Heartstopper (13 page)

Megan smiled her appreciation. So do you, she was thinking. Her father was one of those biologically blessed men who actually got better looking with age. He had a full head of thick, dark blond hair, eyes that were clear and blue, and lips that were soft and inviting. Women had always found him attractive. Even her friends considered him “hot.” “Are we ready to go?” Megan asked. “I’m starving.” She wasn’t, but she thought it was probably a good idea to leave as soon as possible.

“No, we aren’t ready,” her father said. “Your brother has to change first.”

Megan glanced across the room to where her brother, Tim, sat slumped across the red velvet sofa, his sneaker-clad feet dangling over the armrest, kicking at the air as if it were water. Tim had their mother’s mouth and their father’s eyes, while his hair was an interesting combination of both—the same dark blond as Ian’s, but with Sandy’s stubborn curl. He was wearing a crinkled white shirt and baggy khaki pants. Tall, gangly, still not comfortable in his skin, he had no concept of his budding good looks, and therefore no idea of his potential power. “How about your blue blazer?” Megan suggested. “And that tie Grandma sent you for Christmas.” She bit down hard on her lower lip and closed her eyes, although not fast enough to miss the flash of pain that streaked across her mother’s face. Her mother had been disappointed when they’d been unable to travel back north for the holidays because of Ian’s “busy schedule.”

(“Busy schedule, my rear end,” she’d railed later.)

“Ties are stupid,” Tim muttered.

“They’re a sign of respect.”

Megan knew her brother was thinking, Who are you to talk about respect? She also knew he’d never say such a
thing out loud. “Hurry up, Tim,” she said before anyone could say anything. “I’m starving.”

With exaggerated slowness, Tim arched his legs into the air and lowered his feet to the cold tile floor.

The floor—another sore point, Megan thought. Her mother had wanted to tear up the ugly, white squares and replace them with warmer, bleached-hardwood strips, but her father had insisted any renovations to the unimaginative, three-bedroom bungalow would have to wait another year. Now her father lived in a brand-new, modern apartment near the downtown core. Megan had chosen not to tell her mother about the apartment’s bleached-hardwood floors.

Tim finally managed to push himself off the sofa. He slouched from the room as if he were swimming through molasses.

“And comb your hair,” Ian called after him.

“His hair is fine,” Sandy said.

“It’s way too long,” Ian argued. “He looks like a punk.”

Megan felt her stomach cramp. “Can we just go?”

“What do you think, Megan?” her father asked.

“I think his hair looks nice,” Megan replied truthfully, avoiding his gaze.

“Of course you do.” Her father’s voice radiated disappointment, as if she’d let him down.

Megan stared at the now empty sofa, thinking that none of the furniture they’d brought down from Rochester suited the house. Everything was too dark, too heavy. It made the house feel claustrophobic. It made you want to get out.

She glanced at her mother, then quickly turned away, hoping to hide her sudden anger. What was the matter with the woman, for God’s sake? Didn’t she want her husband to come back? Why was she wearing that stupid purple sweat suit that made her look hippy, even though she
wasn’t? Was she purposely trying to look as unattractive as possible? Couldn’t she have worn some makeup, or at the very least a little lipstick?

“Sweetheart?” her mother asked. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Megan said. “Just hungry.”

“Tim,” her father called. “What’s taking you so long? Get your ass out here.”

Megan winced, felt her mother do the same.

“It takes a few minutes to put on a tie,” her mother reminded him.

“Not if he did it more often.”

“Then we probably should have stayed in New York” came the pointed retort.

Megan held her breath.

“Actually, I’ve been giving some thought to moving back to Rochester once the school year is over,” her mother continued.

She had? Her mother hadn’t said anything about that before.

“What are you talking about?” her father asked.

“Well, there’s really nothing to keep me here.”

Was this some sort of ploy on her mother’s part? Did she think that by threatening to go back to New York, she’d force her husband to come to his senses?

“What are you talking about?” he repeated. “What about the kids?”

“They’ll come with me.”

Is that what she wanted? Megan asked herself. To go back to Rochester? Now, when she was growing more popular every day, when it was only a matter of time before Greg asked her out?

“What about your job?” Ian was demanding. “Don’t you have a contract?”

“I’m sure that, given the circumstances, they’ll understand.”

“The circumstances,” Ian repeated knowingly. “So this is about getting back at me.”

“This isn’t about you.”

“You don’t think you’re being just a little bit selfish?”

“Excuse me?
I’m
being selfish?”

Tim came bounding back into the room, jacket half-on, half-off, tie dangling, no doubt propelled into action by the sound of his parents bickering. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“You aren’t taking my kids anywhere,” Ian said, as if Tim were invisible.

“I think they’re old enough to make that decision for themselves.”

What would she decide? Megan wondered. Did she really want to start in at yet another new school, to leave her friends, leave Greg?

Her cell phone sounded inside her purse. Megan reached inside the canvas bag, lifted the phone to her ear. She heard the voice on the other end of the line, tried to absorb the words she was hearing even as she felt the color drain from her face.

“What is it?” her mother asked, instantly at her side.

Megan dropped the phone back into her bag, stared at her mother through a thickening layer of tears. “That was Ginger Perchak,” she whispered. “They found Liana.”

Her mother stared at her without speaking, as if she already knew what was coming next.

Megan sank into the nearest chair, stared out the front window at the growing darkness. “She’s dead.”

S
heriff John Weber sat in his police cruiser at the side of the quiet residential street and tried to keep the bile from rising in his throat. In his almost twenty years in law enforcement he’d seen a lot of terrible things—the mangled corpses of car-accident victims, the slashed torsos of drunken brawlers, the swollen faces of battered wives that punctuated each and every Super Bowl. He’d seen victims of hunting accidents, of sexual assault, of willful neglect and abuse. He’d seen teenagers puke their guts out, wives cry their eyes out, children scream their lungs out. He thought he’d seen it all.

But he’d never seen anything like this.

A young girl, a girl he knew personally, a girl whose parents he knew well, a girl on the cusp of womanhood, her whole life ahead of her, with everything to live for—God, was there no cliché that didn’t apply?—lying in a makeshift grave about half a mile from where Ray Sutter had run his car off the road a few days earlier, half her head blown away by a bullet fired from close range, the rest of her feasted on by animals and insects, so that it would take the coroner days, if not weeks, to determine what other tortures she might have endured. Hell, he wouldn’t have known for sure it even
was
Liana Martin if Greg Watt hadn’t recognized the MOVE, BITCH T-shirt she was wearing.
Greg had been part of a group of kids organized and led by Cal Hamilton, who’d reported it was either Greg or Joey Balfour who’d first come upon the suspicious mound of earth. John made a mental note to have his deputies question all three again later in greater detail, as well as Ray Sutter. (Could there have been a more sinister reason he’d been on that particular road earlier in the week?) Of course, the girl’s T-shirt was filthy and covered with blood, and he couldn’t imagine a lady like Judy Martin allowing her daughter to own such a thing, let alone wear it to school. He thought of Amber. Parents have so little control over their children’s lives once they reach a certain age, he realized, fighting back the threat of tears.

Not the first time tonight he’d had to struggle to keep his emotions in check.

But even the sight of Liana’s rotting corpse hadn’t been as awful as Judy Martin’s beautiful face contorting with grief when she heard the news of her daughter’s grisly death. John glanced over at the Martins’ neat white bungalow, with its black-and-white-striped awnings and ornately carved front door. He saw himself approaching the house, watched the front door open as he was reaching for the bell, saw the look of hope in Judy’s eyes turn quickly to trepidation and then, even faster, to horror, as she digested the terrible news. John doubted he’d ever be able to shake the image of the poor woman falling back against her husband’s chest, as if she’d been pushed, her body caving in against itself, like a collapsible chair. He saw her knees give way and her body sink to the floor like an anchor, her husband’s impotent arms unable to sustain her fragile weight. He heard the silent scream emanating from her twisted mouth. In seconds, he’d watched her age a lifetime. Her daughter’s lifetime, he realized now, with a sad shake of his head.

It had been almost an hour since they’d found Liana’s body. He’d had to call the coroner for Broward County,
make the necessary arrangements, and wait until the girl’s body had been taken away before driving over to the Martins’ house, convinced they’d no doubt have heard the news already. As soon as Liana’s body had been pulled from that shallow grave, he’d seen members of the search party mumbling into their cell phones.

But as it turned out, nobody had wanted to be the first person to break the news to Howard and Judy Martin. They’d left that dubious honor to him. He’d also had to tell the Martins that, as yet, there were no suspects in their daughter’s death, although now that this was officially a murder investigation and no longer just a case of a teenager gone missing, his department would have to revisit every aspect of the case. That meant reinterviewing all Liana’s friends and acquaintances, as well as her fellow students and teachers—what was it Delilah had said about her science teacher having a thing for young girls?—and other, more peripheral characters like Cal Hamilton and Ray Sutter. John knew he’d probably end up talking to the whole town personally before the week was up. His shoulders slumped. He was tired already.

He checked his watch, thinking he’d better start right away—the mayor had already phoned twice since Liana’s body had been unearthed, the first time stating his desire to be kept in the loop, the second time wondering whether they should call in the FBI. John had reminded the mayor that he knew more about the citizens of Torrance than any FBI agent could and urged him to be patient. “I’ll handle this,” he told him, deciding to go home and grab a shower. He couldn’t very well invite himself into people’s homes wearing the same sweat-and-dirt-stained uniform he’d been wearing when he pulled Liana out of the soggy ground.

“You can’t wear that,” he could almost hear Pauline sneer, remembering that they were supposed to be having
dinner tonight with Sarah and Frank Lawrence. But surely even Pauline would understand these were rather special circumstances. And anyway, he had no appetite. Even the thought of food made him queasy.

John sat in silence for several minutes, trying not to think of the missing girl from neighboring Hendry County. Was it possible Candy Abbot was buried somewhere out there as well, that a madman was on the loose in south-central Florida, preying on young girls, and that this was only the beginning? John buried his head in his hands, refusing to speculate. He was too old for this, he thought, too old and too ill-equipped. True, he had a staff of smart and eager young deputies, and they would work their tails off trying to find Liana’s killer, but they had even less experience in this sort of thing than he did. He also had an ambitious young mayor staring over his shoulder and second-guessing his every move. Hell, it had barely been an hour and the man was already wondering what was taking so long.

John knew that in real life, unlike on TV, despite how focused and intense the police effort, most crimes were solved by the perpetrator turning himself in or, more likely, by accident. John shook his head, intent on ridding his mind of all unwanted thoughts and images before heading for home.

The first thing he intended to do when he got there was tell his daughter how much he loved her.

The house was dark.

John heard the television blasting as soon as he stepped inside the front door. This was nothing new. The television was always blasting. “Pauline?” he called out, flipping on the light switch by the door to illuminate the so-called great room—a living-dining-family room combined. Other than its size, there was nothing particularly “great”
about it. It was a simple rectangle, and the furniture, while expensive enough, was altogether too floral for his taste. They rarely used the dining room. And John couldn’t remember the last time the three of them had sat on the awkward leather sectional in the arbitrarily designated family area to watch TV together.

He glanced toward Amber’s bedroom at the front of the house, but her door was closed, and there was nothing—no sounds, no sliver of light—to indicate she was inside. “Amber?” he called, wondering if she’d heard the news about Liana, and hoping she hadn’t gone out. “Amber? Amber, are you there?”

When she still didn’t answer, he proceeded to the kitchen, dropping the large bag from McDonald’s he’d picked up on his way home onto the gray granite countertop. The bag contained a Big Mac, several McChicken sandwiches, and three large orders of fries that he hoped would be enough to appease Pauline for having to cancel their dinner plans, and while he’d had the girl behind the counter double-bag the order and then place the whole thing in a larger plastic bag and knot it, not even that had been enough to keep the unmistakable odor from reaching his nose.
Eau de McDonald’s
, he thought, and might have smiled had the circumstances been different.