Even though his car isn’t very warm, I’m sweaty as hell. Once my body begins to cool off, I start to visibly shiver. It’s clear that I do not want to have this conversation with him right now.
“You couldn’t see me?” I ask.
“Barely. I could see someone. The first thing I thought is, ‘Who the hell is that jackass running at night without anything reflective?’ ”
“So how did you even know it was me?”
He reaches over to tug my long blond ponytail. He smiles. “Do you have to ask? The hair.”
“Oh.” I pull my knees close to my chest. “Can you take me home?”
“Why? So you can turn around and head out again?”
I hesitate. For a second, it seems like I’m considering lying to him, just to get him to leave me alone. But I can tell from my thoughtful, serious expression that there’s a small part of me that wants him to know something is not right. There’s a small part of me that needs to tell someone something, to reveal even the smallest hint that my world has been knocked off its axis.
“Yes,” I say to Mr. Riley. “If you take me home, I’m just going to turn around and start running again.”
“Why?” He squints at my body in the darkness of the car. We’re driving slowly toward Mystic. Even though it’s dark, the road is still thick with tourist traffic from the fall foliage. “Are you trying to lose weight? Because if you are—”
“I’m not starving myself,” I say. “I eat.” I pause. “It’s important to stay in control, that’s all.”
“There’s control and there’s starvation. And there are different kinds of starvation, Liz. There’s food starvation and there’s exercise starvation. Some people are better at one or the other.” He glances at me again. “And some people are good at both.”
I lean back in my seat. I turn my head to look at him. “I’m not trying to lose weight. Don’t worry about me.”
“I am worried about you.” He makes a left, into the hills of Mystic, as though he’s going to turn the car around. “I’m taking you home. And if you try to go out running again, I’ll knock on your door and have a talk with your parents.”
My voice is small. “Can you drop me off at Richie’s house? He’s two doors down. I’ll feel better if I can just talk to him for a while tonight.” I know now that I’m not going to tell Richie anything, but I understand that I just want to see him, to hear his voice, to feel his arms around me. Richie has always brought me so much comfort. Even now, in death.
“Richie Wilson is no good for you, Liz. Anybody could tell you that.” Mr. Riley shakes his head. “I ought to have a talk with your parents about him. Do they know what he does … recreationally?”
I feign innocence. “What? You mean, do they know he’s at the top of his class? That he wants to be a writer someday? That his favorite poet is John Keats and his favorite book is Catcher in the Rye? Yes, they know how amazing Richie is.”
“Okay. I get it. Liz Valchar, popular girl. No time for a heart-to-heart with her coach. You want to break all the rules? Go running at night without the right gear, date a drug dealer—fine. You won’t get away with whatever you want forever.” He stares at me as he turns onto the main street in Mystic, heading back toward Noank. “You know that, right?”
He’s so insightful that, if I could touch him now, I’d almost want to slap him. Instead, my living self has to blink, fast, again and again, to keep from crying.
We drive almost the rest of the way in silence. As we’re turning onto High Street, Mr. Riley says, “Liz, are you sure there isn’t anything you want to talk about?”
This was before I started running to his house, I realize. Before he decided that, whatever was wrong, it was too huge for him to let into his life.
I take a deep breath. I wipe my eyes. “It’s this one, on the right,” I say. “Two houses before mine.”
He pulls to a stop in front of Richie’s house. The only light is coming from my boyfriend’s bedroom. Richie’s front window is open. He’s sitting in the frame, one leg perched against the side, smoking a cigarette.
“What a class act. Quite a catch you’ve got yourself there.” Mr. Riley pauses. “So we’re here. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I guess so.”
“You’re sure there isn’t anything—”
“There is,” I say. “But not yet. Okay?”
He nods. “Okay.”
I open the door to get out, but before I’ve even got a foot out the door, Mr. Riley puts a hand on my shoulder. “Liz, my God.”
“What?” The light is on in the car, since I’ve opened the door, and he’s peering at me with disbelief. “What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”
He reaches toward me, takes a lock of my hair between his fingers. “I’ll be damned,” he murmurs. He holds up the strand from my ponytail to show me. “You’re going gray.”
Twenty-three
Periodically—every few days or so—Joe Wright makes a visit to Vince Aiello’s apartment, ostensibly to check up on him and make sure Richie has been leaving him alone. It’s a condition of Richie’s probation that he can’t get within five hundred feet of Vince, but Vince doesn’t exactly seem like the type to go calling the cops over a breach in proximity.
I’ve never believed, not for a moment, that I was legitimately seeing Vince. Now that I know I was the one who killed Alex, it seems clear enough what must have happened. Somehow, Vince figured out that my car was involved in the accident that night, and that’s why he was blackmailing me. Knowing what I know now, the explanation seems obvious enough. But as far as I can tell, Joe doesn’t know any of that—how could he? And even though I can put the pieces together well enough, I still don’t have any solid memories to confirm everything I suspect.
Even when the memories come—if they come at all—what will I do with them? There’s not much I can prove from beyond the grave. There’s nobody to tell. Not even Alex.
It’s a rainy Tuesday evening in mid-November when Joe pops in on Vince at his apartment. I saw him leaving the police station, and I had a gut feeling that I should follow him. I was right—he went directly to the Covington Arms.
It’s been about a week since my dad announced that he was putting the house up for sale, and since then things at home have been grim, to say the least. My dad is living on the boat pretty much full-time. He still isn’t working. Josie is going to school, and Nicole is packing boxes—but to go where? I don’t know if they’ll get a divorce or if they’ll all simply move away together—I don’t know anything. I feel lost. I am lost.
Vince is watching the Nature Channel, engrossed in some kind of documentary on elephants. He’s by himself, except for his dog, Rocky, who sits at Vince’s feet, head on his paws, asleep. Apparently, the guy’s a real animal lover. It occurs to me that knowing the difference between good and evil is tricky this way: it isn’t nearly as obvious as I’d like to believe. Here is Vince, who I know is a bad guy, watching elephants as they play in puddles of water, a small grin of appreciation on his face. He isn’t doing anything overtly distasteful: he isn’t looking at a Playboy or getting high. A person’s character, I realize, is never black-and-white. There is so much gray.
When Joe knocks at the door, Vince glances toward the sound, clearly annoyed at being interrupted. Even though he isn’t doing anything awful, I hate being in this place; I’d rather be pretty much anywhere else. But I don’t feel like I have much of a choice. I have to hear what they say. I have to remember. Even if it doesn’t make any difference, I have to know exactly what happened. It’s the only way I can possibly imagine that I’ll ever get out of here, beyond this life, to wherever Alex is—and maybe to my mother.
Vince is practically hacking up a lung as he opens the door, a freshly lit cigarette dangling from between his lips.
“Oh, it’s you.” His sarcasm is obvious. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Well, I figured you’d be missing me by now.” Joe leans in the
doorway. Cops, I’ve learned, are like vampires; they can’t come in unless you invite them. I guess if they have good enough reason they can barge on in without permission, but so far Vince has been cool as a cucumber with Joe.
Vince glances at the television. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.” He coughs again. “I’m taking it easy today. Think I might be getting the flu.”
“Well, I hear chain-smoking’s good for that,” Joe says.
“Uh-huh. Look, Richie Wilson ain’t here. He hasn’t been bothering me. You don’t have to keep coming over like this. I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you can.” Joe glances past Vince into the disgusting apartment. His gaze lingers on the elephants, who are now charging through a barren landscape on the TV screen. “Can I come in?”
Vince narrows his eyes. “Why?”
“I have a few questions.”
“About what?”
“About Liz Valchar.” Joe crosses his arms. “She was special to you, wasn’t she? Don’t you want to do all you can to help with her case?” I notice he doesn’t use the words “close” or “solve” or “murder.”
Vince wipes his runny nose with the back of his sleeve. “ ’Course I do. Sure. Come on in.”
They sit down on the sofa. Joe settles in, makes himself comfortable, and waits for Vince to give him his full attention before he begins the conversation.
But before Joe has a chance to say anything, Vince starts. “I was under the impression that her case was, you know, already closed. She fell, right? I mean, that’s what you told me.”
“Sure, that’s what we think happened. But it’s my job to be thorough.”
“Well, I got an alibi if you need one. I mean, I loved her. I wouldn’t have killed her. You looking at Richie Wilson at all for this? You think maybe he pushed her?”
Joe peers at him. “You loved her?”
“Well … yeah.”
“I thought Richie loved her. He says she was the love of his life. Isn’t that why he wanted to kill you? For having an affair with her?”
“Aw, I don’t know, man. The kid’s obviously all screwed up. You’re asking the wrong guy. His girl messes around with someone else—someone like me—he’s bound to go off the deep end.” Vince nods to himself, his head bobbing up and down in a furious motion. “Yeah, it makes sense. It all makes sense now that you mention it. I mean, the guy’s a fucking drug dealer. He’s nuts.”
“He’s your drug dealer,” Joe says.
Vince hesitates. “Well. Yeah.” Then his lips curl into a small, slow grin. “But not anymore.”
Vince isn’t even making any sense. He’s so obviously lying that I can’t believe Joe doesn’t arrest him right now, or at least call him out. He might have been messing around with me, but he definitely didn’t love me. That much is clear.
But all Joe does is open his trusty wire-bound notebook and start looking over his notes.
“You said you started dating Liz about a year ago?”
“Ummm … yeah, that’s right.”
“And you were still seeing her up until the time she died?”
“Yeah. Yes. I already told you all this, man.”
“Okay, that’s fine. It’s just—well, I’m just wondering what the two of you did for fun.”
Vince’s eyes flash in defiance. “You can imagine, I’m sure.”
“All right. You had sex?”
“Sure did.”
We didn’t. I’m certain of it.
“And she … enjoyed herself.”
“Obviously.” Vince flashes his creepy smile again.
“Why do you think that is, Vince? I don’t mean to be rude, but a guy like you, a girl like Elizabeth Valchar … you know, it doesn’t quite add up.”
Vince shrugs. “They call it slumming. You ever hear of it? You ever hear that Billy Joel song ‘Uptown Girl’?” And he starts snapping his fingers, humming the melody.
“Here’s the thing, Vince. Did you and Liz ever go to the movies? To a restaurant? What I mean is, did you two go on any real dates?”
Vince shakes his head. “She liked to stay in. If you get my drift.”
“Right. So nobody ever saw you two together.”
“That’s the way she wanted it. I told you, I was her dirty little secret.”
Joe sighs. For the first time, I notice he has a manila envelope tucked underneath his right arm. He takes it out, lays it on the coffee table. “I think you’re lying to me, Vince. Want to know why?”
Vince frowns. “Why?”
“Because I’ve spent a lot of time talking to Richie. He’s told me things about Liz. I’ve talked to her family. I’ve talked to her friends. Did you ever meet any of her friends?”
Vince shakes his head. “I told you, it wasn’t that kind of a relationship.”
“I understand. Liz had her secrets.” Joe is almost smiling—but not quite. “You know what’s funny about secrets, Vince? They don’t keep very well. No matter how hard a person tries, somebody always gets a clue.” He takes a long, even breath. “Liz had a friend named Caroline. I talked to her for a long time yesterday.”
“Oh yeah?” Vince stares straight ahead. “Must have been some good conversation.”
“Yes, it was. This friend, Caroline, she’d been worried about Liz for a while before she died. Caroline knew something was wrong, but she didn’t know exactly what it was.” He nods to himself. “She had quite a guess, though.”
The two of them are silent for a moment as Joe waits for any response from Vince. But he just sits there, unmoving, unwilling to break even as the truth is unraveling.
“Anyway,” Joe continues, “I’ve been learning everything possible about Liz for months, and I just don’t buy the idea that she would want anything to do with a guy like you. I think she was seeing you against her will. I think you had information about her that she would have done anything to keep secret.” He pauses. “Does the name Alex Berg mean anything to you?”
Vince nibbles a hangnail. “Nope.”
“Really? That’s odd. Because when I was interviewing Richie over at the station, he mentioned something to me. He told me he’d been going for runs around Noank, thinking about Liz. And he told me that almost every time he went running he ended up at the same place. Alex Berg’s house.”
“So?” Vince demands, a tad defensive. “What does any of that have to do with me?”
“I didn’t think it had anything to do with you, not at first. But it kept bothering me. I felt like it all had to fit together somehow—you, Liz, Alex, Richie, Caroline—I just didn’t know how, not exactly.” Joe nods at the coffee table. “I want you to look in that envelope now.”
I literally clap my hands. “Yes!” I shout, standing on tiptoe despite the searing pain in my toes. “Yes! You’ve got it! You did it!”
With shaky hands, Vince opens the manila envelope. Inside, I’m expecting to see the same photographs of myself that have turned my stomach so many times already.
Except that’s not what we’re looking at.
Alex stares up at us. He is just as I remember seeing him that night: wet, bloody, broken, dead. Seeing him now isn’t any easier.
Vince is silent as he shuffles through the photos. After Alex, there are five different shots of his bicycle: mangled, twisted, thrown far from his body.
“What are these?” Vince asks. His voice trembles—just a smidge, but it’s enough.
“Keep looking.” Joe’s tone is light, almost conversational. “The next one is the one you’ll really want to pay attention to.”
It’s a shot of Alex’s bike, close up. Immediately, I know what Joe is referring to. On the back pedal, so small that it’s almost invisible, there’s a smear of red.
“See that?” Joe asks.
Vince nods. “Blood. So what?”
“It’s not blood. It’s paint.”
Vince lets the photos drop into his lap. “It’s like I told you already. I don’t know what any of th
is has to do with me.”
“According to you—to you, Vince—one week after this boy, Alex Berg, was killed by a hit-and-run driver, you fixed Elizabeth’s car for her. You told me yourself that’s how you met her. Remember? She didn’t want to file a claim. She wanted it done quick. And she wanted to keep it quiet. Is that right?”
Vince only nods.
“I think you noticed something while you were fixing her car. I think you figured out—just like I did—that she was the one who killed this boy. It was raining the night he got hit. Liz probably checked out her car, looking for blood, looking for some indication that she’d been a part of the accident. But she didn’t check the underside of her front fender, did she?”
Vince bites his lip hard. He doesn’t say anything.
“I think you found paint from Alex Berg’s bicycle underneath her bumper. You knew she was responsible for his death. I think you were blackmailing her. What did you do? Threaten to go to the cops if she didn’t sleep with you?”
Vince sniffles. He looks like a caged animal. “That little bitch,” he says, “treated me like I wasn’t even as good as the dirt on the bottom of her goddamn shoe.”
“Tell me what happened,” Joe says. “Come on. Ease your conscience.”
Vince licks his lips. He smiles. “Sorry to say,” he tells Joe, “I ain’t got a fucking conscience.”
“I’m sure you don’t.” Joe stands, reaches for his cuffs. “Get up. You’re under arrest.”
I realize what the memory is almost as soon as it appears before me: I’m standing in Richie’s room, asking him to come with me while I pick up my car from Fender Benders.
But Richie is unavailable to drive me to Vince’s repair shop.
“I have homework,” he tells me apologetically as I stand in his room, pouting.
“What kind of homework? Richie, it will take an hour, there and back. Come on.” I’ve got his keys dangling in my hand. I’m all dolled up, ready to go. But I can’t take his car, not unless he comes with me. I won’t have a way to get it back.
Between Page 31
