Dear Daughter (28 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Little

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“Yes, actually, because that’s the only way you’ll listen to me.”

“I’m not a child, you know.”

“When you’re my age you might see things differently.”

She leaned forward and squinted at my face. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-six—oh, shit, no, I guess I’m twenty-seven. Fuck.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Never mind. Just—look, does she say anything about—” I stopped myself before I said “Eli.” I took a breath, changed my approach. I couldn’t ask the girl about her dad. “Does she say anything about any boyfriends?” I asked instead.

“Not really,” Rue said. “She just sort of wrote down when she went out with whoever it was. I don’t know his name—she just called him ‘J.’”

I started. “J?”

“Yeah, you might have heard of it: It’s the letter that comes before K.”

Enough already.
I came to my feet. “You know what? We’re done here. Thanks for the book, thanks for playing, don’t forget to tip your waitress.”

“So you can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

“You know why no one will tell you anything about Tessa?” I said. “Because they’re
embarrassed
. Because she got away, but she didn’t win.” I hesitated, felt the wisp of a thought begin to materialize, then shook it away. “If you think Tessa was so wonderful, fine, go ahead, be just like her—you’ve already got a great head start. And I’m sure in thirty years all the little girls will sit by their windows at night and dream of becoming you in their turn. ‘Please God,’ they’ll say, ‘Please let me grow up to be the girl who blew Mitch Percy in a bathroom stall.’”

“Already thinking you know what’s best for me? Now I know you’re family for sure.” She grabbed her coat and bag, then paused. “And what do you know, anyway? Who’s to say your version of your mother isn’t just as made up as mine?”

I would have thrown the diary at her, but she’d already closed the door.

• • •

I fell back on the bed. I breathed deeply and dragged my thumb across the edge of the book, across and across and across again, riffling the pages, letting the shush of the paper and snap of the cover gentle my thoughts and ease my mind.

Shush, snap. Shush, snap.

I took a moment to admire the plasterwork on the ceiling.

Shush, snap. Shush, snap.

I watched the pages blur by under the press of my thumb. Letters and numbers and circles flashed before my eyes.

Shush, snap. Shush—

I sat up. Circles. I opened the diary to the first page. In the upper right was a small circle. But this one was filled in. I ran my thumb along the pages again, this time as I would with a flipbook. I watched as the circles went from empty to solid to empty. Like the phases of the moon. I counted the number of pages between solids: twenty-eight, give or take.

She’d been charting her menstrual cycle. I was sure of it.

I counted back from the last entry to the last solid circle. Forty-six days. Then I flipped forward another fourteen pages or so, hoping I remembered tenth-grade biology correctly. Tessa had written only one entry around the time she would have conceived, on July thirteenth.

CNMS BGHBJDM NTS. I HR VNQSG HS.

“Don’t chicken out. J is worth it.”

I closed the book and closed my eyes.

Mitch might not start with J—but Jared sure as hell did.

I really, really needed to get that police file.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

It was 3:00 in the morning, and Leo’s lights were on. I was trying to decide if that was good or bad.

I’d been watching his windows for two hours at that point. I’d circled the house three times, clinging to the dark and the quiet, avoiding broken branches and scattered motorcycle parts and particularly crunchy-looking leaves. The first-floor curtains were open, but Leo wasn’t in the living room, the dining room, or the kitchen. I didn’t know the layout of the second floor, but the house was old enough that, even if I couldn’t see him, surely I should have been able to hear him. If he was in there, he was asleep. Or maybe he was drunk. Or maybe he knew I was coming.

Regardless, the silence unsettled me. I guess for some people silence can be restful, or even a relief: a cry that’s been soothed, an ache that’s been eased, a wittle wabbit that’s been cuddled up close. But for me it’s just the moment before the monster comes back to life.

I picked at the bark of a denuded tree and again eyed the dog flap on the back door. The night was cold and damp, and what must have once been a rosebush was pressing into the back of my neck, but still I held off. A few thorns seemed better than the alternative. If I woke Leo up, I didn’t think he would be too happy to see me.

Except the alternative also meant not having Leo’s keys, and that meant I’d never get access to those police records. Short of a swingers’ party, breaking into his house was the best way I could think to proceed.

Also, I guess I was kind of starting to enjoy a good breaking and entering.

I crossed the yard and knelt next to the kitchen door. I pulled up the dog flap and looked inside. The room was empty and nearly silent. All I could hear was the soft hum of the refrigerator. I let out a little nicker and waited for the clatter of tiny paws, but nothing came. Hopefully that meant the dog was asleep.

I took off my coat, balled it up, and shoved it through the flap. I peeled off the heavy cable-knit sweater I’d put on back at the inn and shoved it through, too. My hat and gloves went next. I was left with just one layer, a mock turtleneck that was two sizes too large. I winced as the chill knifed into me. The wind was calmer here than it was on Main Street, but it was still sharp enough to sting.

I examined the dog door. It was higher than it was wide, so I’d need to go through sideways. It shouldn’t be too hard. I’d done an assload of yoga back in the day, and this was just a variant on four-limbed staff pose—right? I stretched my arms over my head and began to ease my way through. As soon as my shoulders were clear, I tried to lift my body up off the ground, but my arms weren’t strong enough, and I couldn’t find the leverage. I kicked ineffectually, the door frame digging into my side where my shirt had rucked up.

I threw out my right arm, my fingers just glancing across the leg of the kitchen table. I took a deep breath and stretched my arm out again. I groped for the leg until—finally—my fingers curled around it. I dragged myself forward. I heard something tear and felt a sting, but then I was through.

I rolled over and checked my ribs and hip. The skin was, if not an angry red, then at least a bad-tempered pink, and pinpricked with blood. There was a larger cut down near my hipbone. I rolled my shirt back down and pressed it against the wound. It wouldn’t do to leave blood on Leo’s floor.

I reached down, retrieved my clothes, and slipped on my gloves. Sure, they were thick winter gloves that made my hands as big and clumsy as bear paws, but you know what bear paws don’t have? Fingerprints.

I put my hands on my hips and examined the room.

Now, if I were keys, where would I hide?

The first floor was decidedly lacking in hiding places. Apart from the empty picture frame on the mantel, the living room looked no different than it had before. The philodendron needed water, maybe. The dining room’s sole furnishing was an area rug ghosted with the impressions of the table and chairs that had once been there. And the kitchen was stocked with little more than beer, soap, and kibble—and also a jar of peanut butter, which I grabbed and put in my pocket.

I crept upstairs, my footsteps muffled by the faded blue runner, and came to a study. If Leo spent much time in this room, he clearly didn’t spend it working: The item of greatest value in the desk drawers was a loose spring from a retractable pen. The file cabinet contained folders labeled in a neat feminine hand. Recipes. Appliance manuals. Tax records. Nothing unusual. Certainly nothing that would unlock the police station.

The door to the other room was closed. I pressed my ear against it, listening for signs of life, human, canine, or otherwise. I eased the door open. The air was thick with a sweet-sour sweatiness underlaid with—bourbon? Perfume? Sometimes I mistake the two.

I peered at the bed. There were too many lumps to count. I couldn’t tell if he was alone or not.

I took off a glove and opened the jar of peanut butter. I scooped out a finger-full, which I waved back and forth in front of me like a censer. Seconds later, there was movement on the bed. Two little eyes opened, two little ears came up. Bones jumped down, scurried over, and leaped up on my knees, attacking me with his wet nose and tongue. I scratched the back of his neck; he wiggled happily. I let him lick the peanut butter off my finger while I pressed my face into his fur.

Then, reluctantly, I flung a glob of peanut butter out into the hall. Bones chased after.
That should keep him busy for a while.

I shoved my hand back in my glove and pulled myself to my feet. My hip was throbbing and sticky with blood. I jabbed it with a fist. I had to squeeze my eyes shut against the pain, but when I opened them again my vision was clearer. This time when I looked at the bed I could tell—I let out a breath—that Leo was alone.

I moved forward, wary, pausing each time I felt a floorboard start to give. I pulled open his nightstand drawer as cautiously as if I were removing the uranium core from an ICBM. The sheets rustled; I nearly puked up my heart. I looked down at Leo’s face, searching for signs of awareness, but his breathing was low and steady, and his eyelids were undulating in some kind of a dream. He smacked his lips, then fell silent and still.

I looked in the drawer—nope, no keys, just spare change, a phone, crumpled receipts, condoms.
Where else could they be?
I let my gaze drift around the room. It landed on Leo’s feet, which were sticking out from under the sheets. I could see the cuffs of his pants—he’d fallen asleep with his clothes on.
His keys must be in his pocket.

I pulled the sheet up from the bottom, so slowly I thought I might not manage to get it up past his waist before sunrise, but when I finally did I saw the bulge in his back pocket. I tugged off one of my gloves with my teeth and slipped a finger and thumb into the pocket. I began to pull on the key fob—he stirred, his feet rubbing sleepily against one another. I held my breath. After a moment his legs settled, and I gave the keys another little pull. But I achieved the same result: little restless movements from Leo, a slight shallowing of his breath.

I turned at a noise from the hallway—but it was just Bones. He was lying on his back, licking his paws. If only men were as easy to handle as dogs.

Wait a second—they totally are
.

I bit off my other glove and laid my bare hand on the back of Leo’s neck. His skin was slick and hot with sleep, but I didn’t let myself flinch back. Instead I threaded my fingers into his hair and, after a moment’s hesitation, massaged them gently into his scalp. He relaxed, murmuring something I couldn’t make out. I waited for him to exhale, and then I pulled the keys free.

He shook his head once, side to side, and fell still.

But I left my hand on his neck for a few moments more just to be sure.

WITHOUT A TRACE

Thursday 11.7.13

Trace here.

I never thought I’d say this, but bravo to US MEEKLY for having accidentally done some actual investigative journalism. (You shitbirds owe me a 10% commission on your ad revenues for that post, by the way.) So now we know that as of Monday, Janie Jenkins was in McCook, Nebraska. We also know, as I’ve been saying all along, that she is traveling in DISGUISE. Brown hair and glasses, people. Be on the lookout. We almost have her. JUSTICE will be served.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I pressed my face against the police station window, holding my breath so I didn’t fog it over. The desks inside were abandoned. The lights were out. The cell was empty—Walt’s mom must’ve finally bailed him out. I unlocked the door and went inside, moving quickly now that I didn’t have to worry about rickety floorboards or rickety cops. A few fumbles of the keys later, and I was stepping into the room marked Restricted Entry (i.e., Definitely Don’t Look in Here No Seriously There’s Nothing Interesting, We Swear). I slipped the keys into my pocket, closed the door behind me, and turned on the lights.

For such a small town the records room was disproportionately large, probably twenty feet by ten, with gray metal cabinets as high as my eyebrows, files stacked precariously on top. I traced the perimeter of the room until I came to Va–Vi. My fingers trembled as I picked through the files. Then I found it: Jared Vincent. I slipped the folder into my bag and headed for the door—and that’s when I saw the cabinet labeled Ka–Ke.

I checked my watch. It was just before 5:00. I had plenty of time. And it was just one more folder, right?

As soon as I opened the drawer I knew which file was my mother’s: the fattest one of the bunch. I had to use two hands to pull it out. Her record was on top, and it was substantial. She hadn’t actually been arrested for anything, but she’d been suspected of just about everything. The items in the police blotter only covered a third of what Tessa had been brought in for—and the records didn’t even begin until her eighteenth birthday.