olivia’s teacher say to you?”
“She said you decided to share your story about being raped with Olivia when you felt she was old enough to hear it. Olivia said it was because you were trying to warn her about what some boys could be like.”
“Nonsense,” Barb said. “I did no such thing, nor would I. I have a hard time believing my daughter would fabricate a story like this either. None of this makes sense to me.”
Aunt Laura draped an arm around Barb’s shoulder. “I’m sorry we blindsided you with this, Barb. We’re learning as we go, just like you are. Let me make you a cup of tea, okay?”
Barb stood and made her way to the bathroom. I followed Aunt Laura to the kitchen. Once there, I said, “Well, what do you think? Do you believe her?”
“Did you see the surprised look on Barb’s face when she read those poems? There’s no way they’re about her. I would have known about it. Barb wouldn’t lie to me, Gigi.”
I felt like I was playing a game of Connect 4, and all my red and yellow disks had just slipped through the bottom. Every time I thought I was getting ahead, I was pulled right back to the beginning again. If Barb was telling us the truth, and I believed she was, it meant Olivia had lied to her teacher, or her teacher had lied to me.
The question was—why?
Had Olivia lied because the poems were about herself?
Had Leslie Bartlett lied because she was trying to protect Olivia or someone else?
Maybe the poems were about one of Olivia’s friends, a friend whose name she couldn’t divulge for fear of what the teacher would do.
Aunt Laura rested a hand on my shoulder. “You okay, honey?”
“I don’t know. I wish I knew the truth about these poems.”
“I have no doubt you’ll get to the bottom of it. You always do.”
She brewed a cup of tea and delivered it to Barb, and I hung back, considering a third option. Perhaps the poems weren’t about anyone and had been a figment of Olivia’s imagination. No, it didn’t seem plausible. They were too detailed—too filled with emotion.
Any way I sliced it, a lie had been told.
And I was hellbent on getting to the truth.
Chapter 13
“So you just want a couple of coats of light-pink nail polish? No acrylics? No pedicure?”
I nodded and took a seat opposite Abigail Nichols. She was an attractive girl, with a narrow face and bright blue eyes. She had a two-inch scar on the top of her head that I couldn’t stop staring at no matter how hard I tried. I wondered how she’d gotten it.
After the initial pleasantries had been exchanged, I said, “While I’m here, I’d like to talk to you about Oli
via Spencer.”
Abigail stopped removing the old layer of polish on my fingernails and released my hand. She leaned closer to me, lowered her voice, and said, “Who are you … a cop?”
“I’m the detective working on Olivia’s case.”
Abigail glanced around the salon. “I can’t talk to you here, not while I’m working. After I finish your nails, I have a break. It’s not long. Twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes is fine.”
For the remainder of my nail session, we stuck to basic topics. I learned Abigail was in college, majoring in environmental science. She still lived with a few roommates, and she was single.
Nails finished, we headed outside, sitting on a bench in front of an accounting office a few doors down. While I considered the questions I wanted to ask, Abigail studied a bird perched on a branch of a nearby tree.
“He’s a ruby-crowned kinglet,” I said.
She eyed me, curious. “What?”
“The bird you’re looking at.”
“How do you know he’s male and not female?”
“See the red patch on his crown?”
She squinted at the bird. “Yeah, I guess.”
“The red patch is concealed most of the time. It’s how I know he’s not female.”
She nodded. “Cool. Have you studied birds or something?”
“I’ve been fascinated by birds ever since I was a kid. My parents used to buy me field guides, and by the time I was thirteen, I could identify almost every variety of bird in North America.”
“Why did you want to become a detective?”
“My father was a detective, one of the best. What made you decide to study environmental science?”
“I love animals. I’m hoping to work as a zoologist when I finish school.” She fiddled with the rings on her right hand, her expression turning grim. “I stayed home from work yesterday. After I heard about what happened to Olivia, I couldn’t even function. I curled up in bed and thought about the last time Olivia and I were together. I was a jerk to her. I said some stupid things—things I’d take back if I could.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her I wouldn’t be a bridesmaid in her wedding, even though my mom was trying to force me to do it anyway.”
“Why was your mom forcing you?” I asked.
“She’s friends with Olivia’s mom.”
“Why didn’t you want to be part of the wedding? Is it because you didn’t approve of her relationship with Casper?”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t about whether I approved of him or not. I didn’t know him. None of us did. And the couple of times she tried to involve him in our group hangouts, he clammed up the second we started talking to him. It was like he had no interest in getting to know us.”
From what little time I’d spent with Casper, I’d noticed he was awkward and a bit withdrawn. I guessed he was an introvert who may have come across like he had no interest.
“One thing I’ve learned about relationships is that there’s a side every couple sees in each other that the outside world doesn’t, a sacred bond which is separate from everything and everyone else,” I said. “If he had given you the chance to get to know him instead of shutting you and everyone else in your group out, I think you would have seen him in a different way.”
She shrugged. “Yeah, well, it’s too late now.”
“Casper and Olivia were supposed to go to dinner the night she died. He showed up at her work close to the timeframe of her murder. In your opinion, could he have been involved in Olivia’s death somehow?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’m not the best person to ask.” She brushed a lock of her long, auburn hair over her ear. “What happened to Olivia is one of the cruelest things a person could do to someone. I feel like the person responsible has to be someone who isn’t right in the head. Don’t you think?”
“Depends on the motive. Can you think of anyone who didn’t like her or had a problem with her for some reason?”
She fiddled with her rings a bit more, twisting them around and around her fingers.
“Abigail, if there is someone I should look into, I need a name,” I said.
“I don’t know anyone who had a motive to kill her, but there is someone who was even angrier than I was about her relationship with Casper.”
“Who?”
“Shawn Murphy, Olivia’s ex-boyfriend.”
“How long ago were they together?”
“Let me put it this way … they dated off and on all throughout high school, until Olivia met Casper. Then she broke up with Shawn for good.”
And the seed of jealous rage was planted.
“What did Shawn do after the breakup?” I asked.
“He harassed her. We’d finished lunch one day at a restaurant, and I stopped to use the restroom on the way out. It was cold outside so Olivia went to the car to turn the heater on. When I walked outside, Shawn had pinned Olivia against the driver’s-side door. He was standing there, in broad daylight, cussing her out. If I wouldn’t have intervened, who knows how far he would have gone.”
“When did this happen?”
She thought about it. “About four months ago. I begged her to get a restraining order, and she wouldn’t do it. I think she wanted to, but she was afraid of him. Shawn’s a big guy. He was popular in school, and he’s used to getting his way.”
“Did Casper know about Shawn?”
“I think so. One of the last times I saw Olivia, she had bruises on one of her shoulders. She’d tried to cover them up with a sweatshirt, but when she dropped her wallet and bent over to pick it up, I saw them.”
“When was this?”
“A couple of months ago.”
“Did you ask her about the bruises?”
She nodded. “I asked if Casper was abusing her. She said no. Then I asked her how she got the bruises, and she said it didn’t matter because soon she’d be out of this town for good.”
“Why do you think she wanted to leave here?”
“I don’t know. She hated it here, but she never said why.”
“Did Olivia ever share any of the poetry she wrote with you?”
“We took creative writing class together. I shared some of mine with her, and she shared some of hers with me.”
“A couple of poems she wrote were about rape.”
Abigail leaned back and crossed her arms. “Yeah, Mrs. Bartlett pushed us to express the things in society no one likes to talk about. Sometimes it meant the topics we wrote about were heavy. It’s just writing. It’s no big deal.”
“How is writing about rape no big deal?”
“Rape happens more than most people think. Did you know one in four women are assaulted in some way before they turn twenty-one? We’re the ones being assaulted, and we don’t talk about it because we’re too afraid. It’s messed up.”
I thought about her use of the word we.
Was she referring to herself?
Or was she making a generalization about all women?
“Abigail, was Olivia raped?” I asked.
“What? No. She wasn’t.”
“What about you? Have you ever been assaulted in some way?”
She shook her head and stared at the ground, avoiding eye contact. “I haven’t ever been, well, in a real relationship with another guy before. Not yet anyway. I’m still a … you know, a virgin.”
“What about Olivia’s mother?” I asked.
“What about her?”
“Did Olivia ever say anything about her mother being raped?”
Abigail’s eyes widened, and she looked at me like it was the craziest question she’d ever been asked. “Are you serious?”
“I am.”
She tapped the face of her watch and the display came up. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and … I need to get back to work.”
I checked the time. I still had five minutes, and I intended to spend every second of it getting as much out of her as
possible.
“Can I show you something?” I asked.
She breathed a hearty sigh and said, “Yeah, I guess so.”
I pulled a baggie of photos out of my purse and showed them to her. “I found these inside Olivia’s bedroom safe. Any idea who the girl might be?”
Abigail studied the photos. “Wow. I … no. I mean, the face has been ripped off. How would I know who she is?”
“What about the background? Does it remind you of any place around here?”
“I don’t think so.”
Abigail stood, and we walked back toward the salon together.
“Hey, one last thing before you go. You’re friends with Roxie, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“What’s Roxie’s last name, and where can I find her?”
“Moreno. She just got a job at some doctor’s office. Think his name is Paulson or Parson.”
“Pearson?”
“Sounds right. You know him?”
“A bit. He used to share an office with my brother-in-law before he …”
Before he died.
I cut the rest of the sentence short and instead handed Abigail my card. “If you think of anything else, anything at all, I want you to call me.”
Chapter 14
Dr. Terry Pearson tossed a satchel onto the passenger seat of his mint-green pickup truck and walked in my direction, inspecting my ’37 Jaguar SS100 convertible like a child eyeing a shiny new toy he’d dreamt about owning for ages. Aside from growing out his reddish hair into a longer, shaggier look, he appeared much the same as he did when I’d met him a year before. He even sported the same thin, silver hoop earring in his ear.
“I’ll be honest, I was hoping I’d catch you cruising around town in this old classic one day. It’s a beauty.” He ran a hand along the car’s hood and then turned his attention to me. “How’s your sister doing these days … and Lark, your niece?”
Little Broken Things Page 6