The Girl I Used to Be (10 page)

At the very bottom of the box are two strips of black-and-white photo-booth photos, four photos to a strip.

The first shows my mom and dad and Jason, recognizable because of his Hawaiian shirt. The two guys are crowded in on either side of my mom. In the first photo, my mom just looks amazingly beautiful, lips pursed in a pout, eyes wide, dark eyebrows like wings. Her face is turned toward my dad, but she only has eyes for the camera. The two guys are facing the camera, sticking out their tongues. Jason's eyes are closed.

The second photo is just a blur of motion. They must have been trying to change positions, but they didn't make it in time. The only thing I can clearly make out is someone's hand pressed against the curtain at the back of the booth.

In the third photo, everyone's grinning and making their hands like claws.

In the fourth, my mom seems to be sitting on Jason's lap while my dad leans in. They're all laughing. If there was ever something between my mom and Jason, did my dad know?

The next strip shows only my mom and dad. They're wearing different clothes, so it must have been a different day. Their foreheads are shiny, like maybe it was summer. My mom's wearing a chunky necklace, and her hair is pulled back on one side with a silver barrette. My dad's hair is messy, as if he hadn't combed it since he rolled out of bed.

In the first photo, they look a little formal, like this is the photo that proves they're a couple. In the second, he's turned toward her, his eyes nearly closed, as if he's getting ready to kiss her. She's not looking at him, but rather up and away. Maybe she didn't have enough time to purse her lips.

Or maybe she did.

In the third one, their funny faces make me smile. One of her eyes is closed, the other points toward her nose, and she's hooked her lower lip with her upper teeth. He's got one eyebrow raised, chin thrust forward, and his tongue so far out of his mouth that he looks like the weird logo for that old group the Rolling Stones.

I look down at the last photo in the strip and stop smiling.

My parents have put on terrorized looks, eyebrows raised, whites showing around their eyes, lips pulled back.

When these photos were taken, it was all just a game, no more real or serious than when they pretended to be monsters. Just having fun.

But this must be close to how my parents looked in the last few seconds of their lives.

What had it been like for my mom when the knife first cut her? The nineteenth time?

But now maybe she's left me some clues. I need to find out more about what happened between her and Jason. What happened between the three of them.

Because it might have something to do with why only one of them is still alive.

 

CHAPTER 20

WHAT THEY LEFT BEHIND

Medford's Goodwill smells the same as any Goodwill—like dust, old shoes, musty books, and disinfectant. Still, the cool interior is a welcome relief. I grab a cart and start pushing it down the graying linoleum. One wheel squeaks.

Last night I ate from the McDonald's dollar menu, then slept on a bare mattress with only my arms for a pillow. My goal is to get the minimum and hope it comes to less than forty bucks. I need a set of sheets, a towel, and one each of the most basic kitchen things. Or maybe two, because I want to have Nora over, make her some of the foods she no longer can cook. I think of Duncan, of how I'll never be able to invite him over, and push the thought away. Chuck asked me to start work tomorrow, so I also need a white shirt to wear with my black pants, and maybe a few more summer clothes. Medford seems to run at least ten degrees hotter than Portland.

For the queen-size bed, I find sheets with different patterns and a pillowcase that doesn't match either sheet. It takes a little longer to find a pillow that's unstained. I don't mind used, but I do have my standards.

The kitchen stuff is easier. There's a better selection, and some of the items, like two tumblers and a coffee cup, look brand-new.

I'm in the clothing section, holding a white peasant blouse against me to see if it fits, when someone says, “That's cute. You should get it.”

It's the girl with the purple hair from the funeral. Lauren. My cousin, even though she doesn't know it. The girl Duncan said I was hurting by not telling the truth. Today she still has the rings in her nose and ear, but the silver chain connecting them is gone. Despite what she claimed during the argument with her mom, maybe the chain's purpose was to bug people.

“Thanks.” The blouse is $2.99. After a second, I put it in the cart.

“We talked at the funeral,” she says. “My name's Lauren.”

“I'm Olivia.” I pick up a pair of cutoffs, not meeting her eyes. What if she recognizes me, the way Duncan did? I'm careful to keep my fingers curled over my scar.

“How did you know my uncle?”

“I didn't. I just moved in next door to Nora Murdoch. She asked me to drive her because she wasn't feeling well.”

“I know that house. It's cute. That's where my uncle's girlfriend grew up.” She pulls a red sleeveless shirt over the black tank top she's wearing.

Medford's small enough that everyone knows everything, I guess. Except who killed my parents. I realize I should say something.

“I'm, uh, sorry for your loss.”

Her brows draw together for a second. “What? Oh, my uncle? I only remember him and his girlfriend a little bit.” So much for her suffering, the way Duncan said. “My family spent years
not
talking about Uncle Terry because most of them secretly thought he was a killer.” She takes off the shirt and puts it in her shopping basket. “My mom used to wonder if the cops were monitoring our mail or phone calls. Sometimes she even thought Terry did it.”

“So was her brother, like, abusive to his girlfriend?” I hold my breath. I don't want to know, but I need to.

She shakes her head. “I don't think so.” Her bangs fall back into their perfect straight line above her eyes. “Maybe my mom just figured you can never really know what someone is capable of.”

“So
now
who does she think did it?”

“I think she's hoping it was a stranger. Some drifter who was just passing through, left my uncle's car in Portland and kept on going. Maybe went on to the next town or the next state and found some more people to kill.”

“Why is she hoping that?”

“If it was someone here who did it, it would probably be a person she knew. Maybe even a friend.”

A lot of people in this town probably feel the same. Maybe they think what happened was long ago, that it's time to forget and move on. Especially if the truth is going to add more pain, rip open the old wound and make it even deeper.

“I heard that guy Jason used to have a crush on Naomi,” I say.

Her eyes open wider. “Who told you that?”

“Someone was talking at the funeral.”

Lauren thinks about this. “He's kind of a weird dude. Everything about him is loud—how he talks, those Hawaiian shirts. And he always thinks there's some conspiracy or something. He used to be married to Heather, who was Naomi's best friend. My mom says it's not easy being married to a trucker, because they're gone all the time.” She shrugs. “Still, even if he had a crush on Naomi, why would he kill her, too?”

I don't have a good answer for that.

We're at the registers now. Lauren falls in behind me. “So you're living on your own?” she asks, eyeing my cart.

“Yeah. I'm saving for college, and the cost of living is cheaper here.”

“I'm going to U of O, but it's impossible to find a job in Eugene over the summer, so I had to come home. You know what they say: Home's the place where when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”

My total comes to $22.35. When we go outside, it's so hot it doesn't feel quite real.

“Want to go to Grocery Outlet?” Lauren points at the store across the parking lot.

“I've never been in one,” I say, then wonder if there are any in Seattle, my supposed hometown. I've heard the food at Grocery Outlet is really cheap. When you work at Freddy's, there's an unspoken rule you will never be caught by a customer, even in your off-hours, in Safeway, Albertsons, or another competitor. But while I'm still anonymous, I'm free to shop where I want.

“It's, like, the cheapest store in the world.” She laughs. “My dad calls it the Island of Misfit Food.”

As we go up and down the aisles, Lauren's dad's comment starts to make sense. I see crackers that look like Wheat Thins but with Spanish labels. Flavors and colors of Gatorade I've never seen before. The cheese selection in the cold case is kind of random, but there's some good stuff here, like Brie, aged Cheddar, and goat cheese, all going for about half of what Fred Meyer charges.

Grocery Outlet also seems to be where food flops go to die, and we take turns pointing them out. Pork Helper instead of Hamburger Helper. Canned egg salad. Shelf-stable salmon pie. It's like an alternate reality. As if aliens made a grocery store to fool us, only they didn't get the details right. The thought makes me stop in my tracks.

Lauren bumps into me. “Olivia?”

I don't answer. Whoever killed my parents must have tried to tell a story with what they left behind. Maybe they hid my dad's body so he would be blamed. And then left his car at the airport so it looked like he took off. But that story was a lie. The cops were too focused on my dad to ask why he had bothered to wipe his prints off his
own
truck. There must be other ways the killer slipped up, made a mistake, screwed up the details.

Maybe I can figure out where they went wrong.

 

CHAPTER 21

THAT GIRL DOESN'T EXIST

I'm nearing the end of my first day at Freddy's when I hear something falling on the black rubber mat behind me. A lot of somethings. When I turn, half the pyramid of Granny Smiths I had just stacked is gone. Duncan stands next to it, red-faced. He puts down his basket and skateboard and starts picking up the scattered apples.

My heart speeds up. Abandoning my produce cart, I stalk over.

He looks up. “Sorry. I guess I made an apple-lanche.”

Even though his pun is pretty good, I ignore it. I ignore his strong jaw, muscled arms, and beautiful eyes. My heart is reacting one way, but my head has to be in charge. “What are you doing here?”

“Buying groceries.” Still on his knees, he begins gathering apples.

“I'm sure your mom can take care of that for you, since she
works
here.” With the toe of one of my Vans, I kick an apple toward him.

The flush deepens. “I've been thinking about what you said.” His voice is urgent and low. “And about why you might have said it. I want to help you.”

I look around. There's no one near us. “You want to help me?”

“Yeah. I do.” He cradles a half dozen apples.

“Then leave me alone!”

Duncan's unfazed. “That's why you moved down here, isn't it? To figure out who did it?” He gets to his feet and starts fitting the apples into empty spaces, one by one.

It's clear I don't have any other choice but to talk to him. Or at least give him a talking-to. I huff a sigh. “Do you know where the employees park their cars?” When he nods, I say, “I'm off in fifteen minutes. Meet me back there.”

Pushing my produce cart through the black rubber swinging doors that lead to the prep room, I spend the last few minutes of my day grinding my teeth as I cut and wrap watermelon chunks. When I go out to the parking lot, Duncan's doing kickflips next to my car. He's still not wearing a helmet, so he must think he's got this trick down. As I watch, he steps on the board wrong and almost takes a header. For some reason, his near miss makes me even madder.

“Get in.” I unlock his door and then mine.

It's like crawling into an oven. But I don't need anyone to overhear what I've got to say. “This is my life.” I shake my finger in his face. “And I don't need you to go messing it up by spreading crazy rumors.”

“You're right. It
is
your life. I wasn't thinking it through, and I'm really sorry. After I left, I realized it's about more than just Carly and Lauren, isn't it? Because they aren't the only ones who'd want to know that you've come back to Medford. Whoever killed your parents would probably be very interested in finding out what you remember.” He takes my right hand. I'm so surprised I don't pull it back. He runs his thumb across my scar, and even in the heat, a shiver dances across my skin.

I pull my hand back. Push my feelings away. “So who else knows that Ariel had a scar?” I tried dabbing foundation on my palm this morning, but it lasted only a few minutes under the prep sink.

“Maybe my parents?” He shrugs. “But they might not remember the specifics. Maybe just me, since I'm the one who got in so much trouble for daring you.”

“There's something you need to understand. My name is Olivia Reinhart now. Ariel Benson—that girl doesn't exist anymore. But that doesn't mean she doesn't matter. That doesn't mean she doesn't deserve justice, or that her parents don't deserve justice. And I'm the only one who can give it to her.”

“Okay.” Duncan nods. “I hear you. But you can't do it all by yourself. You're going to need someone to help you find out what really happened.”

My guard goes right back up. “This isn't any of your business.”

“Maybe you don't think it is, but you should still let me help. Because if you're the only one asking questions, people are going to notice and start asking questions themselves. But me—they'll just think I'm curious. They won't worry that I have an ulterior motive. And who else knows this town better than someone who's lived here their whole life?”

No matter how much I want to do this by myself, Duncan's words make a lot of sense.