Beautiful Lies (43 page)

“You don’t have to come with me,” Kimber says. “I’ll understand. You should probably stay here.”

“No,” I say, “I want to come.” The truth is that I don’t want to do much of anything, but it will be a relief to get out of here, even if it’s just for a few hours.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I do my best to smile at her. The gesture sends an achy pain shooting through my cheek. My face is still bruised. My wrists and ankles throb constantly; even the prescription painkillers I got in the hospital don’t make much of a dent.

But I’m here. I’m alive.

Two nights ago, Charlie left Sean’s house knowing that something was wrong, that he needed help. My cousin programmed the hostage code into the alarm system, and then he hid in the secret stairway, waiting.

The call came in to the police dispatcher, who contacted the closest officer on duty. My neighbors watched as Homeless Harvey pounded on our door, finally kicking it open as his dog barked frantically from the street.

Once he was inside, he found our house empty. Charlie was nowhere in sight. Within a few minutes, the place was swarming with cops, searching the house to look for my
cousin. He stayed in the secret stairway for two hours, listening as the searchers called his name, not making a sound. It wasn’t until my aunt and uncle came home that he finally surfaced to explain what had happened that night. He was so afraid that he hadn’t done enough to help, but that wasn’t the case. The hostage code summoned the police to our house. There was nothing else Charlie could have done for us.

After speaking with Sean Morelli for a few minutes, Officer Martin felt satisfied that he was just one of our friendly neighbors with nothing to hide. Before he left, though, he knelt down to pet Sheba. He held out his hand, encouraging her to shake, and Sheba extended one of her front paws, resting it in Officer Martin’s palm, just like she’d been taught. When she pulled it away, she left behind a smear of blood.

Before Officer Martin had a chance to react, Sean managed to overpower him and take his gun. He dragged him into the house, beat him unconscious, and tied him up. Then he got in his car and fled. Highway patrol caught up with him a few hours later. He must have understood it was over for him, because he didn’t put up a fight. He didn’t even ask for a lawyer, not until after he’d already said way too much.

“If you’re sure you want to come,” Kimber says to me, “we have to leave now.”

I nod. “Okay. I’m ready.” When I stand up from the table, my legs ache.

We make our way toward the front of the house. We don’t say much to the people we pass. They don’t seem to mind. They understand. Like everyone else here, they’re trying to manage their own grief; I’m sure they can’t begin to imagine how I’m feeling right now.

My aunt and uncle are on the porch with Charlie, our grandma, and Homeless Harvey. Except he’s not Homeless Harvey anymore; his name is actually David Munroe. He’d been working undercover on the trail for over a year. Apparently there was a lot of drug activity going on near the methadone clinic. He was only a few blocks away when the hostage call summoned him to our house, effectively causing him to blow his cover.

But it was worth it. The events from last week have allowed the police to solve eight murders that took place on outdoor trails in four separate states over a period of fifteen years. They have solved the mysteries of what happened to Rachel Carter and Melissa Bell of Maryland; Shannon Seaver of Virginia; Amy Sloan and Rebecca Dylan and Susan Grimes of Maine; Jennifer Weaver of West Virginia; and, finally, Jamie Slater of Greensburg, Pennsylvania.

David, along with my aunt and uncle, looks through an old sketchbook, astounded by the incredible likeness that was captured in the many portraits of Jamie Slater.

After a minute or so, he notices me standing just behind
him, looking over his shoulder. He glances up at me and smiles to reveal two rows of perfect teeth. His eyes are sad. Nine girls are way too many to lose under any circumstances. But there is wonder in David’s gaze as he watches me, observing all my cuts and bruises like he’s seeing them for the first time.

My aunt stands up and approaches me. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a year. As she gives me a long hug, her body sort of falls against mine, and her arms grip me so tightly that I can tell she doesn’t want to let me go, even though she knows I’ll be safe. As we stand there together, her breathing is deep and uneven as she tries to keep herself together as best she can. Tonight, I know, she’ll go home and fall apart in private.

As she finally pulls away, she asks, “Are you leaving now?”

“Yes,” I say. Even though I know she’d rather I stayed, she understands why I feel the need to leave right now. I’m going with Kimber to her father’s hearing this afternoon. I don’t want her to be alone.

But there is deep concern in her expression. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?” Her voice is small and hoarse.

“She’ll be fine,” my grandma interrupts.

“Grandma’s right,” I say. “Don’t worry.”

My aunt doesn’t seem convinced, but she doesn’t have much of a choice. I’m eighteen. I can do what I want.

As we’re about to leave the porch and head toward
Kimber’s car, I glance down at the sketchbook again. David has turned the page, and it’s no longer open to a drawing of Jamie Slater. Instead, it’s a portrait of Robin. It’s similar to the painting of him that’s back at my house, in my room. He is posed the same way, staring outward with a mischievous smile on his lips.

“Who’s that?” David asks.

“I’ve been told that’s Robin,” my aunt says. She looks up at me, and I nod in agreement.

“It’s impossible,” she murmurs. But the words sound empty, like she’s struggling to believe them herself.

Again, it was Officer Martin who figured it out. When he ran a search on Robin Lang, he was puzzled to learn that a man by the same name had been killed nine years earlier in a car accident. He was the driver. During some routine follow-up with my aunt and uncle a few days ago, Officer Martin showed them the driver’s photograph. They were astounded to realize that the deceased Robin Lang appeared identical to all the drawings they’d seen over the past few months—drawings of a man they’d never met, who they’d only known as Robin.

My grandmother—who looks elderly and fragile today, her essence somehow deflated from the events of the past week—leans past my aunt to get a good look at the drawing. She goes still. She stares at it. She reaches toward the paper and brushes her hand across his eyes. “You don’t say,” she murmurs.

We all look at her. “What do you mean?” my aunt asks.

My grandma’s eyes are flat and sad, but for just a moment I see a flicker of light in them, like she’s keeping a secret that makes her happy. “Nothing,” she says. “I’ve seen him around, that’s all.”

Just before Kimber and I walk away from the house, I glance up to see Tom standing in the doorway. His parents are at his side. When our eyes meet, he gives me a tentative, sorry smile.

I’ll talk to him soon. Not right now, but soon enough. We know where to find each other.

As usual, Kimber drives slower than the speed limit. We don’t say much on the ride.

She pulls into a visitor’s space in the parking lot and turns off the car.

“Are you ready for this?” I ask her. I stare down at my hands, at the tiny yellow flower knotted around my ring finger.

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“What are you going to say?”

She squints into the sun, thinking. “I’m not sure. I’m hoping I’ll know once I see him.”

“Do you forgive him?”

“I’m trying. It’s hard,” she admits. “I always felt like doing
that would be the same as setting him free. I was wrong, though.”

“You were?”

“Yes. Because it isn’t like that at all. It’s the other way around. If I let go, then
I’ll
be free.” She pauses. “I think. I hope.”

The silence between us is thick, full of everything we’re both thinking, though neither one of us will say it.

I open my purse. Inside is the bag of black licorice Tom gave me to try to cheer me up, but that’s not what I’m looking for right now. The tiny monkey, carved from a peach pit, is tucked into the inner pocket. I take it out and hold it in my hand, staring at it. I don’t know how much time goes by, but it’s long enough that Kimber finally nudges me and says, “Rachel? Are you sure you’re up for this right now?”

I nod, still looking at the monkey. “Yes.”

“What is that?” Kimber asks.

I smile, closing my hand and slipping the monkey back into my purse. “It’s for good luck.”

We get out and start across the dusty stone parking lot, toward the massive brick building, its periphery surrounded by high barbed-wire fences. As we’re walking, Kimber shades her eyes and stares at the sky. There are only a few clouds, which hang low and puffy, like cotton. There’s a name for them, I know, but I have no idea what it is. If Alice were here, she’d be able to tell me.

“Rachel?”

“Yeah?” I glance at Kimber, who is a few paces ahead of me in the parking lot.

“Are you coming?”

Cirrus clouds
. That’s what they’re called. Somehow, I just know.

Hoo boy, where do I even begin? I want to thank Stacy Abrams, who believed in this book from the beginning and worked so hard to help me bring these characters to life. Any thanks and recognition that I can give her seems so inadequate compared to her amazing effort and dedication. Stacy, I adore you.

To Emily Easton, who oversaw a great deal toward the end of this project and offered such wonderful insights—your attention and concern has made this book 100 percent better, and I cannot thank you enough for your persistence and dedication. I know it couldn’t have been easy to step in at such a late stage, but I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done. And everyone else at Walker—you are all wonderful, and I feel so fortunate to be working with you. Beth Eller, Kate Lied, Katy Hershberger, Laura Whitaker, Rachel Stark … you’re such a fabulous group of people; none of this would work without all of your efforts!

To my agent, Andrea Somberg—surely you know how awesome you are, right? If I had someone like you to handle every aspect of my life, people would really think I had it together! Not only are you great at what you do, you’re also one of my favorite people. Please consider me for any outrageous favor you ever find yourself in need of; I will happily oblige.

To my husband, Colin … what else is there to say to you? After twelve years, you’re still my closest friend and biggest supporter. Thank you for being a witness to my life, for all your love and hard work and devotion to our family. You are stellar in every way. I love you.

This book wouldn’t exist had it not been for the inspiration given to me by the coolest redheaded twins I know, Mallory and Amanda Warman. You’re both so beautiful, and I’m so proud to call you my (almost) sisters. (Also, I’m crazy about your big brother!) I also want to thank my critique partners, Mary Warwick and Cheryl Alsippi, for keeping me motivated, even when these Pittsburgh winters make us all want to crawl back into bed for the day.

Finally, I have to recognize Michael Merck. Out of every person I know, you are by far the most positive and cheerful, even in the bleakest of situations. Your optimism and enthusiasm for every aspect of life is truly inspirational. I’ve never met anybody else who can look at the most hopeless situation and find a way to turn it into something good. You’re like the Mister Rogers of Regent Square. (Your wife is pretty cool, too! Jennifer Merck, you write a mean haiku!)

Breathless

Where the Truth Lies

Between

Copyright © 2012 by Jessica Warman

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