Next Girl to Die

by Dea Poirier

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, looking her over, but she’s as pressed and perfect as ever, as if she just walked out of a J.Crew catalog. She’s got on loose beige slacks, a sharp crease down the front of each leg. Her navy-blue blouse is a bit large for her small frame, and a thin string of pearls adorns her neck. My mother isn’t one for gaudy jewelry.

  “I should ask you the same thing,” she says as she sips her drink carefully, without smudging her coral lipstick. I raise my eyebrow, a question burning in the back of my mind, but she turns and walks toward the kitchen. She winds her way through the main hallway of the house, and I follow like a puppy. In the living room, a wall of windows overlooks the rocky shore and the bay beyond. I nearly miss Noah standing on the deck.

  He sweeps his long hair away from his face and offers me a smile. I grind my teeth together as it hits me—there’s nothing wrong. She called me over here because of him, but I’m not sure who to blame for this, her or him. “What is he doing here, Mom?” I ask, my words nearly a growl. It’s not that I’m mad at him for being here. She faked an emergency, and I know it’s because he’s here.

  “I was hoping you could tell me the answer to that. He showed up here and started asking all kinds of questions about your sister. And I just cannot deal with it right now.”

  She can’t deal with it right now? Of course, all my mother can think about is herself in this situation—not that I have a murder to solve, that other girls could lose their lives while I’m here dealing with this for her.

  For a second, I think she’s going to add something else. Instead, she gives me a little push toward the sliding glass door leading to the porch. I bite my tongue and step outside, my anger redirecting toward Noah. A swift breeze brings the smell of salt, the ocean. It feels nice now, but in a couple of hours, it will be frigid. Fall in Maine is a fickle creature, especially on an island. During the day we get a reprieve, but at night it’s as cold as death.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him as I shut the door behind me, frustration edging on my words. A barrage of barbed questions slams in the back of my mind, desperate to get out. Anger still boils inside me.

  He stares over the railing. “I got a strange call this afternoon.” He motions toward the house. “Someone had information about Emma and Madeline. Because of the circumstances, they thought it might be related to Rachel’s murder.”

  “And how is that, exactly?” I ask as I lean against the railing, keeping a healthy distance between us.

  “I’m sure you know both Emma and Madeline were in the choir group?” He pauses, looking at me to gauge my reaction. I give none.

  “Yes. That I knew. But what does that have to do with Rachel?” She might have also gone to the church, but she hadn’t been in a choir group.

  “Your mother leads the choir group.”

  My mind spins. She leads a choir group? Since when?

  Granted, yes, her leading a group with two victims is a connection, but there’s no way my mother would have killed Emma or Madeline. Then again, something nags at me. Some part of me was always frightened of what my mother was capable of. There’s a darkness inside her, a shrewdness.

  “Her leading a choir group with two victims is circumstantial,” I say.

  “The person who gave me this information had another detail.” He straightens when he says this, and it’s like the bottled-up knowledge has made him three inches taller.

  I cross my arms as I wait. I’m not about to beg for him to tell me shit. It’s obvious he’d get too much pleasure out of that.

  “They saw your mother yelling at Madeline the day before she died.” His eyes narrow, and he appraises me again, waiting for some explosive reaction, I’d wager.

  I raise a brow. My mother? Yelling? She rarely raised her voice to me or Rachel—that’s part of what made her so unnerving. She’d pinch the back of your neck, beneath your hair so no one could see, or dig her fingernails into your spine. Maybe this is why I don’t like being within arm’s length of her. But even with that side of her, I don’t see her inflicting that on any child but her own. My mother might have a quiet cruel streak, but yelling? She’s too obsessed with her image, with how everyone else on this damn island sees her. My mother might pull a lot of shit in her own home, but out in public, she’s a picture of perfection. Her image is so carefully curated you’d think she had a team help her pull it all together.

  “And what was she yelling about?”

  “That’s a detail I didn’t get. They weren’t sure what the disagreement was about. I was hoping you might have some info about it.” He pulls a small notebook from his pocket.

  “And how would I know anything about that?” I challenge. As if I would tell him even if I did know something. Noah needs to get it into his head that we’re on opposite sides of this.

  “Well, you don’t seem surprised at all by this news, so that leads me to have some theories.”

  “How nice for you. Why are you here now, though?” I’m not all that surprised to find him at my mother’s house. I figured it would happen eventually. But I’m not following why now.

  “I came to talk to your mother to ask her side of the story. You showing up too was just a happy accident.” He grins in a way that tells me that smile typically gets him out of all sorts of trouble—or maybe into it. But not with me.

  “What did she tell you?” I ask. I’m not giving him anything.

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  I nod and motion toward the door. “I think it’s best if you leave.” Though Noah tries to ask a few more questions, I refuse to entertain any of them. I’ll be damned if I help him with this story.

  After I walk Noah out, I find my mother staring out the back windows over the water. Her drink is half-empty, though the slack look on her face makes me wonder if she made herself another while I was talking to Noah.

  “I need to talk to you,” I say as I approach, careful to stay out of her reach. I feel like a fisherman carefully approaching a shark.

  Her eyes flash toward me for just a moment, but she says nothing.

  “I heard that you’ve been leading the girls’ choir at the church.” It seems an odd choice for her to lead the group. My mother has never shown that much interest in the church. Sure, we went while I was growing up, but she never even had Rachel or me go through confirmation. Why the interest now? She must be getting something out of it. But I know the question I really need to ask after all this.

  She nods slowly. “Yes, I am. You know how important the church is to the community.”

  So that’s why she’s doing it: the perception of it. “When’s the last time you saw Madeline and Emma?” I ask this question so I can gauge whether she’s going to tell me the truth.

  Her eyes narrow, and she takes a slow sip of her drink. “I don’t remember,” she says before swirling the glass, ice tinkling inside.

  “Do you remember what you said to them the last time you spoke? The tone of those conversations?”

  She shifts and faces me fully. “I don’t recall; probably something about choir practice. It must not have been anything worth noting.” A thin-lipped smile slithers across her face.

  “Did you have any trouble with the girls?”

  She takes another long sip. “No. What exactly is all this about?”

  “I’ve heard rumors that you were seen arguing with Madeline before her death.”

  A high laugh trills out of her. “Well, that’s just ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” I ask quickly.

  “Of course. They were lovely girls. I never had problems with either of them.”

  I decide to shift gears, knowing if I keep going this route she’ll give me nothing. “So they never lied to you?”

  She raises a brow at that. “Lied to me? About what?”

  I shake my head, pretending to keep my cool. “It’s probably nothing. Just something a few other people said.”

  “I don’t have any reason to think they lied to me, but if I thin
k of something, I’ll be sure to call you. You should probably get going, though—I’ve got errands to run,” she says, motioning toward the door.

  I leave my mother’s house with more questions than answers. As I climb into my rental to drive back to the station, I ask myself, What is my mother capable of?

  Back at the office, I head straight to my computer, type Noah’s name into the search box, and scroll down the page. I did a general search when he showed up here, trying to figure out who he was, but now I need more details. I’ve really got to dig. I look over blogs and news outlets carrying his stories about the Middle East, politics, and the large earthquakes that recently hit Brazil and Mexico. For a few pages, that’s all I see, article after article—until a headline catches my eye. “Maryville Teen Killed in Tragic Accident.”

  The small blurb tells me nothing, so I click on a link to the article.

  Page cannot be found.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I growl at the screen.

  What happened? How was Noah involved? I scroll back up, taking the time to look through the other articles with more care, and find a recent story published by Noah. “Another Murder Rocks Small Maine Town—Coincidence or Serial Killer?”

  I click through, and anger flashes white hot inside me, burning my cheeks. Picture after picture of Grimes Park load on the screen. One of me near the body, one of Jason putting up caution tape. Several close-ups of Madeline’s body. He fucking published the pictures of Madeline. I grab my coat and storm out of the police station.

  As I cross the street to the hotel where Noah’s staying, I gather my thoughts. Every jagged word in my mind is laced with venom. I want to drag this motherfucker out on a boat and throw him into the bay. Maybe he’ll drown. Maybe I’ll put some rocks in his pockets to be sure he does. That’s what he deserves for this. Did he even think about what this would do to her family? The people on this island?

  The Tidewater is a strange motel. It’s not the usual truck stop type you see off every highway in America. Instead, it looks like it used to be three separate buildings that were connected probably a hundred years before I was born. Most of the motel is two stories, while the tail end is one. Along the back side, there are balconies that hang over the water. I love them, but they make most tourists turn green.

  My chest is tight, pulse pounding in my ears as I throw open the door to the motel’s office. Jake Stephenson, a guy from my high school, sits behind the counter tapping the screen of his cell phone furiously. Jake looks almost exactly like he did senior year, plus ten pounds, minus some hair. He glances up at me and does a double take. “I heard you were back,” he says before placing his phone, screen facing down, on the counter.

  “I am. Look—” I decide to cut right to the chase. I don’t have the time or the patience for small talk today—or ever, really. “I need to speak to Noah Washington. Can you tell me what room he’s staying in?”

  “Sure,” he says as he rolls up to the computer and jiggles the mouse. After a couple of seconds he says, “Room five. It’s down the far-right side.”

  I say my thanks and rush out of the office before all the anger fizzles right out of me.

  I walk up the stairs on the side leading to Noah’s room. I slam my fist against the door so hard that my hand aches for a moment. But the throb is lost beneath my fury.

  He opens the door, the smile on his face faltering as soon as he sees me. “Hey, Clai—” he starts. He stands in the doorway, shirtless. His brow furrows as he registers the anger on my face.

  “What the fuck, Noah?” I spit the words at him as I shove into the hotel room.

  “What are y—”

  “Are you kidding me? Anything I say to you is off the record. Or so help me God, I will end you.”

  He holds his hands up in front of him like he’s surrendering. He takes a step back from the door, nearly tripping over his loose flannel pajama pants. “Calm down. What’s wrong?”

  I laugh almost hysterically. “Don’t tell me to calm down, ever.”

  He nods sharply. “Noted. So what did I do? At least tell me what I did before you shoot me.”

  “Shoot you? You deserve worse than that.” I throw the words at him like daggers. I want to punctuate every word by poking him hard in the ribs, but for now I keep my distance.

  He grins. “You’re probably right.”

  “You published pictures of Madeline’s body.” I force the words out.

  “The public has a right to know what’s going on here. I’ve seen what happens firsthand when they don’t. When the truth is twisted, it’s soon forgotten.”

  “Knowing and seeing are two completely different things, and you know it. What if her dad, what if her little sister sees that? And her friends?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s awful. I know. But they deserve to know.”

  I switch gears, seeing that empathy isn’t going to work with him. “You’re compromising my investigation with these pictures. We specifically left the cause of death out of the media.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were keeping it from the media,” he says, not looking at me as he speaks.

  “Please take them down until this is over,” I plead. My voice nearly breaks. All I can think about is how I would have reacted to pictures like that of Rachel. What if it were my family?

  He looks toward his laptop, still open on the small dining table. “I can give you a few weeks, maybe a month.” His voice is weaker than it usually is, like with enough prodding I could get him to relent on this. As he looks at the laptop, the screen illuminates the dark circles beneath his eyes. I didn’t notice them before.

  “Thank you,” I breathe. The weight binding my chest recedes, if only by a little. I head to the door but stop short. “What’s your connection to all this? Why do you care?” I ask as he starts typing.

  He stops but doesn’t look away from the screen. He pauses for a long moment, like he’s not going to tell me. “My best friend’s mom was killed by a serial killer while we were in middle school. The media, the police, the whole town failed her. She made some mistakes, just like anyone else, but it was the wrong place, the wrong time. The media and the police made it out to be like she was killed because she was a sex worker, but she’d never do that. It couldn’t be any further from the truth.”

  “Damn, I’m sorry.”

  “She was my second mom,” he says and looks at the table. After a long pause, he sucks in a sharp breath. “My mom didn’t act like she even wanted us around most days, but Josh’s mom, she made me feel loved. And I never even got a chance to say thank you.”

  “I’m sure she knew. Did they ever find her killer?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. Seven women died. And they barely investigated it. I’m sorry I’ve been hard on you and getting in your way. I was afraid something like that was happening again,” he says, his eyes downcast.

  “I’m never letting this go. I will find out who did this, even if it kills me.”

  A sad smile curves his lips. “I know you will. They’re damn lucky you came back. They’d never solve this without you. Look, since you’re already here. I have some info that might help you with your investigation. I’d really like to help.” He glances toward a stack of menus he’s got on the counter in the small kitchen. “You hungry? I could order pizza.”

  I weigh that in my mind. He had info about my mom I didn’t. I hate to admit it, but I want—no, I need to know what else he might know. If he has information that could help me solve this case faster, I need to take it. So far, the details I have aren’t pointing me in any one direction. “Sure. Milo’s delivers.” After we order pizza, Noah sets his laptop on the coffee table, and I try to make myself comfortable on the god-awful floral sofa.

  “So what do you have for me?” I ask as he shuffles through papers on his lap. This close to him, his woody, sweet cologne begs me to scoot closer. But I resist; I have to.

  “Let me start by saying I’ve been looking into all o
f this for months. And I never planned to come to the police with it. Before you got here, I didn’t think they’d have any chance of finding the killer.”

  I nod. He’s not completely off base. I’m not sure the police here could solve a murder. They don’t have the resources or experience. After all, they’ve never found Rachel’s killer. I’m not sure how long they even bothered looking. Something about the investigation around her murder doesn’t sit right with me, and I’ve never been in a position to solve the case myself. Once upon a time, it was just too painful, and then life got in the way.

  My mom told me once, after she’d drunk too much, that the sheriff had never seemed surprised that Rachel had died—it was like he’d expected it. Maybe not that he’d expected Rachel to die, but he’d expected someone to die. Not long after the case went cold, that sheriff left the island. Expecting someone on this island to die never made sense to me; no one had ever been murdered before Rachel. I pressed my mom on it a few times, trying to figure out why she’d think that. But no matter when or how I asked, she never breathed another word of it. Eventually I started to wonder if it’d just been her anger or grief talking.

  Noah shuffles the stack of papers in his lap and glances at his laptop. I swear he takes a deep breath before continuing. “I think you’ve got a serial killer on your hands,” he says and looks down at the papers.

  That’s what my gut says too. But I can’t give him that info, so I keep my mouth shut.

  He purses his lips. There’s a fire burning behind his eyes. “There are other victims, Jane Does, dating back almost twenty years. They’ve all been found up and down the shore on the mainland. They all look like they were strangled on a boat and thrown overboard. They washed up eventually, but different departments have found them, so no one has connected the dots. These killings happened before Rachel died too,” he explains. “The killings have been speeding up, or maybe no one ever reported on the other murders.”

  “You know anything that ties them together? How many possible victims do you know of?” I understand his train of thought—proximity of the murders should be enough to link them—but I need more to go on than that.