by L E Fraser
“That’s awful,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry.”
“I tell you this because I experienced similar emotions to what you’ve described today. I was angry all the time. I felt like no one in the world could understand what I was going through. I couldn’t find joy. I couldn’t even find a reason to be kind to people,” he said, remembering how his pain had changed the way he had interacted with friends who had tried to help him. “If you’re invested in therapy, it works. Well,” he rolled his eyes, “maybe not if it’s with Roger.”
She laughed. “It’s not.”
Taking advantage of their moment of bonding, he placed his hand over hers. “Lisa, did Abigail tell you she was pregnant? Did she tell you who the father was?”
She dropped her eyes, pulled away her hand, and picked at the beads on her necklace. “Yes.” It was a sigh more than a word.
“Was it Roger?”
“Abby made me promise not to tell anyone, even Jim. I’ve struggled with it since her suicide. Watching how much it hurts Talia and the chaos it’s caused is driving me crazy. But I promised. Don’t ask me to betray her, please.”
There was only one reason Abby would be so adamant that no one found out the truth. Disgust rolled across his stomach.
“It was Roger. That miserable son of a bitch!” He pounded his fist against the kitchen island.
Lisa jumped and quickly said, “Wait, I—”
Reece barely heard her. “He deserves whatever Talia does.” He paced in a circle, taking angry strides.
“Reece—”
“Thank Christ, Sam has finally accepted that Roger is a piece of shit.”
“Stop, please!”
He stopped his furious pacing and turned to her.
She licked her lips and raised her eyes to meet his. “Abby wouldn’t have wanted this,” she whispered.
He snorted with contempt. “This is exactly the outcome she’d want. She was violated in a weak moment by a bastard.”
“I don’t disagree.” Tears dripped down her cheeks. “But it wasn’t Roger. It was an executive from New York. He was here on business and saw Abigail dance. He became, I don’t know, relentless, I guess. Eventually, well, his attention wore her down. She was so lonely while Talia was overseas. They spent a weekend together. She never heard from him again. Abigail didn’t want anyone to know what she’d done.”
A wave of sadness tainted with rage flowed over Reece. He remembered Talia saying that conquering a lesbian would give some men a sense of accomplishment.
Lisa took his hand. “I know how you feel,” she said softly. “I can see it on your face. That’s why I’ll never disclose the man’s name.” She squeezed his fingers. “It’s over. I understand now that we have to let it be over.”
The door opened and Sam looked between Reece and Lisa. “What’s going on?” Her voice was terse. “Reece, why are you upset? Lisa, what are you doing here?”
Reece put his arm around Lisa’s shoulder. “We’ve worked everything out.”
Sam looked flabbergasted. “What?”
“And now,” he announced, “Brandy and I are leaving you ladies to reconcile your differences.” He took his keys from the church altar, clipped on Brandy’s leash, and kissed Sam’s open mouth.
He turned to Lisa. “You’ll tell her your news and the other piece?” he asked. “You’re right. We need to let it end. We need to remember Abby’s life, not her death.”
Lisa nodded.
“What news? What other piece? What about Abby?” Sam’s eyes darted from him to Lisa and back to him.
“How about you and I take a trip to OCAD on Thursday?” he asked Lisa. “Bring Kira, I’ll treat for lunch.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” she agreed with a wide smile.
Sam stood speechless but she was smiling now, and the flicker of light in her green eyes that Reece adored had returned.
“I have a few ideas on how you can thank me tonight,” he whispered, and winked at her before leaving the two women to stitch together their torn friendship.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Reece
THE MAIN BUILDING of the OCAD University was an ordinary brown brick Georgian. But The Sharp Centre for Design—the fifth addition, according to Lisa—was something else. Straddling other buildings that made up the college, the Centre looked like a giant’s black and white checked table with coloured legs, which Reece supposed was the idea because people referred to the Centre as the “tabletop.” The two-storey structure, speckled with black squares and windows, perched on twelve yellow, purple, and blue stilts that resembled coloured pencils. The steel supports ran from the bottom of the rectangle addition to the sidewalk.
The massive table loomed above the original building that squatted underneath. To Reece, the contrast was jarring. Clearly most people disagreed with him though, because the addition had won prestigious design and engineering awards.
Lisa took him on a guided tour through the university and its galleries. Her excitement was contagious and the exhibits intrigued Reece, although he found it a little sad how well she knew the school. He imagined her wandering the halls, year after year, fantasizing about attending someday. He hoped she’d find the courage to pursue her dream, but it was her journey to take. Watching her waffle and make excuses not to try was a challenge. Maybe he was controlling, because he wanted to march her in by the elbow to collect and fill out the paperwork to accept her admission. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and pretended not to notice her procrastination.
After an hour, Reece could tell the tour was boring Kira. She was adorable, trotting along at his side in pink overalls, a frilly white blouse, and a tiny pair of pink and white high-top Adidas. Pink stones set in gold teardrops decorated her plump earlobes and matched the colour of her rosebud lips. A lump formed in his throat when she slipped her small hand into his and gazed up with big brown eyes.
Reece handed Lisa a portfolio he was carrying for her. “How about I take Kira across the street to McDonald’s while you meet with the admission counsellor?”
Lisa glanced at her daughter’s hand in his and smiled. “Are you sure?”
“If it’s okay with Kira.”
“Can I have a Happy Meal with a toy and a pop?” Kira asked her mother.
Lisa frowned. “Milk, no soda.”
“Cookies?”
“Only if you drink all your milk, and it has to be white milk, not chocolate.”
The five-year-old nodded and tugged Reece to the door.
“I’ll be about half an hour,” Lisa said. “I’ll find out what they expect in the portfolio. I doubt I have sufficient material.” She plucked at the handle of her portfolio, lowered her eyes, and shuffled her feet. “Maybe I should come back another day.”
Reece patted her shoulder. “May as well get it done today. See you later.” He tugged Kira to the door.
“Have fun,” she called after them. “Kira, listen to Uncle Reece.”
Reece held open the door and ushered Kira through. When they were outside on the sidewalk, Kira said, “Mommy’s scared to go to school.”
“How about you? You’re starting grade one soon.”
They waited at the corner for the streetlight to change. Reece didn’t want to set a bad example by jaywalking, even though there was a break in traffic.
“I wanna go. I have lots of friends in kindergarten,” she said.
Reece laughed. “Maybe your mom will make new friends too.”
“What toy will I get?”
The sudden change of subject confused him until he realized she was talking about the Happy Meal. “Guess we’ll find out.”
They crossed the street and the scrumptious aroma of French fries and grilled meat greeted them. Students milled around the tables and the ambiance was bright and cheerful.
Once the cashier gave them their food, Reece led Kira to a table. Across from them, a young woman took out a sketchpad and leaned over to speak to Reece.
“Can I draw her
? Your daughter’s so cute.”
He felt a blush rise to his cheeks. “Ah, yeah, I guess if it’s okay with her.”
Kira shrugged and grabbed her toy from the tray. Reece had no clue what it was, but it thrilled the five-year-old. He opened her carton of milk and eyed the small bag of cookies on the table in front of her. Was he supposed to hold the cookies hostage until she finished her milk? Reece sneaked peeks at her while he stirred sugar into his coffee. Kira was wolfing down French fries between sips of milk. Feeling confident that she’d finish her milk, or at least most of it, Reece left the cookies where they were.
Staring at the cardboard box containing his Big Mac, Reece felt a ridiculous pang of guilt. Sam loved McD’s. For some reason, he had the need to hear her voice, so he called while Kira dug into her bag of chicken nuggets. It was disappointing that Sam didn’t pick up, but it wasn’t a surprise. She always turned off her phone in the university library. He let Kira leave the voicemail and smiled while the little girl chatted confidently to dead air.
Just as he finished stuffing the last chunk of his Big Mac in his mouth, his cell rang. Expecting Sam, he answered with a full mouth.
“It’s Romero. We have Caitlyn Franklyn. We’re at her house.”
Reece glanced at his watch. Lisa would arrive in a few minutes. He didn’t like ditching her and Kira, but they needed a break in the case. Lisa’s reaction would be the first test of their new relationship. Based on the success of the day so far, if she understood his need to leave for work, it would signify trust and friendship.
“Give me an hour. Will you still be there?”
Romero laughed. “Oh yeah, amigo, I’ll be here for some time.” With that, he disconnected the call.
Reece called Sam again and left his own message, letting her know about Romero’s call and inviting her to meet him at the house in Kleinburg. By the time he finished, Lisa had joined them. She was juggling her portfolio, purse, and a bound catalogue. She fell into a chair, wearing a brilliant smile.
“My portfolio is good—impressive was the word,” she said with pride. “The interview went well and I have a follow-up meeting to bring in the completed paperwork.”
Kira tugged at her mother’s dress and waved the toy, which Lisa examined in detail. Reece still had no idea what it was or what it did but gleaned it was a character from a recent movie.
“So listen, I feel bad about this but there’s a development in the case,” he said. “I need to cut our day short.”
“A development? That’s wonderful. Is it good news?” she asked.
“Police have Caitlyn Franklyn in custody,” he said.
Her eyes widened with surprise. “What a relief! Go,” she said with genuine understanding. “Don’t forget I have Sam tonight for girl’s night.” She paused and then added, “But if she needs to reschedule, tell her not to worry. Right now, this case is more important. You’ve both been in dangerous situations before, but…” She sighed. “This feels different. I’m worried.”
He smiled at her. “We’ll be fine, promise. Look, I don’t want to abandon you. How about I run you guys home?”
She laughed. “We’re capable of getting home alone. Besides, I want to buy a new dress for tonight to celebrate.” She flipped through the catalogue. “It’s so exciting to take action.” She smiled at him. “It’s been a lovely day, and we’ve had a wonderful time, haven’t we Kira?”
The munchkin studied him solemnly. “Wanna come over and have a teddy bear picnic?” she asked.
From the serious expression on her face, Reece suspected that she didn’t invite just anyone to her teddy picnics. “I’d be honoured,” he said with a smile.
“Auntie Sam plays with me,” Kira said. “She sings the song the best.”
Reece couldn’t imagine Sam singing the nursery rhyme. That was something he wanted to see.
“Can the llama we gave you attend, even though he’s not a bear?” he asked in mock solemnity.
Her eyes crinkled and her lips pursed before she nodded. “He can’t sit at the picnic table. He’s not a teddy. He can sit on a pillow on the floor with the beaver and Brandy. Brandy gets doggy treats. Do llamas eat doggy treats?”
Reece stood and gathered up the garbage from the table. “I’m sure they do,” he agreed, giving her a kiss on the head.
Her eyes narrowed. “But you gotta sing the song with Auntie Sam.”
Laughing, he put the trash in the bin across from their table, dug in his pocket, and turned to the girl with the sketchpad. “Can I buy that from you?”
The artist’s mouth opened in surprise when she looked at the fifty-dollar bill in his hand. “It’s not worth that much.”
“It is to me.” He handed her the money and took the pencil sketch. “It signifies a good friend’s accomplishment and commemorates a great day. One of the best I’ve had in years.”
Lisa reached for his hand and squeezed his fingers gently. “Me too.”
Seeing the smile that lit her face, Reece finally felt that Sam’s best friend had accepted him.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sam
SAM SLUNG HER book bag over her head and across her chest and ran for the streetcar. She felt a tug and suddenly the strap was pressing into her neck and strangling her. Fumbling to get her fingers underneath, she yanked on the strap too hard and it tore off the bag. Reeling as she tried to grab the bag before it hit the ground, she accidentally released the clasp. Her books tumbled out, and her fresh pack of mints rolled into the gutter and dropped through the sewage grate.
“Goddamn it,” she muttered with growing frustration and crouched to collect her books.
Pedestrians crowded the sidewalk, jostling her and kicking the books out of reach. A man nearly stepped on her hand as she grabbed the final book and stuffed it into the bag. Just as she stood and tucked the bag under her arm, the streetcar started to leave.
“Hey! Wait!” She slapped the door.
The streetcar jerked to a stop. The door opened and the scowling driver impatiently waved her inside.
Flustered and out of breath, Sam flung herself onto the nearest seat she could find in the crowded streetcar. It had been one annoyance after another all morning. First, she’d gotten to the library and realized she’d forgotten her data stick. Once she fetched it from the loft, she had to reverse the half-hour transit ride back to St. George Street. Ninety minutes of wasted time.
She was checking email and trying to focus on something other than her bad mood when her phone rang. Roger. Again. He’d been calling all morning. It was driving her nuts. At some point, they needed to have a conversation, but it wasn’t going to be today. She was in a foul mood and didn’t want to try to talk to Doctor Peterson, who would twist the conversation into a therapy session designed to point out all her issues. She let the call go to voicemail.
A dude with a purple Mohawk, neck tattoos, and too many facial piercings to count sat beside her. His body odour was overpowering. She clamped her finger under her nose, pressed against the window, and scowled at him. She was beginning to understand why Reece hated public transportation.
Her cell tweeted. A text message. She ignored the text and gazed out the window at the passing shops and restaurants. The phone rang again.
Goddamn it, Roger.
She sent it to voice mail. A second later, it tweeted. She experienced the spontaneous urge to hurl her cell to the ground and stomp on it. Taking a deep breath, she tried to find one positive event in this exasperating day. Nothing came to mind, and, when the phone rang again, she wished she’d stayed in bed.
“Popular chick.” Purple Mohawk eyed her up and down with a lazy grin. “How you doin’, pretty lady?”
Suppressing a shudder, Sam answered her phone. The alternative was to engage with her streetcar companion, and Roger was tenacious when he felt slighted. He’d keep calling until he wore her down.
Instead of Roger, it sounded like a woman, but Sam couldn’t understand a word. She held the pho
ne away and checked the caller ID. Brenda. She was hysterical, jabbering about a story and pictures and a shed. In the background, Roger’s melodic “therapist” voice was telling her to slow down. Eventually, he took the phone.
“Sam, can you and Reece come out to the farm?”
Reece was out with Lisa and Kira, where he was making a gallant effort to overcome his awkwardness around kids. Interrupting their outing wasn’t happening. Especially not because Roger dictated it. Besides after weeks of procrastination, her neglected academic commitments chewed at her like a ravenous rat stripping meat off a bone.
“We’re busy,” she told Roger brusquely. “What’s going on?”
“Brenda found papers in the shed.”
“What kind?”
“You know, the yellow shed that survived the barn fire,” he said impatiently.
“Not the fucking shed, Roger,” she barked. “The papers. What kind of papers?”
“Oh right, well, it’s a dark graphic novel,” he said. “There are disturbing illustrations.”
Something about drawings prickled her brain. “Who wrote it?” she asked.
There was a beat of silence. “That’s the issue,” he said. “It’s typed.”
Brenda was screeching in the background, and Roger covered the phone. A mumbled conversation ensued before he returned.
“Brenda is positive the writing is reflective of desires. I’m dubious because of the accompanying illustrations.”
“Okay, scan and email it to me,” she said.
“Sam,” Roger lowered his voice, “Brenda’s distressed. She’s afraid Jordan is the author.”
After their first interview with the twins, Reece had joked that Jordan could ink inmates in prison. It made sense he was the illustrator, but Sam didn’t consider it a big deal. Creepy teenagers wrote creepy stories. Who cared?
“Where are the kids now?” she asked.
“Jennifer is here with us. Jordanna’s with a friend, and we don’t know where Jordan is.” Roger paused. “There’s something else.”
She waited but he didn’t continue. “Am I expected to guess?”
