Somebody I Used to Know (39 page)

“Jade—”

But she wasn’t listening. She turned away and bent down to the floor, where she rummaged through her purse. She came back up, holding a piece of paper. “Take this,” she said, pressing it into the palm of my hand. “Read it later. You’ll thank me for it.”

“Marissa doesn’t want you to do this, and neither do I. I can just tell Reece you’re lying. We already told him Marissa was driving—”

“Your word against mine,” she said. “And I was
there
. I’m the only one besides Marissa who was there, and I don’t see her around.” She placed her hand over my closed fist, the one that held the piece of paper. She squeezed my hand tight, as though she wanted to mash the paper into pulp. “Later.”

Reece opened the door and stuck his head into the room. “Time’s up, Nick.”

I looked up at him, starting to say something. Jade squeezed my hand even tighter, so that my nails dug into my own palms.

I met her look and saw the earnestness there, the plea for me to shut up and let her say what she wanted to say. And I’ll admit I was selfish about it. I wanted Marissa off the hook as much as Jade did. More. Even if I wasn’t going to be with her again, I didn’t want to think of her living under the cloud of legal jeopardy for the rest of her life. The guilt she carried would be enough.

“Good-bye, Jade,” I said.

“Thanks, Nick. For everything.”

Reece held the door for me, and I walked out.

CHAPTER SEVENTY

I
stepped out into the parking lot, intending to go back to the animal hospital and wait. I checked my watch. Three thirty in the morning. I didn’t feel tired at all. Sore, yes, but not tired.

I didn’t have a car, and I thought about going back inside and arranging a ride home with the police. The sodium vapor lights glowed above, making the asphalt lot feel like the moon.

I held the crumpled paper in my hand and was about to open it when something Jade said came back to me.

I got involved with an older man and got pregnant.

“Holy shit,” I said.

I needed a car. I had a drive to make.

*   *   *

I was the first customer at the rental car agency in Eastland, and by six fifteen I was driving out of town. I arrived in Hanfort with a little time to kill, but I didn’t mind. I was wired, anxious. I waited in the parking lot, my eyes glued to the door of the office.

When Roger Kirby finally arrived just before seven thirty, he locked his car and walked across the blacktop, attaché case swinging by his side, looking like a man without a care. I pushed open the door of my rented Toyota and took a few quick strides, intercepting him before he reached the door.

When he saw me, his head jerked back in surprise, as though my very presence before him was some kind of slap.

“Mr. Hansen?” he said. He looked around the lot. “What are you doing here so early? I don’t think we had an appointment.”

“No, we didn’t. I figured you’d want to talk about this here rather than at your house. With your wife around.”

“My wife? What does she have to do with anything?”

“I’m a fool, Mr. Kirby. You
were
with Marissa the night of the fire. My friend saw you. I assumed the worst, that you and she were involved in some way. Romantically involved. I guess I was just a jealous and insecure little college boy back then who couldn’t handle that his girlfriend had dumped him without explanation.”

Roger Kirby set his briefcase on the ground and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m glad you realized that.”

“I know you went to Eastland because Marissa’s dad asked you, to smooth the transition as the family ran away from that accident. Right?”

“What are you driving at, Mr. Hansen?” he asked. “As usual, I find your questions pretty tiring, and the day just started.”

“You weren’t fooling around with Marissa. But you were more than happy to help the family rush to get out of town and away from Hanfort. It made your life a lot better, didn’t it?”

“Brent Minor was my best friend,” he said.

“And Jade Minor was carrying your baby. You
were
involved with one of those girls, just not Marissa.”

Kirby lowered his hands. For one second, a shock passed across his eyes, a flare of exposure like the flash of a camera as my words sank in, penetrating the veil of propriety he had erected over the rest of his life. But just as quickly, the defenses were up again. The wall still stood.

“You’re an aggravating little shit, aren’t you?” he said. “You were never good enough for that girl anyway—Marissa. The family let you hang around like a little puppy. They didn’t want to leave town, of course, but it sure made it easier to give you the brush-off once and for all.” He let out a short, condescending laugh. “They used to joke about you, Brent and Joan, when the kids weren’t around. ‘What are we going to do if Marissa wants to marry that pathetic Hansen boy?’”

“Your own flesh-and-blood daughter died,” I said. “She was murdered. Do you even care?”

“What do you want from me, Hansen? Yes, it was a horrible mistake to get involved with that immature girl. Maybe I did sweat bullets some nights thinking she’d tell her parents the truth, but she never did. I think . . . events were moving awfully fast back then. For all of us. Besides, I didn’t break any laws by being with the girl.”

“Wasn’t she only seventeen?” I asked. “Isn’t that breaking the law?”

He ignored the question.

“And you also broke laws by covering up their crimes,” I said. “And Jade is with the police right now, telling them the whole story.”

He bent down and picked up the briefcase. “Statute of limitations. Conspiracy or something like that.” He waved me off dismissively. “Keep tilting at windmills, boy. It might be the one thing you’re good at.”

He bumped against me as he walked past, his shoulder knocking into mine, sending me stumbling back a couple of steps.

“You could have helped them,” I said. “If you were their friend, you could have been the voice of reason. You could have sat Brent Minor down and told him to do the right thing, to let Marissa tell the truth. We all could have been spared the last twenty years. That girl, your daughter, would be alive. Her name’s Emily.”

He stopped and looked back at me. “I was nothing but a good friend. All the way. That night I was in Eastland, the night of the fire, I helped Marissa out of a jam that you caused.”

“Me? What are you talking about?”

He took two steps toward me and spoke with his index finger raised. “Some crazy girl, some bimbo who wanted to go out with you . . . She confronted us outside of Marissa’s house when I picked her up that night. The other kids were supposed to be gone, but this girl just popped up. She screamed at Marissa, saying
you
wouldn’t go out with her because you were still hung up on Marissa. It was so fucking childish. So . . . embarrassing for all of us. That emotional girl just ranting and raving. She looked like a lunatic. So I stepped in. Marissa was very upset, and she was already distraught because of the accident, but I got the girl to leave us alone.” He jabbed with his finger more. “I told her you weren’t worth being upset about. And she never could or should touch or come near Marissa again.” He straightened up, acting very proud of himself, pulling his jacket into place with both hands. “I knew how to defuse the situation. I
always
did that for them. I always pulled Brent’s nuts out of the fire, in life and in business. And that’s all I was doing in the wake of that accident. Nothing else matters.”

He turned to go, spinning with military-like precision.

But his words lingered in the cool morning air.

There was only one woman who could have been saying those things on that night, begging to be with me and harassing Marissa.

“What did she look like?” I asked, my voice rising to carry over a sudden gust of wind. “This girl.”

Roger Kirby stopped and looked back. “How the hell do I know? Some blond wreck. Some stupid little girl hung up on you.” He studied me for a moment. “I should have sent her to your house. You could have been together all these years, and maybe you wouldn’t still be chasing after Marissa.” He smirked at me, dismissing me. “Good-bye, Mr. Hansen. And good luck.”

He left me standing in the parking lot, contemplating the unthinkable.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

H
eather didn’t answer the door when I rang the bell. I pressed my face to the glass and cupped my hand against the side of my head, cutting down on glare. Her house was open, airy, and I could see all the way through the kitchen to the deck off the back. A still, solitary figure sat there.

I started around the right side of the house, down the slightly sloping lawn until I came to the rear, stopping at the side of the deck. Heather sat at a circular umbrella table, the umbrella closed despite the bright, early-morning light. She wore sunglasses and held a small glass full of an amber-colored liquid. She wasn’t reading or listening to music or talking on the phone. She stared straight ahead, the object of her gaze not apparent to me or perhaps to anyone. I came all the way around to the bottom of the steps leading up to the deck, and even though I stood just ten feet from Heather, she made no acknowledgment of me.

I cleared my throat.

She tilted her head a fraction of an inch in my direction, the sunglasses still obscuring her eyes.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said.

“What are you doing out here?” I asked.

“I could ask you the same question.”

I went up the three steps so I stood on her level. She drained the rest of her drink and pushed herself out of the chair.

“I’m going inside for a refill. When I come out, you can be gone.”

She was at the sliding glass door when I spoke.

“You called nine-one-one that night, didn’t you?” I said.

Her hand rested on the handle of the door. She looked back at me.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“The night of the fire. You called nine-one-one. Right?”

I still couldn’t see her eyes, but her cheeks and the tips of her ears reddened in the morning sun. A flush rose along her hairline and spread beneath the loose, long-sleeved T-shirt she wore. With her free hand she maintained her grip on the glass tumbler, her knuckles turning white.

“You didn’t think anyone would be home,” I said. “That’s why you said what you said in the nine-one-one call. ‘
They’re
in there.’ That’s what you said because you thought they were out at that party. It was around one thirty, and you didn’t think they’d be home until much later. But someone got sick. They left the party early to take care of her.”

For a moment, all was silent. A car horn honked somewhere in the distance, its bleat urgent and aggressive in the still air. Heather turned her head away from me slightly, and her breathing quickened. Then she took one deep, huffing breath, something close to a sob, and her chin puckered. But she didn’t break down. She held herself in check, hiding whatever deeper emotion revved beneath the surface.

“Was it really because of
me
?” I asked. “Were you following her that night? Stalking her? You were outside the house earlier in the evening. I know that.”

“I have children, Nick.”

“Is that what you were doing? You wanted me, and I rejected you, so you tried to kill Marissa?”

“I didn’t try to
kill
anybody,” she said. “I wanted to scare her. I wanted to . . .”

“To what?”

“I wanted to do something to her. Just do something. Anything.” Some of the tension went out of Heather’s body. Her shoulders slumped. She threw the empty glass out into the yard, where it made a dull thump in the grass. “She always seemed untouchable. Above me. Above everyone. I just wanted to strike back. I wanted to make a mark on her.”

“By killing four people?”

“That was never the intent. You’re right. I did see her earlier in the night outside the house. She was with that older guy. And then later, when I went back to the house . . . I didn’t know they were home. After the fire and everything, somebody told me about Andrea getting sick at the party. They left early and came home.”

“It was still late. There were four people in there, four college students, and you didn’t hear them? You didn’t even think about it?”

“The house was quiet when I went in.” She shuddered, reliving the memory. “Everyone had been drinking at that party. It was a blowout. It always was on Halloween. They must have all just gone to sleep after they put Andrea to bed. Maybe they all passed out. I expected to hear music or talking, something that would tell me they were home, but there wasn’t anything. You know what we were all like back in college. We were never quiet. If the house was quiet, I figured they weren’t home.”

I shuddered as well, her words sending a deep chill through my body.

“They always left that back door unlocked. We all knew it. We used to warn them about it. Four girls living in a house with a back door that’s never locked.” She rubbed her hands together. “I didn’t want to kill anyone. I was angry, irrational. I found a candle they left burning in the kitchen. I touched it to the curtain above the sink. The curtains were old, some gross polyester blend or something. They smoked a little, but they didn’t catch right away. And then . . .
whoosh
. They went up. The flames were going so quickly I couldn’t believe it. I thought about tearing the curtains down, throwing them in the sink, but I couldn’t grab them, they were burning so fast.” She looked up at me, my face reflected in the lenses of the sunglasses. “So I left.”

“You left a fire going?”

“I watched from the outside. I was confused, and I thought I’d get in trouble. How could I explain any of it? And then . . . when I heard . . . when I heard someone scream from inside the house.” She took a deep breath. “When I saw someone come to the window once the flames grew, someone who was inside and trying to get out, I made that call. I wanted to get them help, but it was too late. It was over.” She scuffed her foot across the sealed wood of the deck. “I can still hear those voices, calling for help. I’ve lived with that, Nick. I’ve gone to therapy for it. Therapy can’t erase things.”