Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1) (26 page)

As I fed the last bite of grilled cheese to Steve, he parted his lips in a boyish expression, and a feeling of angst came to me. What I’d done, what I’d
selfishly
done, was risk having Michael and Snacks taken from us, taken away by child services in the event of being caught. We only needed to be suspected of something to have that agency pay us a visit. I wanted to say something to Steve, felt compelled to say something, but held onto my worries.

“Love you,” Steve said, still chewing. “So you’ll go? Take the kids?”

“Yes,” I said, but without the endearing tone he’d wanted to hear. He stopped chewing and pouted his lips, staying like that until I kissed him good-bye.

“Good,” he answered. “I bet that it’ll do more for you than you know.”

“Get out of here so I can make Snacks another sandwich,” I said, nudging him.

The anxiety about visiting my mother made the time pass quickly, and before I knew it, she was greeting us at the door. There was love in her eyes for Snacks and Michael, and a flash of derision for me. I’d come to accept this as a part of our “normal.”

I searched the lawn for the stump from the big oak tree but only found green—lots of green that had been stitched together. She’d had the stump removed and put new grass in its place. It looked sad like that.

He’s all gone now,
I thought sadly. It was as though the roots of my father’s life had been yanked out too, disappearing forever from this world.

“Water the roots, not the petals.” I suddenly heard his voice in my head and bent over, tears coming to my eyes. “Understand, Amy? If you water the petals, what will happen?” my father asked me.

“They’ll burn in the sunlight, Daddy,” I’d answered him.

“That’s right. So what do we do?”

“We only water the roots, not the petals.”

“Good girl. Remember that. Make the roots good and strong—then they’ll survive anything.”

I cried, remembering the words we’d shared when he showed me how to tend his garden. And without warning, I felt my mother’s hand on my back, comforting me. The emotion of missing my father was overwhelming and zapped what little strength I had. Michael and Snacks came to my side too.

“What is it?” my mother asked, but I couldn’t get the words out and motioned to where the oak tree had been. “That old thing? Again?”

“It was the last of him,” I said. “Of Daddy.”

“Nonsense,” she countered. “There is plenty of him right here. There will always be plenty of him.” But I shook my head, disagreeing with her more out of rehearsed instinct than anything thoughtful.

“He’s gone,” I repeated sharply.

“He’s
here
,” she said, patting her hand on Snacks’s little heart. “And
here
,” she repeated, tapping Michael’s heart. The kids smiled and nodded the way kids do when they’re not quite sure about what grown-ups are saying.

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, understanding and drying my eyes.

“And,” my mom said, tearing up with me, “he’s here with
you
Amy, always will be.” She laid her hand on my chest.

“T
HIS IS BITTER
,” I said, sipping and cringing but wanting to laugh at the sharp taste in my mouth. As my mother explained it, her international tea club was on a monthly exchange, trading and sharing the delights from their respective hometowns. And for this cold, wintery month, she had received a tidy little bag of Asian tea she couldn’t remember the name of, let alone pronounce. “Mom, not sure what country that came from, but I swear that looks like pot.”

“Amy!” she blurted and motioned to Snacks and Michael. Michael’s head was down, but it lifted a moment and then dipped again, his attention locked on his phone. Snacks was adrift in a sea of couch pillows, rolling around on the floor. I waved off what I said, laughing. I really needed to laugh. And we rarely ever shared anything funny. The corner of her mouth curled as she fingered the plastic baggie, tugging on a leafy green bud. “Who knows? Could be good.” She giggled and gulped a mouthful. When she cringed and shook her head wildly, we both laughed until we couldn’t breathe. I needed that.

“Maybe you grabbed the wrong baggie?” I joked, trying to keep the humor going, keep our spirits up.

My mother swung her chin toward the wall of open moving boxes and said in a discouraging tone, “Your father collected so much stuff . . . it’s been overwhelming. I loved the man but had no idea how much baggage he really had.” We both let out a light laugh at the humor, but the sight of all the boxes made me sad. It wasn’t the home I’d grown up in. Not anymore.

I dared another sip, partly curious and partly earnest, wondering if it
was
a bag of dope. Loose tea leaves floated high in my cup—a tall, slender cup. “Because that’s how best to steep this particular type,” my mother had said. A curled leaf slowly rolled open in the hot water like a young butterfly drying its papery wings before their first flight. Disappointing. I could tell by the shape that we were drinking nothing but tea. I decided to keep that to myself and slurped to avoid the heat. More leaves opened up and a few fell away, sinking toward the bottom, having a lazy swim in the hot water. I rubbed my eyelids, feeling the exhaustion of the last days catching up again. I was in a no-win race to try and stay ahead of my grief. One moment I’d be ahead in a sprint, and then the next I’d feel like I was coming in last with a dog biting at my heels.

“You look tired,” my mother reminded me, though her tone was supportive—like it had been about the oak tree. “When is Katie’s funeral? I called her parents to offer my condolences but they didn’t pick up.”

I shook my head and realized I hadn’t heard from Jerry’s sister or Katie’s parents. “I’m not sure,” I answered. “But I’d think it would be soon?”

“So sad. And such a nice family Katie had,” my mom said. An immature pang of jealousy hit me.

Had I ever heard her say anything like that about me?

But this was Katie, this was expected. I tried to be better than my jealousy. My mother loved Katie like a daughter, and this had to be just as painful for her as it was for me. Her hands remained steady as she sipped the tea, but I could see the loss on her face and in the saddened way she smiled when trying to talk fondly about Katie.

“It’s hard,” I agreed and stood to go to her, to hug her. I knelt down and put my arms around my mother. I closed my eyes. “I know you loved Katie. It is sad.”

“Thank you, Amy,” she answered and broke from my embrace. “Women in this family are strong. Have to show strength for them . . .” Mom motioned to the kids and then turned back to face her tea. The abruptness hurt, but that was something else I’d gotten used to over the years.

“There’s no Internet here,” Michael’s voice chirped in my ear. I leaned away, irritated by the complaint. A quick scan of the room showed me the television, unplugged and sitting on the floor. Next to it was the old radio, packed up and taped. And then I found the faded wallpaper and the silhouette of old picture frames. The kids were going to bore quickly without anything to keep them occupied.

“Nonsense,” my mother said. She stood and went to the stout moving box labeled books. She hunted through a pile of dingy black and brown and green hardbacks until she came upon what she was looking for. I recognized the book, and a warm recollection came to me. It was one of my father’s favorite books. We’d read it together, page by page, cover to cover, every night for a month when I was just beginning to discover books. My mom gave me a look. “You remember this one:
Robinson Crusoe
.”

“I loved that story,” I answered.

My mother approached Michael, the old book in one hand, her wagging finger in the other. “There is no need for the Internet in this house,” she said, twisting her wrist, joking with him. He glanced over at me with uncertainty, and I dipped my chin with a nod, encouraging him to take the book. My mom knelt, her knees popping as she did, and placed Michael’s hand on the book’s spine. “Your granddaddy loved this book. It was his oldest and it was his favorite, and it is time that you have it.”

“To read?” he asked in a mock-amused tone, but with the innocence of not knowing what it held. I opened my eyes wide then, telling him to say thank you. “Thank you, Grandma.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, stretching up to peck him on the forehead. “You’re getting so tall. Gonna be a man soon. Now go on over to that chair. Your grandaddy liked to read there, saying how the light in that window was perfect for old pages.” Michael reluctantly made his way to the chair. He begrudgingly slunk down beneath the window and opened to the first pages of
Robinson Crusoe
. Seeing him settle into the giant reading chair, his knees bent, the book pushed up to his chin, renewed some of my sentiment about the yard and what had become of the old oak tree.

My father is here,
I told myself.
He’s right over there.

As if Michael heard me, he looked up, a reflection of sunlight off the pages brightening his handsome face. I tilted my head, telling him I loved him. He smiled and then went back to reading the book.

“And me, me, me?” Snacks insisted, having come up from squirreling around on the floor. “What’s for me?”

I filled my mouth with more of the bitter tea, finding an odd liking for it after all. Stretching my arm behind me, I fished through one of the open moving boxes, but this one had no label, no designation written on the side of it.

My old toys?
I wondered, hoping to find something to keep Snacks busy.

My hand fell blindly into a pit of leathery snakes. When I touched the familiar squarish buckle, a terrible, deathly cold filled me. I came to understand what I held in my hand. I didn’t move. I didn’t say a word. I let my fingers scream for me. I traced the outline of the belt buckle, finding a metal wing, and then on the other side, I traced the matching wing. I shook my head, telling myself that this couldn’t be, that my dreams were just dreams, nightmares brought on by what I’d done to the homeless man.

“What is it, Amy?” my mother asked. “Did you find something for Snacks to play with?”

“Uh-uh,” I answered, but the dryness in my mouth made my tongue feel thick, and I thought I was going to choke. I couldn’t talk.

“I’m sure I have your toys somewhere. I remember packing them up for the Salvation Army.”

I kept my arm in the box and fished out the belt buckle, resting it above the others. Behind the metal plate, I found the hinged ring and shoved my finger into it. I shut my eyes then, shuddering at the remembered nightmares of strangulation, sex, and murder.

“Make a loop,” I whispered to myself and saw the memory of what my mother had showed me. “Backward and inside out, so the buckle faces me.” The bitter tea was back in my mouth, coming up as I nearly vomited on the table.

“What’s that, Amy? Speak up,” my mother demanded. I jumped.

“It’s nothing,” I answered. “Still looking.”

Then loop the tail around and fish it through the hinged ring
, I heard in my head. I wanted to run away and hide.
The noose is ready
, I mouthed.

My phone rang, scaring me so badly I shrieked.

“Amy!” my mother shouted, clutching her chest. “You nearly scared me to death.”

“Jumpy,” I quickly answered. “Ringer is too loud,” I added as I yanked my arm from the moving box, leaving the belt alone there, leaving it hidden and unseen.

Charlie’s name showed on the small display, his cell phone number at the bottom. But Charlie rarely called me. When he did, it was almost always from his desk phone at the station. At once I forgot about what I’d found—my nightmares of the men being killed replaced with the dread of why Charlie might be calling.

“Yeah, Charlie?” I answered. I heard the sounds of yelling men and the distant wail of sirens in the background.

“Amy,” he answered, his voice breaking in the ruckus of noise and shouting voices.

“Charlie?” I repeated. My mind began to race with worry.

Did I hear something in his tone? Had he said my name differently than any time before? They were just supposed to interview Nerd today. That’s all. Nerd wouldn’t have hurt anyone. Would he?

“Amy! It’s Steve.” I placed my head in my hand, my elbow propped on the table, my other hand cupping the phone against my ear. “Hospital. On the way to Mercy General.”

“What happened, Charlie?” I cried. “You tell me what happened!” My mother came to my side. Snacks followed. Michael was at the table then too, his brow furrowed, and I realized how I must sound to them.

“Amy . . .” I could hear Charlie’s emotion through the phone, sense something bad had happened. “Kiddo, Steve’s been shot.” My world crumpled and disappeared with his words, leaving behind a vast blackness. My worst fears had come true. I could feel myself slip, but found strength in the hands on me and the eyes around me.

“Daddy’s shot?” Michael asked. He must have heard Charlie’s booming voice. “Is he?” He cried into my mother’s arm while she braced him, holding him.

“What, Charlie?” I asked, my voice shaking. I heard what he said and shook my hand in the air, waving off my question. “Charlie! Is Steve . . . is he . . .”

“Hospital!” Charlie thankfully answered for me. I couldn’t say the words in front of the kids, but I could see in Michael that he was asking the same. “But Amy, it’s bad. There’s a car at your house to pick you up.”

“I can drive,” I yelled back, lying to him. I had no idea if I could drive or not. “Listen, Charlie. I’m not home, okay? But I’m leaving now.”

When I hung up the phone, Michael jumped into my arms, squeezing until I had to pull him off of me.

“Is Daddy going to die?” he asked in a voice I’d never heard. He collapsed into my shirt, knowing I couldn’t answer him.

I knelt down, trying to be strong and put my son in front of me. I saw Steve in his young face, and the urge to cry became overwhelming. My breath shook, and he took hold of my shaky hands and then handed me the car keys.

“He’s strong, okay? And he loves you guys very much,” I said, hating that I didn’t have anything better to say, anything more assuring. “Mom, can you watch—”