Under a Spell (12 page)

Once we were clear of Steve and the high school, Will turned to me. “So you traded some ChapStick for a toilet-soaked sweater? That’s—that’s horrific, love.”

“No—I mean, yes, it’s gross—but I was there, Will. I was there when this sweater was flushed.”

Will looked mildly impressed.

“I was in the upstairs bathroom and someone came in. She was crying, but it sounded like she was angry. She screamed a little bit and then went into the stall next to me and I heard her throw this”—I pointed to the bag holding the sweater—“in.”

“You heard it or you saw it?”

“I heard it because she—well, she didn’t know I was there in the bathroom. But I know I heard it. She wasn’t going to the bathroom because her feet were facing the wrong way and it didn’t sound like someone going to the bathroom. And she was wearing sneakers and socks! I heard something hit the water and then she flushed. And I thought it flushed for a while, but then I didn’t really think about it.”

Will’s impressed look went to one of slight disgust. “I think this is the most disgusting clue we’ve ever found.”

“Well, we have to look at the sweater. We have to find out who it belonged to.”

Will grimaced. “You didn’t recognize the flusher by the shoes?”

I brightened. “Well, I can certainly narrow it down that way. I know it was a student. Who was wearing white socks and sneakers.”

“Excellent. That cuts out approximately six people. Well done, love. Now take a look at the sweater.”

“I’m not going to look at the sweater. You look at the sweater. I already told you the information. So technically, it’s your turn to do something.”

“You
happened
to be taking a pee when someone walked in and may or may not have tried to flush a sweater. It’s really
your
investigation. You started it.” He gestured toward the bag. “You should finish it.”

I chewed my bottom lip. “Okay, how’s this? We’ll let it dry out a little bit while we go to Cathy’s and then we can both figure out what to do with it.”

Will didn’t look convinced, but he agreed anyway, and started the car.

Chapter Six

The closer we got to Cathy’s house, the further my heart dropped toward my gut. I couldn’t get her mother’s voice out of my head—the slow, sad way she spoke, the overwhelming sense of hopelessness even when I told her that Will and I were looking at her daughter’s case with new eyes.

“I think this is it,” Will said, jutting his chin toward the tract home in front of us that looked like every other tract home in the neighborhood. I swallowed hard, looking at the two front windows that seemed to stare back at me, two black eyes accusing, burning into my soul.

“Do you really think we should be doing this?” I asked.

Will swung his head toward me. “You told me you talked to the girl’s mum. You told me she was okay with it.”

“I did and she is, but”—I massaged my palm with my thumb and stared out at the house—“I feel bad now.”

“Isn’t this the proper way to ‘work a case,’ as you say?”

“Yeah, but I just feel so—like we’re taking advantage of Mrs. Ledwith. She sounded so sad on the phone and now we might be using her daughter’s death to bring another girl home?” I shook my head. “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

Will wrapped his big hand around my elbow and squeezed gently. His eyes were soft, a lick of hair blowing over his forehead. “A girl dead, another one missing—none of this is fair, love. But if Cathy’s death could help another family to not go through the same grief, don’t you think her mother would want that?”

I shivered; the idea of death and kids had once been so blissfully foreign to me. I liked it that way. “Yeah, I guess so.”

I followed Will up the walk, still trying to assuage the guilt that welled in my chest. This was Cathy’s house. Cathy had walked up this path everyday. Had her mother stood out here and waited the day Cathy didn’t come home?

I was overwhelmed with a paralyzing grief. My stomach went heavy.

“You okay, love?”

I swallowed hard and took Will’s arm when he offered it. I let him lead me to the porch. Cardboard boxes were stacked just to the left of the house’s double doors. I squared my shoulders and rang the bell while Will peeked in the top box. “Kitchen stuff. Looks like someone is moving.”

Julia Ledwith pulled open the door and offered Will and me a close-lipped smile. “You must be the investigators.”

Will looked at me, slight question in his eyes, but went with it.

“You’re Mrs. Ledwith?” he asked.

She opened the door wider and ushered us in, pulling on the neck of her faded Stanford University sweatshirt. “Actually, it’s Ms. Foley, now, but you can call me Julia. Can I get you both something to drink?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned and left us standing in the foyer.

I did a quick scan of the entryway and dining room before us. Both were nearly bare and scrubbed clean, each with its own stack of carefully labeled cardboard boxes in the center.

Julia came back with two glasses, handed us each one, and looked around as though she had just noticed her surroundings.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “The place is a mess. I’m moving, so . . .” Both her words and her eyes trailed off, her eyes scanning the walls, our clothes, looking anywhere except directly at Will or me. “We can sit in the kitchen.”

A thick fog of uncomfortable silence set over us as we sat at the kitchen table. I sipped at my lemonade and wished that I were anywhere else on the planet, Will took in his surroundings, and Julia stared into her cup.

“Nice place here,” Will said. “Had you been here long?”

“Sixteen years,” Julia said without looking up. “It’s too big now without Cathy. And Peter and I”—her shoulders slumped—“we’re divorcing.”

I shot Will a murderous look when Julia’s voice cracked.

“I’m sorry,” I said soothingly. “I’m sorry we have to be here and bring all this up again.”

“You’re not bringing anything up. It’s not like ‘it’ has gone anywhere.” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Do you want to know about the day she went missing?”

I was taken back at the abruptness of Julia’s question. This woman who moved slowly, looked about questioningly, suddenly sounded like she was asking us if we wanted to see her Avon catalog. The lemonade I had been sipping burned at the pit of my stomach. “Yes. Please.”

Julia cleared her throat and set down her glass. “There was nothing special about that day. Not a single thing. Cathy got up, got dressed, came downstairs. She probably poured herself a bowl of cereal and we probably glared at each other across the table as she ate it.”

“You two had problems?” Will asked.

“What mom and her teenage daughter don’t? It was nothing really terrible—I would ask her to do things and she would tell me I was ruining her life.” Julia smiled, her eyes becoming glassy. “I drove her to school, she got out of the car and—and”—she looked down at her hands, sniffling—“that was the last time I saw her.”

“Again, Ms. Foley—”

“Julia, please.”

“Julia, I’m sorry,” I said, licking my lips. “I am sorry to have to—”

Julia waved her hand. “The cops have been over this a hundred times, but if anything helps save—save another little girl . . .”

“Did Cathy have any problems at school?”

“Her grades were exceptional.”

I edged forward. “Was Cathy in any clubs on campus?”

Julia’s smile was genuine. “What club was that girl not in? She cheered, she sang, she was president of the French club—she even did animal rescue on the weekends. Ran bake sales and things at school to pay adoption fees. When it came to extracurricular activities, there was nothing she didn’t do. She was interested in so many things.”

Julia’s eyes teared up and she pressed a napkin to them, then coughed. “Sorry.”

I put my hand on her arm, my heart in my throat, my gut reaction demanding that I find Cathy’s killer and Alyssa’s kidnapper right now, today, and skin him alive. Every muscle in my body was taut, alert, and the anger pricked under my skin.

“How about with other students?” Will asked. “Was she ever bullied, or, did she ever mention anything about having a hard time with some of her schoolmates?”

“No, no. Cathy got along with everyone. I mean, there were always little tiffs or ‘drama’ as the girls say—said—within her social circle, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

I perked up. “Her social circle? Do you remember the girls she hung out with?”

Julia nodded. “Kristy Thomas. Kelly Peck. It was mainly the three of them. Kristy and Kelly have both gone off to college now. Oh, there was a new girl, a younger girl that used to tag along, too. She had a different name.”

“Kayleigh?” I asked, my breath catching in my throat.

“No. Uh, Faith. No, that’s not right. It was—Fallon—that’s right, Fallon. Real pretty girl. Pretty standoffish, though. Didn’t seem very friendly. Cathy said she was just shy. She was like that—would take girls under her wing who were new or she thought were having a hard time.”

It was hard for me to imagine Fallon ever having a hard time at anything.

“She and this Fallon girl got very close.” Julia’s lips pressed against her gritted teeth and I could tell she was fighting not to cry. “Fallon came over once after—after. She brought flowers—Stargazer lilies, Cathy’s favorites. She was very upset. I remember she went up to Cathy’s room and curled up on her bed, crying. Then she fell asleep. I didn’t have the heart to wake her. She was gone the following morning. She left a nice note, though.”

I straightened. “A note? What did it say? Did you keep it?”

Julia nodded and stood, staring at the stacked boxes with her hands on hips. She skirted them all and pulled open a drawer of a curio cabinet.

“I don’t know why I kept it,” she said as she sat back down. “It’s silly, I guess.”

“No, not at all. May I see it?”

She put the folded piece of binder paper—one edge frayed from the spiral binding—into my hand. I unfolded it, my heart pounding, the blood pulsing in my ears. Will slid his chair closer to me; I could feel his shoulder brush mine.

Dear Mrs. Ledwith,
I read silently.
I am so sorry for all the pain and grief you must be feeling right now. I wish I could bring Cathy back for you—for all of us. I loved her. I wish I could have done more. I should have done more.

The breath that caught in my throat was now sucked out of my body along with all the air in the room. I shot Will a knowing glance, but he was too busy pushing the ice around in his cup to register my silent
Aha!

I refolded the note carefully, blinking hard to hold back the tears.

“I don’t think I can tell you much more, unless you want to know about the—the day she was fou—”

“No, no, that’s okay, we don’t need to—”

“Have you packed up Cathy’s room as well?” Will asked, his accent ricocheting around the room—and knocking through my head. I tried to shoot him my most demonic look, but, as usual, he was focused on something else.

“No, Julia, we don’t mean to—”

Julia set down her cup and wrung her hands in her lap. “Actually, I haven’t touched Cathy’s room since—since it happened. I keep telling myself I’ll get around to it.”

“Do you mind if we take a look?” Will wanted to know.

“No, of course not. Top of the stairs. You’ll know the one. I hope you don’t mind if I stay down here.”

I pushed the note into her hands and Will and I trudged up the stairs.

“Did you read that?” I whispered, my lips against Will’s ear.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think we should be looking through Cathy’s room. I think we need to be looking through Fallon’s.”

“Why’s that now?”

“Why?” I gaped. “Were we not reading the same note? ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘I wish I could bring Cathy back’? If those aren’t the words of a guilty conscience, I don’t know what is.”

Will and I stopped on the landing. He looked down at me, the sympathy in his eyes quickly chased out by steadying logic.

“I thought the note sounded very much like a grieving, guilt-ridden survivor.”

“‘I wish I could have done more’? ‘I should have’? That’s not admitting anything?”

“No, love, it’s not. Maybe Fallon wishes she could have done more to help find Cathy. Maybe she wishes she could have done more to help the Ledwiths grieve.”

I let out a whoosh of air, putting my hands on my hips. My eyebrows slammed together in one of those
Really?
looks. “You really think
that’s
what Fallon meant? You know her!”

“Not really. And I know even less of who she was a year ago, just after one of her closest mates was found murdered.”

I knew, intellectually, what Will was saying made sense, but I was having a hard time believing it.

“But—”

“But she’s a teenage girl, Sophie. Who you’re accusing of killing her best friend.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m not saying she killed her, I’m saying that Fallon may have had more to do with it than you think.”

“And I’m saying she may have had less to do with it than
you
think.”

“You don’t know teenage girls, Will. You don’t know what they’re like.”

Will took a step back from me, his eyes raking over me in a way that made me feel exposed. “Those are your demons, love. Not hers.”

I stood, silent, dumbfounded, wounded—and not wanting to admit that Will was right.

“Are you two okay up there?” Julia was standing at the base of the stairs, one hand wrapped around the wrought-iron bannister, one foot on the bottom stair. She pressed her toes into the carpet, and I could see the muscle flick in her arm as she seemed to toy with whether or not she would take a step.

“You can’t miss her door,” she said, a slight catch in her voice. She turned and disappeared around the corner before we had a chance to answer.

Julia was right: there was no missing Cathy’s door. It was the only one closed, the only one with any semblance of life—a big, glittery C nailed to it, a heap of hairbands choked around the knob. Will pushed the door open and sauntered inside, but I hung back in the hallway.