That Night (27 page)

Though Nicole had died of blunt force trauma, presumably from the tire iron still missing from Ryan’s truck, the prosecutor said my carrying a knife showed intent long before the murder, and much was made of the violence of her death. How that kind of rage had to be personal. Her clothes had also never been found and it was assumed we had disposed of them on the way to the station.

Ryan and I had the chance to speak for ourselves, and I tried to explain away each piece of evidence, but the prosecutor kept tripping me up, until all I could do was turn to the judge and say, “Please, Your Honor. You
have
to believe me. I didn’t kill my sister—I loved her.”

Ryan looked stiff and uncomfortable in his suit on the stand. His face flushed red when the prosecutor kept cutting him off every time he tried to defend me or my actions. Like me, he tried to explain that Shauna and the girls were lying, but the prosecutor said, “What possible motive could those four girls, exemplary students with no criminal records, have for lying about something so serious? One of them is a policeman’s daughter!”

The last day of trial the lawyers made their final summations. I held my breath, listening to them plead our case, studying the judge’s face, trying to read what he was thinking. Our lives were going to be decided by one man. My lawyer had told me that this judge had three daughters of his own. I hoped that meant he understood sisters fight, but that didn’t mean they would kill each other. At the end of summations, the judge said he needed a few days to deliberate.

Finally, we were brought before the judge again. Both my parents were in the courthouse that day. My mom had left the room a couple of times the first week when the coroner testified or whenever there were photos of Nicole’s body. Then she stopped coming altogether when the evidence against me mounted higher and higher. I’d seen her face when Shauna and the girls testified, seen the shock as she looked from them to me and back again. At home she couldn’t meet my eyes.

Ryan and I held hands as the judge said, “The issue in this case is who killed Nicole Murphy…” He droned on while I tried to focus, but my breath was coming fast, my body breaking out in a cold sweat. Then the words: “I have no doubt that you, Toni Murphy, caused the death of Nicole Murphy. You had motive, you showed stealth, and you intended it.…” I let out a gasp, saw Ryan’s body jerk with the blow.

From the corner of my eye, I saw my dad put his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. The judge was saying stuff about Ryan now but I couldn’t hear anything, just the words,
No, no, no, no
, chanting in my head. I glanced at Ryan. His face was pale as he stared at the judge. He looked at me, his eyes stunned. I reached for him and we hugged, me crying, his body stiff with shock. Then my dad was there, hugging me hard, and Ryan’s mother, sobbing, her arms trying to circle around both of us. The sheriff put handcuffs on us. I saw my mom, still sitting at one of the benches, her hands over her mouth, her eyes horrified.

“Ryan…” My voice sounded helpless. Our eyes met, and I saw the same panicky despair in his face. The finality of the moment hit me, the handcuffs wrapped around my wrists, the sheriff gripping my arms as he led me out of the room, his clipped orders, my last glance at Ryan. He looked at me over his mother’s shoulders as she sobbed and sobbed. He mouthed,
I love you.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

C
AMPBELL
R
IVER

J
UNE
2013

Ashley stayed away from me after I told her I wouldn’t film a documentary, or at least she stayed away from the subject. She was only working weekends until she finished school, so I didn’t run into her a lot, but whenever she came into the kitchen she was friendly. And when she saw me with Captain one night, she asked if she could pet him and brought him cookies the next day. I knew she was trying to gain my trust and I kept my distance.

One evening on my break, after she’d been there for a couple of weeks, I went outside to the back alley, which overlooked the docks—my hiding place from the busy kitchen. I sat on a milk crate, caught my breath in the cool air, wiping the sweat off the back of my neck.

Ashley followed me outside. “That pasta special you made was really good.”

“Thanks.” I scuffed my feet against the pavement, avoided her gaze.

“My mom freaked out that I was working here,” she said.

“I’m sure.”

“She doesn’t like me working late at night. She thinks someone will attack me in the parking lot or something stupid. I told her I was staying, though.”

I flashed back to a fight with my own mother.
The Fish Shack, Toni?

When I didn’t say anything, Ashley continued, “She always has to know what I’m doing every second.” Her voice turned bitter. “She’s always checking my Facebook and I can’t have a password on my cell or my e-mails or anything. That’s why I want to go away to school. Working here, it’s kind of the first step.”

I had no idea why this kid was telling me all this, but I was struck by how much it reminded me of my own mother and how she had wanted to control everything. I felt a pang, thinking that maybe I should have listened more.

“Sounds like it’s between the two of you,” I said.

“Yeah, I know. I just thought you’d get it.”

It seemed like Ashley had created this whole character for me, based on things she’d read. She probably imagined it would be like the movies: we become buddies, she solves my case, and everyone lives happily ever after. I didn’t want to be an asshole, but I didn’t want to feed into her fantasy either. I stared down at my feet, making it clear that I didn’t want to talk about this anymore.

She glanced at her watch. “Time for me to get back to work, I guess.”

*   *   *

The next day we were slammed at the restaurant. Later, after most of the kitchen staff had left and I was cleaning the grill, Ashley came to talk to me.

“Wow, that was crazy busy!” She leaned against the counter, stole a french fry out of the deep fryer. “Least I made good tips. I wasn’t sure I’d like waitressing, but it’s fun. Did you like waitressing when you worked here before?”

“For the most part.” Except when Shauna and her crew gave me a hard time.

“That’s cool.”

What part of it was cool? Was she imagining herself walking in my shoes? Re-creating my life? I sure as hell hoped not. My hands were slippery and I dropped the grill brush, which slid partway under the stove. I squatted down and reached for it. As I stood back up, I noticed Ashley staring at my biceps.

“Did you get those in prison?” she asked.

“The tattoos?”

She nodded. “What do they mean?”

I paused, caught off guard by the question. She was the first person to ever ask. I studied the brush in my hand, wondered how much I should share.

“Each bar is for every year I was locked up,” I said finally.

“I’d love to get a tattoo but my mom would kill me. She already thinks I’m too…” She made quotation marks in the air. “Hard-looking.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not pretty enough—and she hates how I dress. She tells me I look like a pathetic vampire and she’s embarrassed by me.” She shrugged. “It wouldn’t matter what I wore. She just wishes I looked more like her, but I look like my dad.”

I was shocked at her candor, the lack of hurt in her voice, like she was talking about the weather. This was obviously something she’d come to terms with a long time ago. Again I was struck by how adult she seemed.

“My mom didn’t like how I dressed either,” I said. “She thought I was trying too hard to look tough. Maybe she was right.”

“Was it a way for you to get back at her?”

I wasn’t sure if she was still trying to get information for her documentary, but I got the feeling she was asking more for personal reasons.

“I don’t know, maybe. She didn’t like my dating Ryan.”

Now Ashley looked angry. “My mom can be a bitch about that too. I was supposed to have a date with this guy I like, but my mom
hates
him because he’s a mechanic and he’s gotten in trouble before, so we had this big fight. She wouldn’t listen to anything when I tried to tell her about him, just said she was looking out for me.” She laughed. “It’s not about me.”

I didn’t want to get drawn into her life, her problems, but I was curious. “What’s your dad think?”

“He’s always working, so he just lets my mom do whatever she wants.” The bitter tone again.

I felt bad for the kid, but it was none of my business. The whole family sounded screwed up—and her mom sounded like a bully, who probably had no idea how her daughter really felt about her. I started scrubbing the grill again, but Ashley wasn’t ready to end the conversation.

“What did your dad think of Ryan? Did he like him?”

“I think so. He was just scared about how reckless we…” I realized I was about to slip, about to let this kid into my world, into my memories where it was Ryan and me sitting in his truck, sharing a joint, him saying, “Don’t worry about your parents. They’ll see it’s real when we’ve been married for twenty years.” And me thinking I was so tough, such a rebel, I didn’t need them. I had no idea.

Patty popped her head into the kitchen, saw us talking, and gave me a dirty look.

I said to Ashley, “I really need to finish up here.”

Ashley looked disappointed, seeing that a door had closed.

*   *   *

The next weekend she followed me out back again when I was on my break. I sat on one of the milk crates and tried to ignore her, focusing on my iced tea, the boats tied up at the dock, their lights glowing on the dark ocean.

“So I went on a date with the guy from my school,” she said. “His name is Aiden.”

I squinted up at her. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be seeing him.”

“I snuck out. We went to a party but I was nervous that my mom would find out and couldn’t really relax and have fun.” She looked angry. “I can’t wait until I’m away at school and can do whatever I want.”

I nodded, understanding. But I also wondered about this boy. Maybe he wasn’t any good for her. Maybe her mom was right. I thought back to my days with Ryan, trying to see it from my mother’s eyes. I probably would’ve worried too. Then I remembered Nicole at that party, sneaking out the back to meet up with a boy. I wondered where he was now, if he ever thought about her. After she died, I’d tried to find the necklace he’d given her, but it wasn’t in her room.

“Was it like that for you?” she said. “When you just wanted to be with Ryan and your parents didn’t like him? I mean, you knew he was a good person, just because he got in a little trouble didn’t make him a bad guy.”

“Sometimes it
does
mean that, though. You have to be careful. When we were kids, it was different. Drugs are different now, everything’s changed.”

“I heard Ryan’s back in Campbell River.”

Who told her that? I took a sip of my drink, letting the ice bump against my teeth. Ignored her implied question.

“Have you seen him?” Her tone was more tentative now, curious but sensing that she was crossing a line.

“I’m not allowed to associate with him.”

“God, that must be hard.” Her face was awash in tragedy. “You guys were so in love.”

“We were kids. We didn’t know what love was.”

She looked angry. “You don’t mean that. That’s something my mom would say. She hates my boyfriends, always says they’re going to just leave me one day, but not every guy is like that. She just doesn’t want me to leave
her
.”

“I’ve gotta finish cleaning up the kitchen.” I walked back inside. She followed.

“I’ll help.”

“It’s not your job.”

“I want to.” She paused. “I’m sorry if I upset you, I just think it’s so sad that you guys can never see each other again after everything you went through.”

I was starting to get the feeling the kid liked to torture herself with painful thoughts. I said, “It was sad, but you get through stuff. You have to.”

“I guess…” She was fiddling with the sponge, her face still troubled.

I handed her a pot. “Here, clean this.”

We worked in silence for a while, the music keeping us company. I noticed her energy seemed to pick up, her shoulders lifting as she worked, one foot tapping to the music. I guess hard work helped her too. While I mopped the floor she started chatting about different documentaries she’d seen, techniques she was trying, how she’d won a grant from the National Film Board of Canada for her last movie. She obviously read a lot—speaking passionately about the Canadian art world and well-known female Canadian filmmakers like Sarah Polley and Deepa Mehta. She also knew a lot about cameras and had some nice equipment her grandfather had bought her, but her mom didn’t know because it was expensive.

She was going on about her favorite teacher, who also ran a camera shop in town, when I saw a shadow at the open back door. I glanced up just as I heard a female voice say, “So this is where you are.”

Ashley spun around. “Mom!”

The woman seemed familiar, like I should know her. And then I realized I did—it was Shauna McKinney.

She was a little fleshier under her chin and around her waist but still attractive. She was wearing shorts, and her legs were muscled like a runner’s. Her auburn hair was shorter now, falling to her shoulders in a sleek bob. She was wearing a yellow shirt, her arms crossed in front of her, a large brown leather handbag hanging off her shoulder and keys in her hand, which she was jittering angrily. She studied me while I studied her, neither of us saying a word.

Ashley finally broke the silence. “I was coming home soon.” She sounded really pissed that her mom had shown up at the restaurant. Not that I gave a shit—I was pissed that Ashley had never mentioned who her mother was.

“I thought you were a waitress,” Shauna said, still staring at me. “Why are you in the kitchen? I’ve been worried—you didn’t answer your cell.”

Ashley set down the sponge, stepped away from the sink. “Sorry. It was busy tonight and I was just helping Toni out.”

What the hell? She was blaming me? I turned back, gave her a look.