Why had she agreed to this meeting in the first place? Because someone wanted to tell her story again, had offered to shine the spotlight once more.
The October sun lingered in a stubborn autumn sky, creating the illusion that there was time left. Late-afternoon clouds rolled in, the horizon growing darker. Alex pulled up her black hoodie and jammed hands in pockets. The college was a strange choice for an interview. Albany would’ve made more sense. Troy, Schenectady. Even Rensselaer. That’s where the press was, the little big towns of Upstate New York. Which definitely did not include Reine. The longer she sat there, amid the quaint woodsy backdrop and postmodern metal sculptures, the more pathetic she felt. It had been years since she escaped that basement. Who would want to talk to her now? After all this time? Back then, they wrote stories about her. Back then, she was, if not national news, at least part of local lore. The girl who’d risen from the dead, emerged untouched, still pure. The one that got away. No one else would have to die.
Then another girl died, and Alex’s story turned cautionary tale, an unpleasant reminder that promises get broken and nothing gold can stay.
Alex pulled her Parliaments, stashed them, pulled them again. A jogger stomped past and she flinched. She checked her phone. No missed calls, no unanswered texts. Opened her email. No update from Noah Lee, the reporter, saying that he was running late, no messages about crossed wires, a misunderstanding over what time or where they were supposed to meet. She contemplated heading back to her car, digging for his number among the clutter; it was in there somewhere, but she knew once she crossed the quad she wasn’t coming back. She’d hit the 87 back to the city, where she’d do what she always did. Run off, find a party, score something to make her forget she’d ever been this needy.
A college kid with a backpack draped over his shoulder headed toward her, pleasant smile plastered on his smooth, youthful face like he needed to borrow something. Alex hid her cigarettes. Students were always bumming smokes at the bar, despite having way more money than she ever would. But the kid did not want a cigarette.
“I’m Noah,” he said. “You must be Alex.” He slipped the bag off his shoulder, dropping it between his feet and plopping down beside her.
She sucked on her smoke, biting the inside of her cheek, an anxious habit that had created a permanent nub, soft candy she chewed when nerves got the best of her.
Noah pointed at the tall light pole, a big sign with red slashes through all the things you weren’t allowed to do. “Campus is smoke free.”
“I thought this was an interview?” Alex dropped the cigarette, squashing the burning ember beneath the heel of her Chuck Taylors. “For a newspaper?”
“Yup. The Codornices. Uniondale’s student publication.”
The meeting had been set up via email, details arranged digitally. Why hadn’t she taken six seconds to verify the name of the newspaper?
“I mean, I’m hoping they’ll run it,” Noah said. “No guarantee. Not too much competition though. I live in the same dorm as the editor. Mainly I need the interview for my final project.”
“Final project?”
“Beats and Deadlines. It’s a journalism class—”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“You got to be shitting me.”
“I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”
Of course no mainstream press would want to talk to her now. Not after all this time. It had been years since Alex Salerno mattered. How many kids—girls, boys, teens, toddlers, babies—had been stolen over the past dozen years? Hundreds? Thousands? Hers was no longer even the latest abduction to come out of Reine. Certainly not the most infamous. Not after Kira Shanks went missing. The day Kira Shanks disappeared, Alex’s fifteen minutes were up.
She stared at her old Civic across the quad, rusting in the metered section of the parking lot. A jangle of clipped wires barfed out a hole in the dash from where the stereo had been stolen. The prospect of driving two hours without music, back to a tiny rented room, sounded as appealing as playing freshman comp Q&A. She hated that sick part inside her that longed for the attention.
“Just ask your questions,” she said.
“Sean Riley? The detective who rescued you?”
“What about him?” Alex leaned back on the bench. Just hearing Riley’s name cracked the fragile parts inside her, unleashed the emotional shrapnel she’d learned to keep hidden. Talking about being snatched, imprisoned against her will? No problem. If she pretended hard enough, she could imagine somebody else’s life. Dissociation, that’s what her therapist called it, a strategy trauma victims employed to stay safe. Thinking about Riley made her feel things. Tender things. Vulnerable things.
Alex braced for what came next. Because just as she was inextricably linked to Riley, Alex was forever tied to that other girl. The bigger deal. The sexier story. The Mary Sue to her outcast. And if Noah Lee said her name right now, Alex swore she’d scream.
But of course he did.
“And, y’know, Kira Shanks.”
There had been no reason for Alex to believe this interview would lead to anything beneficial. There was no money in it. No prospective job offers. It was a long drive up from NYC, costing gas money she didn’t have, shifts off from the bar she couldn’t afford, time spent in a town full of painful memories. But at least the focus would be on her. Her struggle, her victory. The one good thing she’d done with her life: she’d survived.
Alex glanced around uneasy, trying to figure a way to bolt without looking smaller than she already felt. How do you explain you’re sick of competing with a dead girl without sounding petty? What happened to Kira Shanks was terrible. Of course she felt bad for her. But by living, Alex thought she’d won. Turned out by not dying, she’d lost.
“Does it feel weird to be back up here?” Noah asked, pen in hand.
“No. Why would it?”
“Because it’s not far from here where it happened.”
“Where what happened?” Alex knew what he meant.
“Um,” Noah stammered. “Do you feel, like, an affinity?”
“To what?”
“Kira Shanks. Because of her disappearance. Like you’re both part of the same curse on this town. The other girls, too. But I can’t talk to them. They’re all, y’know, dead. You’re the only one who’s not.”
Noah had been, what, seven, when Alex was taken? Twelve by the time Kira went missing? He knew the whole story or they wouldn’t be sitting here. Alex Salerno had been the last of several young girls kidnapped by a man named Kenneth Parsons, who was currently serving several, concurrent life sentences far away without chance of parole. He’d die in prison. Kira Shanks had been murdered by a different man altogether. Five long years separated the crimes. Nothing tied the two cases together. Alex fought against her quickening pulse.
“When you wrote,” she said, “it was to interview me. Why are you asking about Kira Shanks? Like I had anything to do with it?”
“I didn’t mean you were involved.”
“Wasn’t even the same guy who took her. Everyone knows that. Parsons took me and killed those other girls. They arrested Benny-what’s-his-name for Kira.”
“Brudzienski. Benny Brudzienski.”
“There’s no connection between what happened to her and me.”
“Some people think Parsons had help—”
“A rumor, something the media drummed up for ratings. Parsons and Benny never even met. That’s been proven.” Alex was repeating what the police and Riley had promised her. Even now she couldn’t keep those wolves away.
“Parsons could’ve had a partner,” Noah said. “They found other DNA.”
“I know what they found. I was there, remember? Parsons confessed, copped to everything, pled out. Gave up every kill, every body. Hand-delivered detectives to each gravesite. Why would Parsons cover for anyone? His plea bargain with the DA is the only reason I am here.” It had t
aken Alex a long time to squelch fears that another monster lurked in the dark, waiting to drag her back to hell. It was a never-ending losing fight. “Parsons is in prison because of me.”
“Not exactly because of you.”
“Excuse me?”
“He got time for the others. Technically. He didn’t do anything to you.”
“Didn’t do anything to me? You know what that was like? Being locked underground, not knowing if I’d live or die, get raped, or something worse? I’m supposed to what? Feel lucky? Grateful? Because Parsons got picked up before he had a chance to do me like he did the others? Because Riley found me in that bunker, half-starved and nearly dead of dehydration? I was seventeen years old. Couple years younger than you are now. You have any idea how terrified I was?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You keep saying that, Noah. You didn’t mean this. You’re sorry for that. Why did you want to interview me? If what I went through wasn’t tragic enough for you?”
“I need to write this paper. It’s very important to my grade.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“I messed up, okay? I jumped the gun and made enemies of your friend, Sean Riley. Detective Riley. This paper I’m writing accounts for seventy-five percent of my grade. I had this big idea for a real investigative piece because of how he doesn’t think he did it and my prof loves frontline reporting—he worked with my dad—muckraker shit, undercover journalism. The sixties.” He rolled his eyes. “I had the whole story mapped out. The cop who cracked the case changes his mind. Grants last-minute reprieve. Like the Life of David Gale.”
“What are you talking about? Who doesn’t believe what?”
“Detective Riley?” Noah said, surprised. “How he doesn’t believe Benny Brudzienski did it? Killed Kira Shanks? Riley’s working with the Brudzienski family to get the murder charges dismissed. Although it’s technically a disappearance, right? Since they never found the body. That’s part of the enduring mystery, how they never found the body. Brings up all kinds of interesting legal ramifications. Don’t you and Riley talk anymore?”
“Why would we?”
“I thought after…”
“After what?”
“Nothing,” Noah said.
“Why do you care so much about Benny Brudzienski?”
“I told you. It’s an exposé.” Noah fished around his rucksack, retrieving a black and white composition notebook, the same kind Alex used to fill with the names of hard rock bands inside ballpoint pentagrams. He sat upright, clearing his throat, projecting confidence. “Seven years ago this November, Reine High senior Kira Shanks went missing, the latest in a string of horrific abductions to rock the small Upstate New York town. Benny Brudzienski, hulking man-child with a third-grade IQ, was sought in connection with the crime. Blood and DNA found at the Idlewild Motel just off the interstate where Benny worked as a handyman linked him to the scene. However, questions remain. Before police could swoop in and make an arrest, Benny had an ‘accident.’” Noah did air quotes with his fingers. “Now Benny Brudzienski sits in a posh state hospital on the taxpayer’s dime pretending he can’t talk because he fell off his bicycle and hit his head after concerned citizens took matters into their own hands, unwilling to be victimized anymore. Some call it vigilante justice. But not this reporter. Where is the justice for Kira Shanks?” Noah closed his book. “Pretty good, eh?”
“I don’t know. It’s all right, I guess. A little pretentious.”
“That’s all I got.” Noah’s shoulders slagged. “A progress update on my paper is due and I can’t get Riley to talk to me. I barged into the precinct and got tossed on my ass. Ordered not to come back. I kinda made a scene. That’s why I reached out to you. You’re right. I don’t know what I’m doing. I got to write this paper, and it’s a big deal, and Detective Riley won’t return my calls. They almost arrested me.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“I thought maybe you could hook me up with Riley.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Look. My dad pays my tuition, all right? And he kicks down a lot of scratch for the day-to-day incidentals. Journalism’s, like, supposed to be my thing? My father is Yoan Lee.”
Noah waited for the reaction. Alex had no reaction.
“Yoan Lee, the columnist? The Post? The Yoan Lee?” Noah scanned the grounds, making sure no one else could hear him act like the spoiled trust fund kid he really was. “It’s too late in the semester to change my topic now. And if I flunk Beats and Deadlines, I am screwed. My dad won’t foot the bill if I get less than a three-point GPA. I live off that money. I’m not moving back home, and I’m not getting a job. I figure you can talk to Riley. You’re still friends, right? I mean, he’ll answer your questions. Maybe let you glance at his evidence, tell you why he suddenly thinks Benny Brudzienski is innocent? You get me his notes, snap a pic with your phone, provide me some quotes, I can pay you a little money. Like a finder’s fee. An anonymous source. I ace this paper, it runs in the Codornices. People are reminded of who you are, your story, women’s rights groups or whatever. A feature like this jumpstarts a career. It’s a scoop. I might be able to start interning at the Times next summer.”
“They teach ethics at Uniondale, too?”
“Couple hundred bucks ease your conscience?”
“How about you do your own homework?”
“Don’t you think it’s a little convenient?”
“What?”
“Benny Brudzienski not being able to talk.”
“Not for Kira Shanks, it’s not.”
“She goes missing. The one guy who knows what really happened’s already retarded.”
“I don’t think people call them that anymore.”
“Fine. Mentally challenged, handicapable, whatever. Now all of a sudden, he clams up with some mysterious condition. The dude was hardly Mensa material but he used to hold down a job. Had to be able to follow instructions, right? From what I hear, after that bicycle accident, he just stares at walls and shits his pants. I think it’s all an act. I want to know why your pal, Riley, thinks this dangerous predator is innocent. That’s interesting, right? You say Parsons didn’t have a partner—”
“For the last time, he didn’t have a partner.”
“Fine. He didn’t have a partner. The two cases aren’t connected, whatever. But there’s still got to be a reason why the detective who broke both cases is now rushing to a killer’s defense. I’d think you of all people—”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Play me. What makes you think Riley would let me look at case files?”
“Because of your relationship.”
And there it was. Noah said it so brazen too, like everyone in Reine knew about their affair. The scandal they’d sought to avoid, a secret to no one. She loved Riley. So she’d let him go. But if Noah knew about it, everyone knew about it, so what difference did it make? They’d thrown away any hope of a future together. For nothing.
Alex gathered her things and left.
“Wait,” Noah called after her. “How about two-fifty? Three hundred? Come back. Let’s talk. Price is negotiable! Alex!”
Alex headed to her car. No matter how loud he called her name, she did not turn around.
When she came to the Interstate 87 split south, she didn’t go home either.
CHAPTER TWO
She never wanted to hurt him. She knew the damage done if word spread, how it would destroy Riley’s world, which in addition to the job and wife now included a new baby girl. The age difference alone would destroy his reputation. He might even go to prison. Alex had understood Riley’s need to break things off. She never held that against him, and she believed him when he said he wanted to stay friends, have her in his life. And he tried.
It was funny. Riley’s ending their affair wasn’t what spurred Alex to leave town. It had taken Kira Shanks to do
that. Not being in his bed hurt bad enough. Being rendered irrelevant was too painful to bear, the entire town consumed by Kira Shanks hysteria.
Alex had of course followed the story when it first happened seven years ago, was vaguely aware of the particulars. Noah’s proposed exposé jostled loose the long-term, brought specifics back to the light.
Though they were no longer together, Alex watched Riley’s star rise, albeit from a distance—his promotion to detective as he led the charge to find Kira, just as he’d done with Alex five years earlier. Only the hero was too late this time. Alex knew they liked Benny Brudzienski for the crime, which, as Noah Lee pointed out, still listed officially as a missing persons case since no body was ever recovered.
Benny Brudzienski wasn’t much older than Alex. But he seemed a lot older. In part because he was such a permanent fixture in Reine. Like that hundred-year-old oak tree struck by lightning or the fire-scorched hall of records, you never remembered a time when he wasn’t around. Alex could still picture Benny wandering through town—sloe-eyed, lumbering strides, aimless. Reine’s very own George slouching toward Friendly’s or the Pig ’n’ Poke. Until one of his brothers would roll up beside him, load him onto the flatbed like some wayward, dopey cow that had broken through the fence. No one ever believed he was dangerous.
When word of Benny’s involvement leaked, either via press or police, unidentified locals chased him down, ran his bicycle off the road, shook loose whatever remaining lug nuts were rolling around his junkyard oil pan. How much more damage could the accident have caused? Guy had the IQ of an eight-year-old to begin with.
Alex hadn’t known Benny was in a mental hospital, but it made sense when she thought about it. Noah was the first to imply Benny was faking it. Alex didn’t know if he was or wasn’t. He deserved to burn all the same.
Sometimes Alex doubted her memory, especially during stretches where she partied too hard. There were a lot of stretches like that. It got worse after her ordeal, the pills she leaned on to make her forget, the holes in her memory that formed like Swiss-cheese excerpts of a hastily erased tape. There were times, late at night, when she’d wonder if what she and Riley had was as real and deep as she recalled. She knew she had a tendency to think in terms of black and white. Heroes, villains. Good guys and bad. When your hand is against a wall, you know where you stand, no matter how dark it gets.
Hell Chose Me Page 22
