That Night (22 page)

I decided to take Captain for a walk on the beach—I walked miles every day now, sometimes I felt I could just keep walking—then head into town. I needed some new clothes, though I hated shopping. I got confused by all the options, so I lived in jeans, hiking boots, and white T-shirts, flannel shirts, or hoodies if it was cold. I still didn’t like drawing attention to myself.

When I got back to the boat, it was dusk. I parked my beater truck—a good deal I found online for eight hundred bucks, using a lot of my savings and the mechanic skills I’d picked up in the joint. I also bought a secondhand laptop when I was at the halfway house, and I had Wi-Fi at the marina. I was walking down to the wharf when Captain stopped, his body alert as he stared at one of the other vehicles, a low growl starting up in his throat. I paused, my own body tense.

A man got out of a truck, leaned against the side.

“Hey, Toni.” He smiled, the left side of his mouth lifting up as he took off his baseball cap.

It was Ryan.

I sucked in my breath. Was it really
him
? I stared at his face, his eyes, trying to take it all in, but my heart was beating so fast I couldn’t think straight. I looked around. Was anyone watching? The parking lot was quiet. I looked back at Ryan, who was staring at me, his head tilted to the side, the smile gone and his face now serious. Why was he here? I gripped Captain’s leash, pulling him closer. I’d figured Ryan would stick around Vancouver, not be stupid like me and move back to Campbell River. I felt his gaze lingering on different parts of my face. The last time I’d seen him was at court as I was dragged away by the sheriff, and now we were facing each other in a parking lot with twenty feet and fifteen years between us.

He was thirty-five now, and still good-looking but in a harder way, a dangerous way. His hair was still dark brown, no gray, but his face was lined, one cheek scarred. He was wearing faded jeans and a form-fitting white long-sleeved shirt, pulled up to his elbows. He was bigger and looked like he worked out a lot, with broad shoulders and bulging biceps. His forearms were covered in tattoos.

“You look good,” he said. “Little different, but you haven’t changed much. I like your hair.”

I used to be able to read his face so easily, but now I had no idea what he was feeling, if he was also trying to adjust to seeing me as an adult. I looked better than when I was first released. I’d gained a little weight now that I was eating healthier, just enough to give me a few curves. Assholes still seemed to think I was cute, but one look from me and they got the idea. I had no idea what Ryan had been expecting, though. The last time he’d seen me I was twenty years old.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

“We need to talk.” His face was still serious, remote. The look prisoners get after years in the joint, where survival depends on hiding your thoughts.

“You know we can’t talk to each other.”

He met my eyes, his sad for a moment, finally revealing a hint of what might be going on inside. “You stopped writing.”

He said it casually, but I noticed how he shifted into a tough-guy stance, his legs spread, his thumbs hooked into his belt loops, exactly how he’d stand in school when he was trying to hide that he was upset or hurt about something.

I struggled to think of a way to explain myself, still shocked that he was standing in front of me.

“It was the only way I could survive. I had to move on and try to forget everything—and everyone. It was just … easier.”

Now his face showed his old anger, the expression he’d get when someone would say “I know your father, kid,” and turn him down for something.

“It wasn’t easier for me,” he said.

I tried to find some anger in myself, some sort of defense, but I just felt sad, remembering how hard it had been to ignore his letters, feeling like I was abandoning him. “After we were convicted, I lost my mind. I shut down, shut everyone out. I went kind of crazy in there for a few years.”

He looked away, out at the water. “Yeah, I get that. I did too.”

I wondered what he’d gone through, but I didn’t ask, didn’t know if I could bear to hear about his pain, not without breaking down over everything we’d lost.

“There’s nothing we can do about it now,” I said.

“What if there is?”

There was something in his voice, a resolute sound, like he was about to make some sort of declaration that I wasn’t ready to hear. I glanced around. The parking lot was still empty. “What are you talking about?”

Now he looked excited, hopeful. It made me even more nervous. Hope was a dangerous thing.

“Remember Cathy?”

“Of course.” Since I’d run into her in Victoria, I’d seen her a few times outside one of the bars at the waterfront when I was driving home late. She was always smoking and hanging on to some guy. I’d overheard Mike talking about her at the restaurant once—she’d worked there briefly before her addiction became a problem. He also knew her mother, who was raising Cathy’s kids now.

“I’ve heard from some people that she’s been crying at parties lately about that night, saying she knows what really happened—that we were innocent. I’m sure now that Shauna and the girls did it.”

Ryan was watching me, his eyes steady, waiting for my reaction. But I was so surprised and shocked by what he’d said I didn’t know how to react. My head was spinning, memories from that last year, the trial, all rushing back.

I finally found my voice. “I saw her in Victoria a few months ago.” I told him about my run-in with Cathy.

“That might’ve been the trigger. It was easier to forget when we were out of sight, but then she saw you and now the guilt’s getting to her.”

I thought about Cathy’s nervous apology, her pale face. All these years I’d wondered. All these years I’d had a feeling they were involved. Was I right?

“She was acting really weird—and they were awful in school. But do you think they could have actually
killed
Nicole? It was so violent.…” I remembered Nicole’s cold hand inside mine, her nail ripped off. She must’ve fought so hard.

“It
had
to be them,” Ryan said. “They didn’t lie at our trial for fun.”

“If Cathy really is blabbing, don’t you think the police would’ve pulled her in for questioning?”

“Even if someone reported it to the cops, they’re not going to follow up. They don’t want anyone to find out that they got the wrong people.”

“How do you know she wasn’t just stoned and talking smack?”

“Her brother, he’s also a crackhead, he told an old buddy of mine his sister confessed to him that she knew what really happened to Nicole, but she wouldn’t say anything else—she was too scared. Why would she say crap like that if she wasn’t involved? I think she’s been itching to tell people for a long time but it just comes out when she’s high. She’s agreed to meet me this week.”

“Shit, Ryan.”

Was it true? They really did it? But why would they have gone after Nicole? It was me they hated. I wanted to search out Cathy myself and force her to tell me what she knew, but I pulled myself back from the ledge. Nothing was going to change the facts. We would never get those years back, would never be able to prove anything she said anyway. The system had already failed us once.

“You better be careful,” I said. “If Suzanne finds out, she could suspend your parole.” I knew Ryan and I would have the same parole officer—she was the only one in the north end—and talking to a witness from our case was bad news. You could get accused of intimidation. It didn’t take much to get sent back.

“Cathy won’t tell anyone. She’s too scared of Shauna.”

I imagined the girls that night, maybe hunting for me and seeing Nicole alone in the truck. I saw Nicole’s face, felt a jolt of anger at the brutality of the attack, and tried to shake it off. I had to think this through, had to be careful. We still didn’t know for sure what Cathy knew—if anything. But Ryan was right about one thing. If Cathy wasn’t involved, why would she be admitting that the girls lied back then? It might be to get attention—I saw that a lot in the joint. But revealing that you knew the truth about an old murder was a dangerous game. One I couldn’t get involved in—not if I wanted to stay out of prison.

“Even if it’s true, even if she does know something, no one would believe it. There’s no point to any of this. Just stay away from them, Ryan. Cathy’s proved she talks about shit she’s not supposed to when she’s high. You’re out on parole now. Don’t fuck everything up for yourself.”

“Don’t you want the real murderers to pay? They killed your
sister
—and took years of our lives. They took everything.”

He held my gaze and I saw the words he wasn’t saying:
They took you.
The moment swelled between us, the emotions raw. I remembered the kids we were, how I would have gone over to him and thrown my arms around him, how he would smell and taste, but now I knew nothing about him. He was a stranger.

Captain whined at the end of the leash, breaking the moment as he tried to pull me toward the docks.

“Of course I want the right person to be punished.” I wanted it so bad I couldn’t even think about it. And beneath that was another need. I wanted to sit and talk to Ryan. I wanted to go for a drive with him, wanted to get a coffee and share everything that had happened to him over the years. I wanted to know him again, but I couldn’t. We couldn’t. “But I’m not screwing up my life now. Do what you have to do, but leave me out of it.”

“Toni—”

Before he could say anything else, before I started to cry, I turned and pulled on Captain’s leash. “Let’s go.”

It wasn’t until later that I realized Ryan never said the real murderers should be caught—he asked if I wanted them to pay for it.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

C
AMPBELL
R
IVER

A
UGUST
1996

After Ryan and I showed up at the police station, blood on the truck, an officer put us in a room. Frank McKinney and Constable Doug Hicks came in. I’d cried when I saw McKinney, choking out between sobs that “something horrible happened to Nicole.” His face was stunned and serious while I tried to tell him our story, stumbling and incoherent at times. Ryan had to step in and finish my sentences. When they said they needed to talk to us alone, I grabbed Ryan’s arm, saying, “No, I need him here with me,” but they said it would help them sort things out faster. Someone brought me a blanket and a warm cup of coffee. McKinney gave my shoulder a squeeze and said, “I know you’re upset, but try to walk us through the night, Toni. Take it one step at a time. You drove out to the lake?”

I told them again what had happened, what we found when we got back to the truck, begging, “Please, you have to go, help her. We can’t leave her there.” I still couldn’t fathom that she was dead, that she was far beyond any help.

The other officer, Hicks, said, “We’ve sent someone out there, but we might need your help locating her. Do you think you could go back to the lake with us, Toni?” I didn’t like the way he said my name, the familiarity, like we were friends. He didn’t know me. I turned to McKinney, spoke only to him.

“I’ll go if you need me to, but…” The idea of going back there was terrifying, yet I couldn’t stand thinking about her still there alone. I said, “What about my parents? Who’s going to tell them?” The thoughts going through my mind were overwhelming. My teeth wouldn’t stop chattering, my body shaking. My mom. My dad. I wanted them there with me, but I was scared of how much pain they were going to feel when they found out what had happened.

“We’ll have someone talk to them soon,” Hicks said. “We just need to confirm some things first.” They asked questions like “Did you see anyone else at the lake?” “How long did you leave her alone?” “How much had you been drinking?” “How much drugs had you taken?” “Have you had blackouts before?”

I didn’t know why any of it mattered. I just wanted them to help Nicole. They stopped the interview and left for a while. When they came back they said that they needed us to go up there with them, they couldn’t find Nicole. They got Ryan, who was also pale and shaking, his eyes bloodshot like he’d been crying. We drove up to the lake in the back of McKinney’s car, huddled together, not talking, just gripping hands. The lines on the road blurred. I went in and out of shock, sometimes almost numb, then all of a sudden gasping with sobs. Once, I met McKinney’s gaze in the rearview mirror. I remembered then how Nicole was his daughter’s friend, how he’d have seen her often at his house. I wondered if he was glad his daughter was safe at home, not dead at the lake.

When we got near the lake I saw other vehicles, a coroner, and more cop cars. I couldn’t speak anymore, my body shuddering with violent shivers, and Ryan had to point out where we’d been parked. One of the car’s headlights shone for a moment on the water, and I saw Nicole’s body, still on the shore.

I started screaming, again and again.

After that all I remember is Ryan trying to calm me down, Hicks saying, “Get them out of here.” The rest is still hazy, scraps of voices and lights flashing and uniforms. McKinney stayed at the scene and another officer drove us back to the station, where we were separated and questioned again. By then someone had told my parents and they’d been brought to the morgue to identify her body. Ryan gave the police consent to search his truck, which was then seized. Ryan’s parents showed up and took him home. He gave me a hug before they left, looking worried as he whispered in my ear, “Be careful what you say.” Then he was gone. I was kept in a room with a female officer who kept asking me questions about my job and school, but I couldn’t focus on anything she was saying. I just wanted to go home, wanted my parents.

A couple of hours later, the female officer drove me home. Another female officer was sitting in the living room with my parents. She stood when we entered. Frank McKinney was there too, sitting beside my mom on the couch. My dad rushed over, grabbed me in his arms, and held me tight. I broke down sobbing and felt his body shaking against mine. Over his shoulder I could see my mom on the couch, her face white. There were makeup streaks down her cheeks, the skin red and splotchy, and agony in her eyes.