Where They Found Her (22 page)

“Hey, I know you’re in there!” Mrs. Wilson shouted when they didn’t answer right away. She banged harder, this time with her whole forearm. “I just heard your TV through my wall! Open up the damn door!”

A second later, the one with the scruff of hair on his chin filled the entryway. He was wearing a 76ers jersey and a baseball cap backward over a tangled brown ponytail. There was a gold chain on his right wrist. The guy didn’t say anything, just stared at Mrs. Wilson like a startled elephant, not angry, only confused.

“Here.” She shoved the crowbar at him. He blinked down at it but didn’t take it. “Go on,” she scolded. “What are you waiting for?”

Finally, he reached forward. In his big fingers, the crowbar became a weightless matchstick. He stared down at it, surprised and even more confused.

“Now,” Mrs. Wilson said, “you take that and go open that door.”

“What?” His voice was nicer, more polite, than Sandy would have expected.

“You heard me. Go open that door for this girl.” Mrs. Wilson hooked a thumb toward Sandy’s apartment. “It’s locked.”

“What?” Now he sounded like a whiny teenager. “Why?”

“Because I said so,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “You boys are lucky someone hasn’t called the police on you. And
someone
still could.”

The guy heaved a loud sigh and lugged himself out of his apartment. As he headed for Sandy’s door, he tossed the crowbar higher in his huge hand. He paused at Sandy’s door to read the notice, turning back to look at Mrs. Wilson.

“Oh, please, don’t act like you care about the law.” She flapped a hand at him. “Just do it.”

He looked over his shoulder once more to see if anyone was watching—something he’d definitely done a hundred times before when breaking in elsewhere—then snapped the lock off in one easy movement. It fell to the ground with a thud. He walked back toward them, eyes on the ground. He rested the crowbar against the wall next to Mrs. Wilson and disappeared inside his apartment without saying another word.

Sandy pushed herself to her feet, heart pounding. She had to get in and out of that apartment now. Who knew what would happen when you broke open a lock like that? They arrested you, probably, and Sandy seriously did not fucking need that.

“Thank you,” she said to Mrs. Wilson, her voice still hoarse from crying.

Mrs. Wilson shook her head and stepped closer to Sandy, looking her hard in the eye. “You get in there and take what you need,” she said. “But then you
go
. Because you are the only person in this world who’s going to take care of you. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.”

Inside the apartment, Sandy moved fast. She grabbed a couple of the boxes they’d used to move in months earlier, then went around scooping up their personal crap that mattered: Jenna’s jewelry box, Sandy’s grandparents’ pictures, her school records. She opened and closed cabinets, eyes darting around for anything important. There wasn’t much. Their stuff that mattered barely filled a single box.

Sandy filled a second box with some basic kitchen crap: couple plates, some bowls, and a handful of silverware. She also grabbed the stuff Hannah had given her that night for safekeeping. She couldn’t imagine ever seeing Hannah again—she hoped to God not—but it felt wrong to leave it behind. Sandy couldn’t take much else. They’d just have to replace the rest of their cheap shit with new cheap shit. As it was, she didn’t know where the hell she was going to put these two boxes; it wasn’t like she could ride away with them on her bike.

They’d need some clothes, too, an outfit for each, and she’d have to go with spring because there wasn’t time to cover winter. It wasn’t until then that Sandy noticed Jenna’s coat hanging on the back of the door. It had been cold the night before last, frost on the grass in the morning. What if Jenna was outside somewhere? What if she’d frozen to death?

Sandy tried to shake off the thought as she went back to Jenna’s room for one last pass. Though she was trying not to hope that she’d find her money somewhere, she was still disappointed when she didn’t.

There was one last place Sandy could look, the place girls like Jenna always hid their secret stash. Sandy grabbed the mattress with two hands and pushed. She was almost glad when it pitched to the left and crashed against Jenna’s bureau, taking everything on top—cheap bottles of perfume and small glass tchotchkes—down with it.

When Sandy looked back, she couldn’t believe it, but there was something fucking there on the box spring. Not her money. She’d never be that lucky. It was a small black book. Sandy picked it up, bracing herself when she flipped it open. Sure enough, there were her mom’s bubbly girlie letters and a date on the first page: February 15, 1994. Shit.

Sandy tucked the two boxes under the building’s stairs in a dusty cobwebbed corner she was pretty sure no one would check. In her backpack, she’d shoved what was left of her cash—eighteen dollars now—Jenna’s journal, a couple clean pairs of underwear, two T-shirts, and her toothbrush. She didn’t know where the hell she was going to stay, but it wasn’t here, that was for sure.

The last thing Sandy was about to drop in the bag were the pills she’d stolen from Hannah’s house. She would take them only if she got desperate, and then she’d take one pill. Maybe two. Except at this point, with the way she was feeling, Sandy wasn’t sure she could trust herself. Just in case, she should keep only a few and get rid of the rest. She cracked open the bottles and dumped the contents of both together into her palm.

When Sandy looked, there were a few different-shaped pills and a silver chain—broken at the clasp—with a silver moon charm, an aquamarine stone set inside.

It was Jenna’s necklace. The one she always had on. The one that meant so much to her, though even Sandy didn’t know why. Because for all the many secrets that Jenna wouldn’t keep from her daughter—about the drugs she took and the men she slept with—who gave her that necklace was the one thing she refused to tell.

It was dark by the time Sandy got on her bike. Her hands were trembling against the handlebars and her heart was pounding. There was no good reason for Jenna’s necklace to be in one of those bottles. There was only one bad reason for Jenna and her necklace to be separated in the first place: Jenna was dead. How the necklace had ended up in Hannah’s house in a goddamn old pill bottle, Sandy didn’t have a clue. Had Steve taken the pills off Jenna? No, they had his (or his wife’s) name on them. None of it made any sense. Not good sense, anyway.

It wasn’t until Sandy was pulling out of the parking lot that she noticed the police car parked across the street from Ridgedale Commons.
Don’t look guilty. Don’t give them a reason.
All Sandy had to do was keep going, real easy, like she wasn’t worried about a damn thing. Like all teenagers in Ridgedale rode their bikes around in the dark.

As Sandy passed the patrol car, she lifted her eyes just a little above her arm. Could’ve been anyone in that police car, sitting there for lots of reasons. Except once she got a better look, she saw that it wasn’t just anyone. It was Hannah’s dad, Steve. The same guy who seemed to know all about Jenna the second Sandy mentioned her name. The guy who had Jenna’s most prized possession in his medicine cabinet. Hannah’s dad was
that
guy. And right now
that
guy was staring dead at Sandy. Like the person he was really looking for, was her.

JUNE 2, 2013

Justin made it to the final round for the job at Ridgedale University! He’s so excited and I really am happy for him. He gave up so much in the past year and a half to take care of us. In a weird way, the whole terrible thing brought us so much closer. And it’s definitely his turn. I want us to focus on him and what he needs for a while.

But it’s so hard to think of leaving. And I know she never even lived in our apartment. But she died here. Inside me. As I slept. As I walked. As I breathed.

What will become of her if we leave this place behind?

ONLINE EDITION

March 18, 2015, 5:23 p.m.

NEWS ALERT

Police Schedule Community Meeting

BY MOLLY SANDERSON

The Ridgedale Police Department will hold a community meeting this evening at 7 p.m. at the Ridgedale University Athletic Center. The meeting will provide an update on the investigation of the deceased infant found near the Essex Bridge. Topics to be discussed will include the department’s planned voluntary DNA testing.

The meeting is open to the public. A question-and-answer session will follow a brief presentation.

When I got to Winchester’s Pub, Justin was sitting in one of the worn wooden booths near the front, the ones with the initials of university students from decades long past carved into the now-polished surfaces. With his scruffy face and beat-up jeans, Justin could have passed for a good-looking graduate student, if there hadn’t been two actual students with him—a boy with bad acne and a huge Adam’s apple, and a girl with a pixie face and spiky black hair with green tips—both of whom looked about twelve by comparison.

When I’d texted him, he’d said he was back from the conference, grabbing dinner with some advisees if I wanted to come by. And I did. I needed to see him. I’d felt shaken ever since I’d left Harold’s house with that bracelet in my pocket, turned over in exchange for an old box of CDs I happened to have in my trunk.

Speaking to Steve afterward hadn’t helped, either. I called him as soon as I’d driven a safe distance from Harold’s and pulled into an empty driveway.

“I think you should consider speaking again with the man who lives across the street from where you found the baby,” I’d said, trying not to sound pushy or judgmental. “I think he may have seen something the night the baby was left.”

“Harold told you that, did he?” Steve had taken a loud breath. “Did he also tell you that he’s a convicted felon—aggravated assault—with a history of mental illness and a record of filing false reports?”

“No,” I’d said, feeling reprimanded and embarrassed again. “He didn’t mention that.”

“My personal advice is to steer clear of Harold,” Steve had said. “Nothing you’ll get from him could possibly be worth the risk of sticking around long enough to find it out.”

Justin grinned and waved when he saw me. I was about to head over when my phone rang. I paused on the side of the bar:
Richard Englander
. I dropped my phone right back into my pocket and let the call go to voicemail again. I’d gotten several more texts from Erik, including one praising my essay about infanticide, but none had said a word about Richard. Erik was due back in a day or so, he’d said. If Richard had an issue with my being on the story, he’d have to take it up with Erik when he got back.

“Guys, this is my wife, Molly,” Justin said when I’d made my way over to their table, which was covered with half-empty plates and glasses. They’d long since finished eating. “Tamara and Jeff are in my nineteenth-century fiction class. They were just telling me that the dean of students has shot down the Animal Rights Committee’s plan to lock themselves in cages in the middle of the quad to protest factory farming.”

“Factory farming is totally disgusting,” the girl said, glaring at me as if I had a bunch of baby cows jammed in cages in my backyard.

“Yes,” I said, because I was kind of scared to disagree. “Absolutely awful.”

“I promise I will do what I can to help plead your case. But I’m afraid right now I’m on borrowed time with the wife,” Justin said, winking at me. “Can we pick this up later, guys?”

“Yeah, sure,” the boy said, grabbing his stuff and digging in his pockets for cash.

“No, no, Jeff,” Justin said. “It’s on me.”

“Thanks, Professor Sanderson.” Jeff elbowed the girl. “Come on, Tam.”

The girl was still squinting at me.

“Tamara, we’ll work it out,” Justin said. “Don’t worry.”

“Okay, Mr. Sanderson,” she said before pouting out the door.

“Wow, she’s quite the ray of sunshine,” I muttered.

“Hubris of youth.” Justin shrugged, watching them go. “Someone needs to keep on fighting the good fight now that we’re too old and decrepit to care about anything but getting a good night’s sleep.”

“They’re, what, freshman? They look like babies.”

“That’s because they
are
babies. They’re extension students from Ridgedale High School—juniors and seniors.” His brow wrinkled. “Speaking of which, I’m pretty sure they aren’t supposed to be joining the clubs, much less protesting anything on campus. But I may let Thomas Price handle that. He supervises the high school exchange program. Anyway, they’re good kids. The boy is really sharp, more insightful than a lot of the actual freshmen.”

“And the girl?”

“Hmm, not so much. Being angry may be taking up a lot of her mental energy,” Justin said, which made me laugh.

“Well, if she’s pissed about factory farming, her head is going to burst when she hears about the police department’s DNA dragnet.”

Steve had briefly mentioned the planned community-wide voluntary DNA testing when we spoke about Harold. He’d asked me to post an alert about the community meeting, where he would be making the official announcement.

“‘Dragnet’? That sounds daunting,” Justin said as I sat across from him and started picking at his leftover french fries.

“I think it might be,” I said. “Can you get Ella on your way home? She’s at Mia’s house, having dinner.”

“Sure,” Justin said. “Everything okay?”

“I just need to cover the community meeting so I can be there to record the town’s collective conniption when the police announce this thing.”

“In their defense, it doesn’t sound very constitutional,” he said. “Oh, and by the way.” He pulled out his phone and showed me the text I had sent earlier. “What is this? It looks like an address.”

He could tell it wasn’t innocuous. Wasn’t a mistake. And it didn’t seem wise to lie. If I wanted him to trust me, I needed to be trustworthy.

“I had to do an interview.” I shrugged. “The guy made me nervous. It seemed best if someone knew where I was. Just in case.”

“Just in case?” His eyes were wide.

“Excess of caution. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Hmm.” He was trying not to argue. Neither one of us wanted to go back down the bumpy road we’d traveled the night before.

I felt the slip of paper in my coat pocket then, the one I’d found there that morning. Though this one was hardly a slip. Nearly half a page, it was folded into a square. I pulled it out. “This is one of my favorites.”

“I know,” Justin said. “I remember.”

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart) E. E. Cummings

The waitress came and handed Justin the check. He pulled out some cash and tucked it into the hard leather check holder.

“Wait, you’re not going to help publicize their fascist dragnet, are you?” Justin said, looking suddenly aggravated, as though the thought had just occurred to him. “I can’t believe you’d be okay with something like that. It goes against everything you’ve always believed in.”

Regardless of how old and decrepit he liked to proclaim himself, he could get pretty wound up about social justice.

“I’m reporting on its existence, not endorsing it,” I said, feeling defensive. Justin was probably taking this as yet another sign of my fundamental instability. “Besides, I think they’re hoping that they won’t have to go through with it. That the threat will be enough to make someone come forward.”

“And in the meantime, they want to use you as their propaganda machine?” Justin asked as if it were some kind of personal affront. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, Molly. And I heard you last night about needing to stay on this story. Loud and clear. I just don’t want to see you get used in the process. I hate to say it, but you might be a bit of an easy mark.”

“Well, gee, thanks for that,” I said, but mildly. He was agreeing to drop his objections to my staying on the story. I had to be grateful for that and take the passive-aggressive swipe. “You’re all about the compliments these days.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. I tried not to notice how sad he seemed. “I just— I’m trying to look out for you, that’s all.”

“I know.” I put a hand on his face. “Maybe look out for me a little less, okay?”

“Are you sure?” He smiled. He seemed melancholy still, but less so. “Because I’m so good at it.”

“Yeah, except, lucky for us,” I smoothed my thumb over his cheek, “you’re good at lots of things.”

Halfway to the Athletic Center, I realized I should have driven and parked in the gym’s easily accessible and brightly lit parking lot. I hadn’t really been thinking when I’d parted ways with Justin on the green. It was night, but unusually warm, and I’d figured the walk would do me good. So I’d left my car parked on Franklin Avenue and blithely strode headlong onto campus.

It hadn’t occurred to me, though, how empty and how dark it would be. The dorms and student center were all in the opposite direction, and so, it seemed, were all the people. The language lab, the art studio, and the theater were bright, but a distance away, and the largest academic buildings—Rockland Hall, Barry Hall, and Sampson Hall—were all pitch-black at that hour. The deeper I went into the darkness, the more nervous I became, so that by the time I was halfway across campus, even the sound of my own heels on the path—loud and echoing—was making me jittery.

I texted Justin as I walked.
Please tell me campus is safer than it feels
. I held the phone in my hand, waiting for him to respond. But he was probably inside Mia’s house getting Ella, his phone left behind in the car’s cup holder.

I walked faster, feeling even more vulnerable with the unanswered text in my hand. I checked over my shoulder to be sure that no one was following me. When that didn’t make me feel any better, I did it again and again. Until I was doing it every couple steps, feeling more wound up with each swivel of my head. There was no one behind me, at least no one I could see, and yet it felt like someone
was
there as I followed the path down the hill toward the Athletic Center and through a short tunnel of trees.

I was relieved when the sidewalk rose on the other side, the Athletic Center in sight, lit up a welcoming gold. There was a small crowd clustered near the door. Probably not close enough to hear me if I called out, so I picked up the pace, my heels louder as I headed across the last stretch of concrete.

I was about to step onto the tail end of the sidewalk hugging the circular drive when there was a noise to my left. Something in the darkness. The wind, hopefully. That was my best-case scenario. I was looking in the direction of the sound when I bumped right into something—someone. My phone slipped out of my hands and cracked to the ground.

“Oops,” Deckler said, as though I were so silly for throwing my phone around. He bent to pick it up, inspecting it, then wiped the screen over his sleeve before handing it back to me. “Good as new.”

He was out of his snug yellow-and-black Campus Safety bicycle uniform but was even less appealing in his sweatshirt and jeans. Why was he always everywhere, watching me?

The files. A campus security officer would have had plenty of access to each and every one of those girls. And the power to bury their complaints. Not to mention Deckler’s menacing vibe and his apparent willingness to startle a woman walking alone in the dark. He didn’t maintain appropriate boundaries, at least not with women. He knew I had those files, and he wasn’t happy about it—I was convinced of it. He was hanging around waiting to see what I was going to do about them, and then, if necessary, he would pounce.

“Thanks,” I said, taking my phone back. Had he somehow come from the left, where I’d heard that noise? “Are you here for the meeting?”

“Nah,” he said with unsettling vagueness. “Just checking things out.”

“Okay, well, great.” I smiled, no doubt unconvincingly. “I should probably get going. Someone’s saving a seat for me inside.”

Deckler needed to know I was meeting someone, that I would be missed. Even if it wasn’t true. I expected to see Stella, but we’d made no plans to meet.

“By the way, did you get what you needed on that student?” he asked, looking off into the distance like he was—you know—just curious. “Rose, was it?”

Except I hadn’t told Deckler that.

“Yes, I did.” I smiled, backing toward the building and out of Deckler’s reach. “I have all the information I need now.”

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.” His voice was flat and affectless. It made the hairs on my arms stand on end.

“I will, definitely. Bye!”

I spun on a heel and raced for the building without looking back, bracing myself for Deckler to grab me.

When I dove inside unimpeded, my heart was drumming against my rib cage. Steve was at a podium in the center of the gym floor. Next to him were Ben LaForde and Thomas Price, who kept checking his big watch like he had someplace he would much rather be. Anywhere else, probably. It was hard to blame him. It had been savvy PR, though, for the university to host the community meeting—Thomas Price’s idea, I suspected. Instead of distancing itself from the baby’s death, the university was letting itself be drawn further into the fray. Only an institution convinced of its innocence would do such a thing. But after my run-in with Deckler, I thought that confidence seemed woefully misplaced.

The meeting had gotten quite a turnout. People filled the bleachers on both sides. Folding chairs had been set up at each end. Many more were standing.

“I’m Ridgedale Chief of Police Steve Carlson. Thank you all for coming.” It wasn’t until then that I noticed the flyers making their way noisily around the room. “The purpose of this meeting is to update you on the status of our investigation into the death of an approximately newborn female infant found Tuesday morning near the Essex Bridge. There will be an opportunity for questions after a brief announcement. The infant remains unidentified, and we are still awaiting an official cause of death from the medical examiner. We do not believe this death is related to any other death.” That was in response to my story about Simon Barton, but I stood by its newsworthiness—anything
that
serendipitous was worth investigating, even if all I had was hysterical Harold as proof. “We are proceeding with an innovative program of voluntary DNA testing that we hope will expedite the identification of the baby.”

Well, that was carefully worded—as though the baby would be identified by the DNA samples of good, innocent people. In reality, the only person whose test results would matter would be the guilty party.

“As discussed in the flyers being distributed to you now, the test is painless and quick, takes less than five minutes. Nonmatching DNA samples will be discarded immediately and confidentially. To reiterate, they will not be kept in any kind of database. Details of where and when the DNA collections will take place are on the handout. We hope that you will all consider lending your help.”