The Girl I Used to Be (14 page)

“What do you mean?”

“Terry and Naomi might have taken someone with them. Some friend of theirs. Which means it would be a friend of ours.”

“Jason.” She heaves an exasperated sigh. “Can you stop being so paranoid? It wasn't one of us. Naomi and Terry—they must have just run into some bad guy. Some crazy psycho killer out in the woods.”

“Why would a stranger kill them?” Jason asks.

“Why does a psycho kill anyone? Because that's what they do. All I know is that no one I know would be capable of doing”—she hesitates—“that.”

“What about Rich?”

Heather lets out a surprised bark of laughter. “What would Richard have to do with it?”

“Right after Terry and Naomi went missing, I noticed Rich's knuckles were bruised. Like he'd been fighting. And remember how he always used to wear thrift store clothes and scrounge for meals? Now he's just like his name—rich. Everything started to change for him around the time Terry and Naomi died. You have to ask yourself why.”

“But that doesn't make any sense. Those two didn't have any money.”

“That's not true,” Jason retorts. “I've been thinking back about what was happening then. Terry had been pulling a lot of double shifts so he could catch up on child support. I wouldn't be surprised if he was carrying a couple of thousand that day.”

Is Jason right? Could money have been a motive after all? Or is Jason just trying to make sure no one looks too closely at him?

 

CHAPTER 29

DISCARDED

The next morning, Duncan texts me before work. “Look at the
Mail Tribune
. Evidence got ruined.”

With a sinking feeling, I turn on my laptop.

WITH EVIDENCE DISCARDED, NEW LEADS SOUGHT IN DEATHS OF TWO

Nearly fourteen years after the deaths of twenty-year-old Naomi Benson and twenty-one-year-old Terry Weeks in the Cascade Range, friends and family are hoping that the recent discovery of some of Weeks's remains will help jump-start the cold case. Weeks had long been suspected in Benson's murder, but now authorities believe both were killed by the same person.

Medford's chief of police is asking for help in finding their killer. “No matter how small or insignificant it may seem to somebody, it could be an important lead,” says Chief Stephen Spaulding. He says he wants to know of any individuals who changed their patterns since the murders—maybe moved, quit their jobs, or stopped visiting the forest where the bodies were found.

Although advances have been made in retrieving even minute amounts of DNA in cold cases, Spaulding said that won't be possible here. “A few years ago we had a pipe break in the evidence room, and it left some case files completely waterlogged. Unfortunately, this was one of those cases. All the fabric items associated with those cases—including Naomi's clothing and the tarp she was found in—became severely contaminated with mold and had to be discarded.”

So that's it, then. No fibers. No fingerprints. No DNA.

But I think about what Jason said, what the police chief asked. I wonder if anyone has pointed out to him just how much Richard's life has changed since my parents' murders.

 

CHAPTER 30

ARE THEY REALLY THAT DIFFERENT?

A couple of days later, I'm walking into work when I spot Sam in the parking lot. The girl who stabbed her own father. The woman who is now even higher on my list of suspects.

She's loading a bag of groceries and a case of Coke Zero into the trunk of her car. It's a silver Audi, as sleek and understated as she is. She's wearing high-heeled sandals and a short-sleeved black dress that skims her thin figure. Would those slender arms be capable of plunging a knife into my mother so many times? Fighting her drunk dad would be one thing. Killing two people while their kid watched would be something else entirely.

She returns the cart to the corral, then leans against the metal railing, rummages in her purse, and comes up with a red-and-white pack of cigarettes. Unfiltered Marlboros. She taps one out, lights it, and draws the smoke in so hard her thin face becomes just plain gaunt.

This is my chance to talk with her, to see if I can shake loose the truth. With my apron tucked under my arm, I walk over to her before I can change my mind. “Mind if I bum a cigarette before I have to go to work?”

Her laugh has a lot of gravel in it. “You're too young to be smoking.”

“I'm eighteen,” I lie.

“Uh-huh.” She looks me up and down. “Eighteen's still too young. If everyone waited until they were twenty-one before they picked up a cigarette, no one would ever be a smoker. They hook you while you're young and stupid and you think you'll live forever. Trust me, I know.”

Despite her words, Sam hands me a cigarette and her lighter. It's heavy and silver. I manage to light up without too much fumbling. I used to smoke a little back in middle school, back when I wanted to fit in with a certain crowd, even if it was the kind of crowd most kids didn't want to join. The yeah-I-smoke, yeah-I-pierced-my-own-ears/nose/lip, yeah-my-friend-made-this-tattoo crowd.

Eventually I realized it was all a little stupid, and I stopped. I still have what's supposed to be a ghost-bat on my biceps, although it actually doesn't look much like either.

She sucks down another lungful and then sticks out her hand. “I'm Sam.”

“Olivia.” We shake hands lightly. I'm mostly pretending to smoke, not wanting to start coughing.

“You were at Terry's funeral.” She looks at me more closely, and I try to maintain a neutral expression. Do those cool blue eyes belong to a killer? “So do I know your parents or something?”

I shake my head. “I just moved into Naomi Benson's old house. The neighbor, Nora Murdoch, wasn't feeling well that day. She asked me to drive her.”

“Naomi wasn't much older than you when she was murdered. She had these high cheekbones.” Sam touches her own face as she keeps looking at me. “Kind of like yours.”

Just as I'm starting to panic, the answer comes to me like a gift. “Was she part Native American? Because I am.” I have no idea if that's true. I change the subject both to distract Sam and to ask what I really want to know. “So who do you think killed them? I've heard all kinds of theories since I moved in. I've started reading up on the case, trying to figure out what happened.”

She blows a stream of smoke sideways. This close, I can see how carefully her face is made up, every square centimeter covered with a thin layer of foundation or eye shadow or blush.

“I wasn't that close to them, at least not Naomi. Terry and I used to hang around together when we were younger, but I hadn't talked to him in the months before it happened.”

Is she lying, or was the person I overheard at the funeral? Or is it all just a matter of how you see things, what you choose to remember?

“Didn't you say something at the service about spending time with him at the river?”

“Yeah. In high school. But then I went to community college and got a job selling real estate, and Terry started working at the mill. Things change when you get older. You grow up. You grow apart.”

“Still, you must have some guesses about what happened to them.” I keep my eyes on the glowing ash of my cigarette, not wanting to look too eager.

Sam pauses for a moment, then says, “I kind of wonder if they should be looking at Jason.”

A thrill goes through me, but I squint as though I'm trying to remember. “Wasn't that the guy who was Terry's best friend?”

“Yeah. He was also more than a little in love with Naomi. Not to speak ill of the dead, but I don't know what everyone saw in her.” Sam's mouth twists. I saw her picture in the annual. Sam was just as striking back then, and far less brittle than she is now. Sure, my mom was pretty, but she also looked young and unfinished. Even when Sam was seventeen, she already looked like an adult, cool and self-contained. Her voice interrupts my thoughts. “Jason used to carry a knife everywhere.”

And he's a trucker. Still, Duncan had a point when he argued against this idea. “But why would Jason do it? Kill his best friend?”

“Maybe they had some kind of fight over her. Maybe he killed Terry, and then he had to kill Naomi.”

“If he was in love with Naomi, why would he stab her so many times?”

“All it takes is once.” She exhales twin streams of smoke.

“What?” I'm not following, at least not consciously, but the back of my neck prickles.

“If you stabbed somebody once, it would already be too late. You couldn't stop. You would just have to keep stabbing until it was done. Even if it took nineteen times.” Sam turns her icy blue eyes to me as she stubs out her cigarette on the metal rail. “Love, hate—are they really that different?”

 

CHAPTER 31

WICKED-LOOKING THORNS

When I answer the knock on my door the next day, Nora's standing on the front porch. The doubling thing happens again as I remember opening the door to find the old Nora, wanting to visit with my grandmother.

“Want to go for a walk in the cemetery?” she asks.

“Sure. I don't have to be at work for nearly two hours.” Anything that will get me outside my own head sounds good. My dreams last night were an endless loop of my mom trying to escape her killer. Quinn said I would have new revelations, but I seem stuck on the old.

Despite her long legs, Nora takes tiny steps as we go down the hill and then turn onto the flat dirt road that leads to the cemetery. I make a conscious effort to slow my steps.

“I love this old cemetery.” She has to pause for breath after each word or two. “It's my favorite place in the world.”

I hold the gate for her. To the left, a carefully tended bed of flowers catches my eye. I walk over to admire it. When I turn back, Nora is still well behind me.

“Are you all right?”

“I might just…”—a pause while she gathers another breath—“need to sit down.” She collapses more than sits on a low stone wall. I reach out to grab her in case she keeps toppling sideways. She lists but doesn't fall.

Her breathing is too fast and too shallow. Her skin looks so white. Should I run back and get my car so I can drive her home? But what if something happens in the meantime? “Are you okay?”

“I just need to…”—another long pause—“rest.”

I pretend not to be watching her. The wall we're sitting on surrounds a small family plot that holds three gravestones and has an empty space where a fourth grave could go. The most recent date on any of the tombstones is 1938.

“If I pass out, you have to promise,” she says between breaths, “to let me go. Make sure it's a good long time before you call anyone.”

Shocked, I lean away from her. “You don't mean that!”

“I'm ready. I've had two heart attacks. My hearing is totally shot. My cataracts are getting worse.” She pauses between sentences. “It's like having a car that's starting to nickel-and-dime you. At some point, it's not worth keeping anymore. Besides, I want to see what happens next.”

“So you believe in heaven and harps and all that?”

“I don't know if God exists. None of us can really
know
. But I believe he does.”

I nod. I'm not so sure about God, but I do believe in evil. But maybe if you believe in evil, you have to believe in its opposite.

Nora echoes my thoughts. “About the only thing I know is that it all comes down to love. Love is the only thing that matters. It's all there is. But that's plenty.” Her voice has strengthened, even if she's still as blue-white as skim milk.

I'm not certain what I believe in. Except maybe Nora.

A woman walking a small dog crests the hill and comes toward us. She's wearing a navy-blue business suit and tennis shoes.

“I don't know her,” Nora says, almost to herself. She straightens up as the woman gets closer, then calls, “Hello!”

I smile awkwardly.

The woman stops, but the dog makes a beeline toward Nora. It looks like a collie, black and brown and white, only smaller. It crouches until its belly touches the ground, and then it begins crawling toward Nora, wiggling and squirming to stay flat.

The woman's eyes go wide. “I've never seen her do that before.”

Meanwhile, the dog has reached Nora. Now it rolls over on its back, presenting its belly.

“Who's a good dog?” Nora reaches out to scratch the pink skin that shows through the fine white hairs. The dog lets out a cross between a groan and a whine.

“Wow, I would have said she would never let anyone do that.” The dog's owner watches as Nora ruffles her fingers back and forth. “Not even me. She would take my hand off for sure.”

Nora doesn't answer. She's got eyes and ears only for the dog.

Finally, the woman says, “Bella, we have to go, or I'll be late for work. Come on, Bella.” She tugs the leash, and the dog, with one last reluctant whine, gets to its feet. As the lady is walking away, she calls, “You and your granddaughter have a great day.”

“We will,” Nora says. I manage a nod. Tears prick my eyes. I only wish she were my grandmother. Suddenly, I miss my real grandmother fiercely.

“Do you want to keep going?” Nora gets to her feet. She seems energized by the conversation with the woman and, more important, the woman's dog.

“Sure.”

We start off again, Nora's steps still more shuffle than stride. I keep one hand out, ready to grab her elbow. As we start up the low hill, I see a red splotch on my mother's grave. A jolt of excitement races from my head to my heels. I jog toward it for a closer look. It's a single red rose, the color of old blood. It looks fresh. Its stem sports wicked-looking thorns at least a half inch long. I don't think it was bought at a florist's or filched from an arrangement. The end is ragged, not snipped. The rose must have come from a garden.