by Dea Poirier
I shake my head.
“I’m such an asshole,” he breathes. “I figured you’ve been asked all these questions a thousand times.”
“I’ve been asked a lot of things about her a million times, but I don’t answer. That’s part of the reason I moved away from here.” I lower my voice and prop my elbows on the desk. “Living here, I felt like there was never any chance I’d get out of her shadow. Half of my life was buried in that grave with her. Out in the world, though, I wasn’t the sad girl with the dead sister anymore.” I want to tell him more, but I snap my mouth shut. If I don’t stop myself, all my secrets are going to pour out, and he is the last person I should be saying all this to. I’m not sure if it’s him or if maybe I just really need to get all of this out; it’s all been bottled up inside me for so long, and returning home hasn’t helped.
He nods. “I’m really sorry. I think we should call it here. You can catch me up on other details later.” He shoves his notebook into his laptop bag, slings it over his shoulder, and stands up.
“Noah, before you leave,” I say before he can disappear through the door, “could you look up what you can on Jacob Warren for me?”
He raises a brow at that. “Are there any details you want to give me for that?”
I shake my head. “Just see what you can find.”
He stands up without another question, grabs his things, and leaves my office. I know he’s giving up on his questioning so easily to grant me a reprieve from the memories, and though I won’t admit it aloud, I appreciate it. I’ve always seen journalists as soulless, smarmy weasels, but maybe this journalist has a soul after all.
CHAPTER 14
September 2004
I lean back in bed, computer propped on my lap as I scroll, my eyes nearly glazed over. The door creeps open, and I try to peek at who it is. It’s too late for my parents to be up, and Rachel should have snuck out an hour ago. Her blonde hair comes into view first, followed by her sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt. Rachel never dresses like this.
“Can we talk for a minute?” she asks as she shuts my door. Her eyes are red, like she’s been crying. That’s also very unlike her. Concern grips me.
“What’s up?” I snap my laptop closed. Something feels wrong here—Rachel never comes to talk to me like this anymore. Is she messing with me?
She walks over slowly and sits at the end of my bed. For a few moments, she twists a loose string from my comforter around her finger before pulling her legs to her chest.
“What’s the deal, Ally McBeal?” I ask. It’s something she always asked me when I was feeling down.
“I’ve gotta tell you something, but you have to swear you won’t tell Mom.” Her voice is deadly serious.
“Okay, fine,” I say as I cross my heart.
She chews her lip and tightens her grip around her legs. Her hair falls in her face, but she doesn’t bother moving it.
“Just say it. You’ll feel better,” I urge her. The way she’s acting is giving me anxiety. This isn’t my big sister.
She straightens up, like she’s gathering her strength. “Saying it out loud makes it seem more real, you know?”
I nod. I know exactly how that feels.
“Claire-Bear, I think I’m pregnant.” Her voice shakes.
My jaw doesn’t just drop to the ground; it falls straight through the whole planet. My heart races. What is my mom going to do to her?
“Jacob and I started dating a few months ago.” My mind spins. I can’t believe she’s actually admitting it. Though I saw the two of them together, she has no idea that I was there. Jacob Warren is a senior and someone pretty much every girl on this island is forbidden to date. The Warrens are off limits, especially for us. I never knew Rachel had even the slightest interest in him. “We were going to keep it a secret until we left for college.” She laughs, but there’s no humor to it. “We figured once we left, no one could stop us from being together.”
“Are you sure, Rach? Are you positive you’re pregnant?”
“Pretty sure. I haven’t taken a test yet, but I haven’t had my period in three months.”
“Why haven’t you taken a test?” I ask, but as soon as it’s out, I already know the answer. If she bought a test, everyone on this island would know.
“I can’t get one.”
“We need to figure out a way to get you one,” I say.
“If I am, Jacob says we can leave together. We’re planning to leave in a couple weeks.”
“Do you really think that’s a good idea? I really think you should tell Dad.” Dad will know what to do.
“You have to swear you won’t tell anyone.”
The next morning, Rachel hovers beside me on Main Street. I’m so nervous that I shove my sweaty hands in my pockets to keep them from shaking. I’ve never stolen anything, never had any desire to. But here I am, planning to go in the drugstore to steal for her.
“Why can’t you do this yourself?” I ask as I swallow hard. I’ve probably asked fifty times. I’m just stalling at this point.
“I can’t steal it myself. If someone sees me, if that gets back to Mom—” She looks down at her shoes. “She’ll kill me.”
“Like she won’t kill me?”
“You’re not pregnant,” she snaps, like that’ll do me much good.
“You might not be,” I say, because I desperately hope that she isn’t. That would change everything. If she is, I’m going to lose my sister. She’ll leave. No more Rachel. She’ll leave me here with them. Without Rachel to keep her attention, Mom is going to make my life a living hell.
She shakes her head and bites her lip. Tears gather in her eyes. My heart seizes. Rachel never cries, ever. Seeing her upset forces me into action. I can’t just stand here with my sister crying on the sidewalk.
“How do I do this again?” I’m putting it off to try and rally every ounce of courage I’ve got. Hearing Rachel explain it calms me. Maybe with her voice in my head, I’ll be able to get through this.
“Let your sleeves hang loose. Pick it up, slide it up your sleeve, and wander the store a bit. Then leave. You can do this, Claire-Bear. No one is going to think that you’re stealing,” she says, then squeezes my shoulder.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my pounding heart. But it does no good. If anything, it makes it beat faster, like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff with seconds until I jump off. Rachel gives me a little push toward the door and offers me a thumbs-up. With the way my heart is racing, I don’t know how no one else can hear it. The door dings above me as I push inside. Mrs. Miller is tucked behind the counter, where she usually is. She waves when she sees me. “Hey, Claire!”
“Hi, Mrs. Miller,” I say as I dart down the first aisle. Most of the time, after saying hello, she’ll just leave me be. But I’m nervous this time might be different. What if she comes over to talk to me?
Though Rachel wants me to just take the test and get out, I can’t do that. I’ve got two bucks in my pocket so that I can buy some candy. I walk down the aisle searching for the tests, grab the first one I see, stick it up my sleeve, and dart to the candy aisle.
I plop the candy bars on the counter, careful not to reveal the box hidden away in my hoodie.
“Just the candy?” she asks as she presses the buttons on the register.
“Mm-hmm,” I say as I pretend to be interested in the magazines behind the counter. Really I’m just trying to keep my heart from pounding straight through my chest. And I’m afraid if I look her in the eyes, she’ll know.
“Dollar and sixty-eight cents,” she says, and I hand my money over.
“Thank you,” I say as I grab the candy with my left hand and shove it in my pocket.
“Claire,” she calls to me as I dart toward the door.
I’m ten feet from getting out, from getting away with this. Rachel stands outside, wide eyed, waving for me to come on.
“Yeah?” I look back over my shoulder.
“Be sure to take that te
st first thing in the morning.”
I swallow hard. “What?” My stomach jumps into my throat. That can’t be what she really said. I must have misheard her.
“The test. Be sure you take it first thing in the morning.”
My eyes well with tears, and my mouth drops open. So many apologies try to swarm from me at once that they all bottle up in my throat. She shakes her head. “It’s fine. Go,” she says as she shoos me out.
I round the corner when I don’t find Rachel waiting outside. I find her parked a street away and climb into the car. The moment I shut my door, she slides the keys into the ignition.
“What the hell happened?” she snaps at me as she shifts the car into drive.
“She must have seen me take it. She told me to be sure I used the test in the morning.”
“Shit,” she breathes.
I sink lower in the seat. “Shit? I’m dead, Rachel. Mom is going to kill me.”
CHAPTER 15
When I moved from Detroit, I hired movers to haul my crap across the country and unpack it for me. This morning I received a notification that my stuff finally arrived in Maine. I left the key under the mat, texted them its location, and headed into the office. But since it’s been a few hours since they started, and I’m heading in the direction of my rental anyway, I decide to pop in to check on the progress. The moving truck is still parked along the side of the house, but the movers must all be inside. It looks like they’ve cleared out half the truck. I’m happy to see that my car arrived safely and is parked in front of the house. I grab my keys from the workers and climb into my Mustang, relishing the feel and the smell of it. I’ve had my rental for too long; I’ve missed this car. Since I’m satisfied that things are going well with the movers, I move on to the interviews I need to chase down today.
I’ve meant to talk to Father Samuel at the church, hoping he could give me some insight into the girls, but so far things have kept popping up, sidetracking me. Before something else can get in the way, I have to pounce on the opportunity. If Madeline and Emma were both involved in the church, they must have seen him often.
I head to the large Catholic church that I swear the rest of the town was built around. It’s the most ornate building downtown. With its old stone and stained glass windows, it looks like something that dropped straight out of another century. The air inside is thick with sandalwood and something floral, maybe roses. Nothing has changed since the last time I was here when I was a kid. Wood pews stained a dark chocolate brown stand on either side of the room, creating a clear path down the middle to the altar. Father Samuel stands near the altar, a surprised smile on his face as he looks back to see me.
Father Samuel hasn’t really aged in the last fifteen years. He’s a bit over six feet tall, lanky, with a potbelly that’s out of place on his frame. On either side of his head, his dark hair is dusted with gray, the only real hint that he’s gotten older.
“Claire?” he asks, his voice high, boisterous.
“Father Samuel, it’s good to see you,” I say as he meets me in the middle of the room and ushers me toward the front pew.
“I didn’t know you were back. It’s so good to see you.” He clearly doesn’t get out enough to hear gossip if he didn’t know I was back. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I took a position at the police department. I’m working as the detective now.”
He glances down at the rosary gripped in his right hand. “Investigating the murders?” he asks, and his eyes darken.
I nod. “Unfortunately.”
He leans closer and grips my shoulder, making small circles with his thumb for a moment. “They were both so much like Rachel. It breaks my heart when children are taken from us. Especially girls like them,” he says as he leans his arm along the back of the pew. “The only comfort is knowing they’re with God now.”
I take a deep breath as the questions swim in the back of my mind. Technically, I know he’s not supposed to answer the question I want to ask him, but I have to try.
“I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about Rachel, Emma, and Madeline. They spent a lot of time at the church. You might have information about them that no one else does.”
“I’ll help however I can,” he says, and his grip tightens on the rosary.
“I’ve heard that my mother heads up the choir group all the girls are in. Did you ever hear of issues between my mother and the girls?”
“Your mother can have a bit of a temper. The girls did make a few comments. I spoke with your mother, and she has been working on it,” he assures me. He doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about it.
“Do you know why she was angry with them?”
He shakes his head. “No. That I don’t know. I’ve heard from other girls that sometimes they could be disruptive during practice—talking, laughing, that sort of thing. But that’s all I’ve heard of.”
My mother has always been so careful about the face she shows others. If she was willing to yell at teenage girls in public, they had to have been much more than disruptive.
“Could you give me a list of girls in the group?”
“Of course. I’ll email them to you when we’re done here.”
With all the questions about my mother out of the way, I move on. “Father, did Emma or Madeline confide in you that there was anything going on? Anyone that was giving them trouble?”
He shakes his head. “Heavens, no. If the girls had said anything about someone giving them trouble or threatening them, I would have already gone to the school or the police.”
“Is there anything that either of them might have said that you think I should know?”
He looks away, his eyes far off. “There was a boy I overheard them talking about who was aggressively pursuing them.”
“Did you catch the name of this person?”
“Unfortunately, no. They didn’t mention it.” His voice falls as he says it.
“Is there anything they said or did recently that alarmed you?” I ask, because there has to be something, some hint here.
He looks toward the altar, lost in thought. “About two or three months ago, Madeline stopped coming so often. She seemed distant, withdrawn, even. It wasn’t like her. She asked some questions about whether God’s forgiveness covered everything. But when I pressed her about what she meant, she wouldn’t say.”
Was she asking about the pregnancy or something else?
“And she never gave you any indication as to why she stopped coming more often?”
“She told me that she was volunteering more at the hospital, that she couldn’t find time for both. I don’t want to say that I didn’t believe her,” he says as he crosses his legs.
“But you didn’t believe her.”
He nods.
“Did you have any idea that Emma or Madeline was sneaking out of the house at night?”
He shakes his head. “If I’d had any idea that they were up to something like that, I would have warned their fathers. It’s not safe for them to be downtown at night with all those fishermen.”
“What about Ryder Warren?”
He raises a brow at that. “What about him?”
“I heard he got into some trouble a few months back, that he might have helped you in the church after that.”
“He did.” His voice is low as he looks toward the stained glass windows. “Ryder’s a good kid. He wanted to help around here, helped me with some chores around the church. But he made sure that he was here at off hours. It seemed to me that he didn’t want anyone to know he was here.”
“So he never interacted with Madeline and Emma, then?”
For a moment he looks at me but doesn’t respond. “I’m sure there were a few times they talked. But the girls never mentioned any problems with him.” His face grows more serious. “I don’t think he would have done anything to them. He’s gotten into trouble—harmless kid stuff—but he’d never hurt anyone.” Insistence is thick on his words.
&
nbsp; It doesn’t mean much that the girls might have talked to Ryder a few times. They all went to school together. It’s not like they were strangers. I was hoping he’d have more for me. “Well, thank you for your time. If you think of anything else, please give me a call at the station.”
“Claire, should I warn the other girls who are part of the congregation that whoever did this is a danger to them too?” he asks, his brows drawn, his features tight.
“Father, between the two of us, there’s a pattern. And that pattern very distinctly touches girls who go to this church. I’d advise that if there’s anything you can say to keep these girls from sneaking out at night, you say it.” My voice has more of an edge than I mean for it to, but I hope it gets across how serious this is. I can’t say for certain yet that the church really has anything to do with these murders. Saying something to him might keep these girls safe. Maybe they’ll listen to him.
He opens his mouth, but words fail him. He just nods instead.
I glance at my watch and realize I’ve got to get back to the station soon to prep for my next interview. Ryder will be by in an hour for his interview. Father Samuel and I say our goodbyes, and I head back to my car. The afternoon sun is shrouded by a thin veil of gray clouds. Cold, sharp air bites at my cheeks. As my hand brushes the handle of my car, a familiar scent catches me off guard.
Gasoline.
I circle my car, stooping to look beneath it. Near the rear tire, there’s a growing pool of liquid. When did my car start leaking gas? Was it damaged when they shipped it here? I grab my phone and call Carl, the local mechanic, and in twenty minutes he’s got my car towed to his shop. As he looks it over, I hang back, giving him space to work.
“Where’d you drive this morning?” he asks as he glances over his shoulder at me.
“From my place to the church. That’s it. I just got it back from the movers. Why?”
He waves me over and points up at my car. It’s hovering a few feet above us on the lift. “You see that?” he asks as he takes a step forward, urging me to follow.
I squint as I try to make out what exactly he’s pointing out to me. As I scan the undercarriage of the car, finally I see what’s out of place: a blue handle sticking out of a rounded metal tank.
