Take Another Look (9 page)

Jane knew she wasn't allowed to say any of these things; as the grown-up in this relationship, she had to take the high road. Biting back the bitter response, Jane trudged ahead toward the amber light of the bakery window, a beacon of comfort in the early morning chill. She tugged on the thick, bronze handle, but the bakery door didn't budge. “They're not open yet.”

Through the glass, a girl in a white uniform held up her hand, showing five fingers. “She wants us to wait a few minutes,” Jane said.

“I don't want to wait.” Harper spun away from the door with a whine. “I'm so tired.”

“Here. Come sit.” Jane put her arm around Harper's shoulder and guided her across the square toward a bench. “Do you want my jacket?”

“No. Someone might see me.”

“It's a black leather jacket. It's not that uncool.” Jane slipped off her jacket and gave it to Harper.

Handling the garment as if it might burn her, Harper let it rest on her bare knees as she huddled on the bench, cold and a bit pathetic looking in her summer pajamas. Funny that it was okay to be seen wearing boxers and a baggy T-shirt, but beware the leather jacket. Jane longed to sit down beside her daughter and hold her close, working up some warmth between them. A few years ago Jane would have been allowed to snuggle in public, but now Harper would be mortified. That was normal—age appropriate—and yet Jane missed the old days.

It was going to be a beautiful September morning in Mirror Lake. Jane stared off at the cobalt swath of lake in the distance, the green patch of park and trees in the foreground. In another hour or so, vendors from all over Oregon would be setting up carts and booths to sell their wares at the town's Saturday market. Cheese and lavender, organic fruits and vegetables, designer cupcakes and homemade condiments.

“Remember when we used to go to the Saturday market in the summer?” Jane said. “You were so cute, sneaking samples from the cheese lady. I would always buy a block of cheddar from her, but you didn't eat it at home. When I asked you why you liked it so much at the market, you said: ‘Everything tastes better when it's free.'”

“Mom!” Harper winced. “That is so embarrassing.”

Jane understood; sometimes it was hard to embrace your past.

Pulling her hands into the warmth of her cotton sweatshirt, Jane crossed her arms and breathed in the fresh smells of morning. Already the plaza was coming alive with city workers. A man in coveralls and an orange vest was power-washing the paving stones where the market would be set up. Another man was blowing the plaza clean of debris. On the square, a city truck crept from one lamppost to another to water the lush hanging baskets of flowers that decorated every street corner from spring through autumn. Yes, a well-to-do suburb like Mirror Lake could be a bit uppity at times, with power-hungry parents and overly zealous cops, but Jane was grateful for the good life she had found here.

“Okay, they're open.” Harper was off the bench and moving across the square. “Come on.”

After they settled at a small table within range of the huge, warm ovens, Jane initiated the essential conversation points. “Here's the thing that disturbs me the most about this morning . . . last night. You are refusing to accept responsibility for your actions.”

“But it wasn't my fault.” Harper paused to lick a glob of chocolate from the corner of her mouth. “I told you, Olivia was the one who—”

“That is exactly what I mean. I don't care what Olivia or Mr. Ferguson or the man on the moon did. I care about you, Harper Ryan. You made a bad choice. You broke the law, and you got caught.”

“What do you expect me to do about it now?”

“I want to hear that you're sorry. That you realize you made a mistake. That it won't happen again.”

“I already said that.”

“No. You didn't.” Jane faced her daughter, refusing to cower from the fury in Harper's eyes. Why did Harper get herself so worked up over an apology?

“Fine.” Harper scowled down at the table. “I'm sorry, okay?”

“And you realize you did the wrong thing. Because if you break curfew again, we'll have to meet with the juvenile court.” As it was, Jane would be hearing from a county social worker. “I need to know that you're taking this seriously, Hoppy. If this happens again, you could have a permanent police record. It could affect college and your future jobs.”

“Okay, yeah. I'm not that stupid. I won't break their stupid curfew again. But I can't believe how mean those cops were to us. Especially the lady. I mean, she checked our hands for spray paint to see if we did the graffiti. And she took our cell phones and looked at our texts. Isn't that a violation of our privacy?”

“Sounds like it,” Jane agreed. “But I think it's probably covered under the search and seizure law.”

“Then it's a stupid law.”

Jane took a long sip of her latte, trying to gather patience. “We need to respect the law, plain and simple. That's what makes a society functional. There are rules designed to protect people, and we follow them. I wish you would stop questioning authority.”

“But Mr. Healy said we should always question authority.” Mr. Healy had been last year's history teacher. “He said that's what democracy is all about. If people don't keep the government in line, it'll get all corrupt and everything.”

“Part of challenging authority is taking action to enact positive change.” Jane maintained a calm, steady tone. “Are you going to pursue changing the youth curfew?”

Harper groaned. “I don't care about the stupid curfew. I just want to go home. Can't you see how tired I am?” Her phone buzzed, and Harper brightened as she checked the text message. “Oh my God. Emma says her parents are grounding her. They're talking about two whole weeks. Except for softball. That's so overboard.”

“It sounds like an appropriate punishment.”

“What?” Harper's periwinkle eyes registered shock. “Am I going to be grounded?”

Jane wrapped her hands around the warm cup as she floated the possibility. Grounding had never been an effective punishment for Harper, as the punishment had only served to make her glum, depressed, and angry. This was a girl who needed outdoor activity and social interaction. Besides, two weeks of restriction would keep Harper from the back-to-school picnic, which was a big event for the entire high school. Held at a park on the lake, the picnic featured competitions in and out of the water as well as a popular local deejay. Last year, Harper had talked about it for days afterward.

“I don't think it would serve anyone to ground you now,” Jane said. “But I hope you learned your lesson.”

“I did. Thanks, Mama-dish.” As Harper tapped a text back to Emma, Jane smiled over the silly nickname that had stuck since grade school. When things were good, Harper called Jane Mama-dish, and Jane called her daughter Hoppy, a name that three-year-old Harper had coined for herself and for the little stuffed rabbit that had accompanied her everywhere. Harper still took that rabbit to bed with her.

The texting activity picked up as Jane finally got around to eating her croissant. By the time she finished, Harper was lobbying to go over to Emma's house after she changed clothes at home.

“I thought Emma was grounded,” Jane said.

“She is, but she's allowed to have visitors, and I told her I'd come over to make her feel better.”

Jane sighed. “We'll see. Personally, I think you should get some sleep before the game. You need to be in Sherwood at two.”

“I'm not tired anymore,” Harper insisted, though her pale face with shadowed eyes belied the claim. She looked up from her phone and tilted her head. “I have a question, but you may not want to hear it.” She tilted her head, suddenly shy. “Why don't we ever talk about my father?”

The croissant was suddenly dry in Jane's mouth. It took some effort to swallow and speak. “We can talk about him. It's always been hard for me, but time has passed. As they say, time heals wounds.”

What a lie. The wounds had throbbed like crazy after she'd watched the documentary recommended by Detective Alvarez. Although the story of Lester and Doug Dixon was spellbinding, the horror of their gruesome crimes had haunted Jane for days. Even Luke had squirmed on the sofa when the program had uncovered the grisly method the men had used to dispose of the young women's bodies.

According to Frank's uncle, Doug Dixon, the first murder had been a crime of opportunity for Frank's father. It had happened in the summer of 1970 in rural Ohio, a state still reeling from the shooting of thirteen students at Kent State and the war that had divided the nation. Lester had picked up a hitchhiker, a “flower child,” whom he viewed as an ingrate, not worthy of life. He drove her to his brother's trailer, where Doug helped him tie her up and subdue her by pressing rags dampened with paint thinner to her nose. The two men took turns raping the young woman, and then they killed her and used a hacksaw to cut her body into pieces. As the family owned a concrete business, they found it easy to dispose of the debris beneath porches and patios that they poured throughout the community.

Doug Dixon claimed that he had been dragged into a life of crime by his brother, Lester. “Once we pulled it off with the first girl and it worked, we just kind of fell into it again. I mean, it was so easy. Those hippie girls, they were easy targets. Lester kept grabbin' 'em, and I helped him, and that's how it went till that one got away.” The fourth victim, Audra Wilks, had escaped from the trailer while the men were off at a bar drinking, and that had ended their crime spree.

The crimes were heinous, but the cavalier way that Frank's uncle recalled the episodes had chilled Jane to the bone. To hear him tell it, the only problem was that the men had eventually been caught.

And the mastermind of it all had been Lester Dixon, the grandfather of the girl sitting across the table from Jane. Her throat worked to swallow a lump of pastry. She washed it down with the now cold latte, glad that her daughter was distracted by a new text message.

“Anyway . . .” Harper looked up from her phone. “Why don't you tell me stories about him?”

Jane had to steel herself to look into the glimmering blue eyes that reminded her of Frank Dixon. “What do you want to know?”

“I don't know, but you're always remembering stories about me from when I was little. The cheese lady in the market and how I cried when Hoppy lost her ear in the washing machine. And that Cat in the Hop poster that you refuse to take down. But you never bring up stories about my dad. Funny things he did or said.” Harper wiggled a hangnail on her thumb. “And you don't have any pictures of him. Sydney thinks that's weird. How come you don't have any?”

“Photos just weren't a priority back then. It wasn't like today with all the camera phones and selfies.”

“Mmm.” Harper wasn't completely satisfied with that. “Don't you have
any
pictures?”

Jane considered getting one of Frank's photos from the rash of news articles that had accompanied his arrest and trial. Maybe one of the shots where he appeared more handsome than psychotic. She could Photoshop it a little to soften the edges. In a nice frame, it could serve as a keepsake for Harper. Or was that a crazy idea? If Harper ever got tech savvy, she might search the image and learn the truth about her father. “Let me dig around and see what I can find,” Jane said.

“And what was he like?” Harper asked coyly. “Like, what made you want to hang out with him at first?”

“Your father was very handsome, and he had a magnetic personality. No one could resist Frank when he turned on the charm.” This was all painfully true. Frank was like a narcotic, an opiate that seduced a body into dark unconsciousness. “My mother liked to bake for him, and my father enjoyed talking about cars and other guy stuff with him.”

“Ooh . . .” Harper's lower lip jutted out in a pout. “That must have been nice—the whole family together. I wish your parents were still alive. It's not fair that we don't have any family.”

“I know; it's hard.” Regret flickered deep inside. If only her mother hadn't tried to foist her off on Frank. If her parents had defended her, really listened to her, they might have been able to save her from having to flee.

Jane felt a tug of affection for Harper, who was twisting a strand of her russet hair around one finger.
I will protect you,
she vowed.
I'm doing my best to keep you safe.

“And what else did you like about him?” Harper asked. “We both know that beauty is only an outward shell.”

It was one of the mantras Jane repeated to her daughter: Good looks are not enough. She was glad to hear that Harper had absorbed it.

“Your dad was a surfer. He loved the beach.” Or was that a lie? She had never seen him surf.

“Really? So that's where I get my athletic skills.”

Jane smiled. “I guess. Your mother almost failed PE in college.”

“I still can't believe that, Mom. You were so lame. But a surfer is pretty cool.”

While Harper was lost in a text, Jane thought about the one time she had gone to the beach with Frank. There had been an old building behind his aunt's house, a garage that was so derelict it listed to one side. The foul smell had put her off, but Frank had pulled her inside, insisting that it was fine. “We can be alone in here,” he said, scraping the straps of her swimsuit down and taking ownership of her body in an economy of motion. There was a piece of workout equipment—an old weight bench covered in metallic red vinyl—and he'd pressed her onto it and driven into her.