You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (17 page)

He was waiting out there in the rain, by the open door to the unmarked police car. He looked so scared.

Taking a deep breath, Andrea stepped outside so she could accompany her nephew to the police station.

She'd always hoped she would never have to do that again.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

G
oing out to dinner with her family had turned out to be a good choice. In the first place, it beat being alone in the house so soon after that disturbing phone call—and Reed's murder. It also got her out of her sad, frightened mood for a short while.

Bonnie figured the caller might have been Ron, trying to freak her out—Ron or one of his friends. It was just the kind of tasteless thing one of them would do to blow off some steam. If Reed weren't dead, he'd have been in on it, too. She'd probably opened a can of worms by leaving Ron that sympathetic voice mail message. Now he was trying to get back at her or reconnect with her or something. Whatever, he hadn't called again—and for that, she was grateful.

The Middletons went to T. S. McHugh's, an Irish pub–style restaurant her parents liked. Her folks were in their mid-forties, but still youthful looking—though her dad was starting to go bald on top. Dressed in their best J. Crew casuals, her parents had their cocktails and chatted with the waitstaff while her brothers gorged on bread and butter. By the time her cheeseburger arrived, Bonnie was surprised that she had an appetite. And she actually found herself smiling when her kid brothers started carrying on—and Billy got Tim laughing so hard that root beer came out of his nose.

But on the way home, Tim had joked about finding a dead body in the refrigerator. Her mom had snapped at him, “I don't think that's at all funny, mister.” It had made for a tense car ride during those last few blocks home. She could tell her parents were a bit on edge anyway. The Logans lived less than a mile away. A lot of families in the Queen Anne neighborhood would be double-locking their doors tonight. Bonnie had decided not to add to her parents' anxieties by telling them about the phone call.

Once home, her father bolted and chain-locked the front door. Billy announced that he'd be sleeping with his baseball bat at his bedside. Bonnie's mother told the boys she wanted to talk to them. Bonnie went into the kitchen to get a bottled water. She knew it was silly, but she hesitated in front of the refrigerator. She was queasy about opening the door.

She could hear her mom speaking to her brothers in a serious, hushed tone. Meanwhile, her father checked the back door and a couple of ground-floor windows—to make sure they were secured.

Bonnie took a deep breath and opened the fridge. No surprises, thank God. She grabbed her bottled water and turned toward the back stairs.

“Thanks for the dinner out, Pop,” she said over her shoulder.

“Oh, you bet, sweetie,” he said, interrupting his security check to come give her a kiss on the forehead. “How are you holding up? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, really,” she assured him. She switched on the second floor hallway light and headed up the stairs.

“Bonnie!” Tim yelled.

She paused and watched him charge up the steps. He was eleven years old, gawky and cute. He stopped two steps below her. “I'm really sorry I made that stupid joke in the car,” he said quietly. “I forgot he was your friend.”

She smiled and mussed his hair. “It's okay,” she said. “Don't sweat it.”

“I don't have any dead friends,” he mumbled. “Must be weird.”

Bonnie nodded. “Sure is.”

She watched him retreat down the stairs. It dawned on her that when Spencer had murdered his parents, he'd been the same age as her brother.

She continued up to the second floor, then headed into her bedroom and switched on the light. Bonnie planned to check the local news at ten and eleven o'clock. She didn't want to be ghoulish, but they might have some updates that weren't on the Internet. After taking her phone out of her pocket, she shucked off her jacket and tossed it over the back of her desk chair. She switched on the phone, but then something on her bed caught her eye.

What looked like a small mound of pale brown dust was in the center of her bed—on the Eiffel-Tower-print spread. Bonnie put down the phone and stepped closer. Now she could clearly see it wasn't dust or dirt.

It was a little mound of pencil shavings.

* * *

Spencer quietly locked the door to Luke's guest room.

He wasn't sure how much longer he and his aunt would be welcome here. Luke had really stuck up for him with the cops, and he'd waited for them at the police station the whole time they were there. But he'd given Andrea the silent treatment on the way back home—except for when they'd swung by Dick's Drive-In, and he'd asked what she wanted so he could order for her.

Spencer could hear them talking downstairs. He couldn't make out the words, but it sounded like they were arguing.

He tossed his jacket on the bed—and then more carefully, set the backpack beside it.

He was exhausted and also slightly ill from gobbling down his Dick's burger and fries as if it were his last meal.

They'd been in that windowless conference room at the police station for over three hours—with Detective Talwar asking the same questions over and over. Her perfume filled the room and became a little sickening after a while. There was a long mirror on the wall, which no doubt allowed some cop—or a whole pack of them—to look in on what was happening. Andrea and he sat on one side of the table, and Talwar and the deputy on the other. A digital recorder between them got everything down. Luke waited in the precinct lobby.

All the while, Spencer kept thinking he should tell them about finding Reed's baseball cap in his locker. But the detective and her deputy were already treating him like he was guilty. It made no sense to give them another reason to think he'd killed Reed and his parents. Besides, as crazy as it sounded, he loathed the idea of mentioning anything that meant more questions and more time in that awful, stuffy little room. All he wanted to do was go home.

Spencer was so grateful when Detective Talwar announced they were free to go. But he couldn't feel any sense of relief. It was obvious they weren't satisfied with his answers. Maybe it was because he'd been through all this before, but he was scared. He knew that as far as the police were concerned, he was still a suspect in the murders—maybe even their number-one suspect.

And he really couldn't blame them.

He unzipped his backpack and gently removed the plastic bag with the baseball cap inside it. He kept thinking there could be DNA on it, maybe even some blood.

He stood still and listened for a moment to make certain neither Andrea nor Luke was coming upstairs. Then he crept to the closet and slid the bag under a couple of his sweaters on the upper shelf.

Spencer could still hear them murmuring downstairs. Luke started to raise his voice, but Andrea must have shushed him, because he got quiet again.

Spencer realized he'd have to adjust to the idea that Luke knew the truth about him now. If Luke had indeed known since Thursday, he'd done a pretty decent job of not treating him any differently. Back in DC, when people found out about what had happened to his parents, they usually didn't want a damn thing to do with him—or they got nervous around him, like he was a dangerous character. Of course, no one knew the full story—except his therapist here, Diane Leppert.

Luke knew he was seeing a shrink every two weeks. He'd been cool with that, maybe because his own son was pretty screwed up and could have used some therapy himself. But Luke didn't know
why
he was seeing someone, not until a couple of days ago.

Spencer couldn't help worrying that he'd ruined things for his aunt. She'd done so much for him—when most anyone else in her situation would hate him. The Internet was full of incredible, inspirational stories about compassion and forgiveness: “Mother of Slain Girl Forgives Killer,” or “Paralyzed Victim in School Massacre Embraces Shooter's Parents.” But what his aunt had done for him went far beyond forgiveness. He knew her life would be a lot easier if he were dead.

He'd admitted that to his therapist. “Why would you think that?” Diane had told him. She was fifty-something, a bit stocky, sort of motherly and very down to earth. “You're her family. She loves you. When you love someone, you sacrifice for them. You two are there for each other. I mean, if she needed a kidney, you'd give her one of yours, wouldn't you? You'd take a bullet for her, wouldn't you? So please, Spencer, don't give me this ‘She's better off without me' malarkey.”

He always felt good after his sessions with Diane.

But his next appointment with her wasn't for another week. And the way things were going, he could be in jail by then.

Maybe he could talk with Diane on the phone. Maybe then he'd feel better and this nagging, stomach-churning dread would go away. Diane had given him a number he could call in case of an emergency. This pretty much counted as an emergency, didn't it?

Spencer found the number in his wallet. He took his cell phone out of his jacket and called her. He got a recording: “You've reached the behavioral health office of Diane Leppert, therapist. If this is an emergency—or if you feel you may do harm to yourself or someone else—hang up and dial nine-one-one. Otherwise, you may leave a message, and your call will be returned during normal business hours. Be sure to include your name and contact information. Thank you.”

He couldn't help feeling slightly betrayed. She'd led him to believe this was some kind of hotline just for him. Spencer suddenly felt so alone. He listened to the beep on the other end. “Hi, Diane,” he said, trying to keep from sobbing—only it didn't work. “Um, it's Spencer. Something's happened. I'm in trouble. I really need to talk with you—and not to this dumb machine thing. I'm sorry. But could you—could you please call me when you get this? Thanks.”

He hung up, wiped the tears from his eyes and ran his shirtsleeve under his nose. As soon as he composed himself, he could hear his aunt and Luke downstairs again. Their voices were still slightly muffled.

But he realized his aunt was crying, too.

* * *

“You lied to the police,” Luke said.

“What are you talking about?” Andrea asked in a quiet voice. She had a Kleenex in her hand.

They were sitting at the table in Luke's dining room—the most sparsely furnished room in his town house. Except for the cherry veneer table and the matching ladder-back chairs, there was nothing else. The shelves of the built-in breakfront were bare. And there was no centerpiece on the table. They rarely used the dining room, but it was the farthest spot from Spencer's room in the town house. So that was where they sat with their drinks, having “the talk” Andrea had dreaded for so long.

“In there,” Luke said, nodding toward the living room, “you told the detective that you were awake until three-thirty in the morning on Saturday. You were lying. I woke up around two-fifteen, and you were sound asleep beside me.”

She took a sip of her bourbon and 7UP. “I just didn't want her thinking that Spencer snuck out of the house while we were asleep—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “But how can you be so certain he didn't?”

“Because I know him,” she answered.

“How can you say that when up until six months ago he'd been in an institution? You don't really know him, Andrea. Please, don't get me wrong. I think he's a terrific kid, and I like him a hell of a lot. I thought I knew him, too. But it turns out that I don't really know him at all.”

Shifting around in her chair, she watched Luke sip his scotch on the rocks.

The last few hours at the police station had been grueling. But Luke had put on a good show of support earlier while they'd been grilled by the police. So it was extra-defeating to hear him now questioning Spencer's innocence.

“I mean, how can you be so sure he doesn't have a gun hidden in his room?” Luke asked.

Or some dynamite?
Andrea wondered. She knew he was thinking about his own son, and how he hadn't really known him either. But he had a point.

The truth was she couldn't be absolutely positive about Spencer's innocence.

Neither one of them said anything for a few moments. With his elbows on the table, Luke leaned forward and rubbed his eyes. “Goddamn it,” he muttered, breaking the silence. “This is killing me, because I really care about him. And I care about you.”

“But suddenly it's a little scary to sleep under the same roof as him, is that it?”

He frowned at her. “And it wasn't a little scary for you at first?”

Andrea nodded in resignation. “All right, so what do you want to do? Do you want us to move out?”

“I think it's too soon for me to make a decision. I'm still angry, but I'm not ready to send you guys back to your place in Ballard—not after what happened to the Logans, and not when someone was able to break into your place last August.” He got to his feet. “I'll sleep in my study tonight.”

She looked up at him. “Luke, I'm sorry.”

“So am I,” he replied. Then he took his drink and walked into the kitchen.

She watched him in there, checking the locks on the back door.

* * *

“I don't know what the hell you're talking about,” Ron said.

“No, of course you don't,” Bonnie said into the phone. She realized he was telling the truth. Ron wasn't the one who had called her, and he hadn't left the pencil shavings on her bed either. She'd been way off on her initial assumption. But now she had a pretty good idea who was behind this strange campaign.

“Are you being sarcastic?” he asked. “I never could tell with you . . .”

“No, I mean it,” she said. “Listen, I'm sorry to bother you, Ron—especially now.”