by Stacy Juba
"Then you’re lucky. You didn't even give her an excuse. You could've thanked her for the invitation."
"I'm sorry. I froze. But you know I can't go to a party with dancing and boys."
"We can't play 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey' forever. We're gonna be in eighth grade next year."
"What about the movies next Friday?"
Nicole rolled her eyes. "We can go out with our parents anytime. Why can't you be more like Holly? She says I shouldn't feel guilty about wanting to do my own thing, and that you and I don't always have to be together."
They had talked about her? Holly and Nicole? Kris's ears burned. She'd noticed her sister and cousin hanging around more often.
"Yeah, well, Holly told me that she feels sorry for you." Kris blurted out the words before she could stop herself. "She feels bad that you have to wear ugly glasses and that your mother makes you wear stupid braids, like a mountain girl."
"You're making that up. Holly and I are friends. We might go roller skating with Nancy and Shannon Welles."
Nancy was Holly's best friend. Her younger sister, Shannon, was in Kris's grade and belonged to the "in crowd."
"She's with Nancy and Shannon right now," Kris said. "They walked to Ice Cream Cove after school. If you guys are so close, why don't you go?"
"I can't just show up. Holly didn't invite me."
"If you're as chummy as you say, she'll be happy to see you."
"But it's gonna rain," Nicole said.
Relief flooded over Kris. Good, Nicole wouldn't accept the challenge. What was she thinking, making up that story? Holly and Nancy were at the library, researching a science project. It would be mean to have Nicole sit at Ice Cream Cove, waiting for them. Still, she couldn’t resist saying, "Fine, chicken out."
"I'm not chickening out. I'm going."
"What?"
"I'll prove Holly doesn't think I'm a stupid kid. If my mom's looking for me, tell her where I went."
Nicole strode down the sidewalk.
Kris hesitated.
Her cousin would be okay. Nicole would walk a half-mile, order a chocolate cone, then call her mother for a ride. Aunt Susan would be home by then. Maybe Kris could worm her way out of it, pretend she had misunderstood Holly's plans.
But her mother would know Kris was lying. They'd discussed Holly's science project, the brilliantly sculpted clay model of a catfish with an accompanying report, at the breakfast table.
Kris turned into her neighborhood. That weird guy, Mr. Coltraine, waved as he unlocked his car door. Mr. Coltraine had moved in a few months earlier. He had no wife or kids, so she didn’t know why he needed such a big house. Mr. Coltraine would show up at the park and bowling alley, watching with a strange smile. He gave Kris the creeps.
***
Chipmunk meowed in Kris's lap, and she jumped. She patted the cat, feeling the rise and fall of his gentle purrs. Sharp pain throbbed between her eyebrows, signaling one of her headaches.
It was her fault Randolph Coltraine lured Nicole into his car and trapped her in his cellar for three days. He dumped her body in a gully off the highway. Nicole’s glasses lay cracked at her side. Police found a pail in Coltraine’s bedroom brimming with "souvenirs": necklaces, bracelets, barrettes and locks of hair. All belonged to his child victims, whom he had killed in small towns throughout New England. From Nicole, he saved her favorite ring, dull purple and pink stones on a silver band.
Kris withdrew a Tylenol bottle from the nightstand drawer, swallowed two pills without water and fought to shake her nagging headache and her black mood. She couldn't. Nightmares had plagued her on and off for years, disturbing visions of Nicole in her casket. Nicole glaring. Nicole screaming. Kris told her family she couldn't remember her dreams, but she recalled every horrible detail.
She and her cousin had both been little girls together, but the wrong one grew up.
Chapter 3
25 Years Ago Today
Mr. and Mrs. George R. Mann of Fremont are honored with a surprise party for their 35th wedding anniversary.
Kris drank a glass of red wine, the alcohol warming her insides and relaxing her groggy brain. She shouldn't mix Tylenol and alcohol, but hell, maybe the combination would doubly knock her out.
She drifted into a restless slumber at 10 a.m., thinking about Nicole, and awoke unrefreshed at 12:30 p.m. from a dream of Diana Ferguson. The yearbook photograph stood out as real in her mind as the picture of her cousin on the bureau. She shuddered under the flannel blankets.
An age gap had separated Nicole and Diana, the years that brought first dates, prom corsages and graduation parties. Kris couldn't imagine Nicole as a college student; couldn't picture her without the braids that hung straight down like exclamation points; couldn't envision her as one of Holly's bridesmaids, in a clinging teal sheath with off-the-shoulder straps and a slit up the back that made R.J.'s grandmother arch her eyebrows.
Kris munched an apple, half-heartedly swept cat food off the floor and opened a true crime novel she'd been meaning to read. Yet Diana continued to haunt her.
She grabbed her car keys. She knew a place to learn more about Diana Ferguson.
Twenty minutes later, Kris scoured crowded shelves in the Fremont Public Library’s local historical section. She pulled out Diana's yearbook and a dusty film caked her hand.
Flipping through the pages of teachers in the chemistry lab and teenage girls in formal gowns, Kris looked for Diana's dark hair and sober expression. She didn't spot Diana in the prom court, nor on the pages that commemorated a class trip to an amusement park, the senior banquet or graduation day.
Had Diana skipped those events? Dex said she was quiet. Kris had attended private school, and had therefore never walked the Fremont High halls, but she felt a kinship with Diana. Neither of them had been part of the in-crowd. Kris hadn’t belonged to any crowd, for that matter.
Although she had expected to run across it, shock rippled through Kris when she found the photograph from the newspaper. Underneath the caption, students could note their nicknames. Diana had written "Di."
Die.
Kris pored through the remaining pages. An unsmiling Diana appeared in a shot of the History Club. She stood between the teacher and a classmate named Yvonne Harper. The striking thing about the photo was the History Club adviser, a Brad Pitt look-alike, hardly older than his students.
"Alex Thaddeus," Kris murmured. "Wow."
All that wavy blond hair and the profile of a Greek god. That must be why the club attracted a dozen girls.
At the end of the book, Kris skimmed the personal information about the graduates. Diana had belonged to the National Honor Society. Kris flipped to review the photos again. This girl seemed the type to attend college, or work in a professional job.
Kris turned back to the information page, where most seniors had included a paragraph acknowledging friends or family. Diana wrote, "Thanks to Mom, Cheryl, Mr. T and most of all, to my beloved father."
Cheryl. That was probably her sister, Cheryl Soares. Maybe Alex Thaddeus was Mr. T. Kris jotted his name on a pad with the other facts she had gleaned about Diana Ferguson.
Hoping to discover more, Kris examined the yearbook from Diana's junior year. She identified Diana only once, in the History Club photo. Even in black and white, Kris could tell Diana's dark eyes had crinkled in the corners with a laugh. As a junior, Diana looked like a different girl.
Kris slid the books back onto the shelf and returned to the main library. She hesitated by a stack of telephone directories, then picked up the Fremont area one. She riffled through the white pages for Ferguson. And froze.
There it was, Irene Ferguson, Diana's mother. Mrs. Ferguson had moved to nearby Remington. Kris added the phone number to her notes. She looked up Soares, and found M & C above six other listings with the same last name. Cheryl?
She left the library, her thoughts focused on the dead girl she could never meet.
***
Kris sat cross-legged
on the plush white carpet, scanning her sister's wedding album. A gilded bridal portrait of Holly alone graced the deep crimson wall of their parents' living room. Rose bouquets brightened her sparkling train, the flowers borrowed from her bridesmaids, and the velvet green lawn rolled toward the gazebo. The portrait hung over the marble fireplace, overlooking framed wedding day snapshots, graduation photos and school pictures on the mantel.
Holly and her husband curled on the recliner, sharing a wheat cracker smeared with cheddar cheese. In the background, a football game played on the wide-screen TV. Kris had expected her sister to marry an athlete or a fraternity guy, but she'd picked R.J., a pediatrician not much taller than his patients. He kissed Holly's cheek, and she giggled from his lap.
Kris closed the photo album a little too hard. She would never find love herself. She didn't deserve it.
Her mother closed the French doors to her office, a medical textbook pressed against her red blazer. Crisp gray locks fluffed around the gold studs in her ears. Hours of swimming and tennis had made her trim in her pleated khakis. She wore a line of copper lipstick, her only concession to makeup.
She passed the volume to Holly and ruffled her hair. "Here you go, hon."
"Thanks, Mom. I'll keep it to read when things are slow at work. Not that it’s slow very often." Holly placed it aside and spread another cracker.
Their mother looked at Kris. "I'm afraid I don't have reading material for you ... unless you'd like to see the obits from my college alumni publication." Her tone made obits sound as distasteful as curdled milk.
"Mom, do you know how important an obituary is?" Kris asked. "It's a tribute, the last impression a person will ever make. You can focus on the triumphs, or the notoriety."
"It's morbid. At this point in your life, you should concentrate on settling down, not dead people. Everyone else your age is getting married, or is at least in a relationship."
"How do you concentrate on settling down? Is there a seminar?"
Holly snickered.
"Kris will be fine," her father said from the camelback sofa. "I, on the other hand, could use a class on the Psychology of Wives. For example, when a married couple goes out to dinner, why does the wife insist on calling it a date? I thought I had given up dating."
R.J. pushed down the brim of his Boston Bruins cap. He wore baseball caps to hide his receding hairline. "I'd like to know why my wife squeezes the toothpaste from the middle," he said, hugging Holly's slim waist. "You'd think a doctor could brush her teeth without making a mess."
Holly jabbed him in the ribs. "Don't talk to me about bathroom etiquette. When was the last time you left the toilet seat down?"
"Very funny," R.J. said. "Hey, Kris, will we see your byline soon?"
"It might be awhile," Kris said. "I'm in a new field, remember."
Her mother's lashes fluttered, reminding Kris of her late grandfather. She sensed a dig coming. Her grandfather would blink fast when displeased, a muscle in his jaw stirring.
An image filled Kris's mind, her grandfather in the stiff brown suits he wore even on the rare days off from his medical practice. He would loom over her and Nicole, despite his rounded shoulders. On Easter, he'd press cellophane-wrapped popcorn bunnies into their hands, but his penetrating blue eyes wouldn't soften. Kris and Nicole would scurry into the other room and unwrap the bunnies in private.
She had only seen his eyes tender in the sepia wedding photograph they'd found after his death, tucked in the sock drawer of his scarred walnut bureau. He'd had his arm around his bride, Rosalie, a young small-boned woman with flowing dark curls and a sheer veil. They'd been married seven years before her death. Kris often wondered whether her mother would've been different if she'd had a feminine influence growing up.
Her mother leaned against the bay window. "How could we forget? You left a well-paying job, with growth potential, in a New York high-rise. Now you're typing obits till midnight, like some kid out of college, maybe even high school. I've told my friends that you're a copyeditor. At least that sounds better."
Kris stared at the gold-fixtured fan on the cathedral ceiling. "I wouldn't spread that story too far. If I run into any of your 'friends,' I'll tell them exactly what I do."
"Kristine, they wouldn't understand. Who would? You're not a kid. You-"
"Hey, it never hurts to have a newspaper contact," her father cut in. "I'm sure your pals will take advantage of that. It'll be useful for us when we announce the birth of our first grandchild."
"Oh, Daddy," Holly groaned.
Their mother turned the disapproving look on him. He crossed his arms over the Michigan State sweatshirt that concealed his soft paunch. After a few long seconds, she smiled. "Always thinking, aren't you?"
"You should bring Kris to that outlet store you and Holly found," Kris's father said. "She can get decorations for her apartment."
Her mother lifted her glass off the window ledge and pushed the lemon crescent deeper into the ice water. "She's been on her own for years. She doesn't need anything."
"What about curtains, or-"
"They don't sell many curtains. I'm sure Kris would be bored. R.J., how's that little boy with diabetes?" She strolled over to her son-in-law, ice cubes clicking against the sides of her glass.
Kris dumped the wedding album back into its box. God forbid, her mother should spend time with her. The shopping trip would've been hell, anyway. She joined her father on the sofa. Gray dusted his sideburns, but as he joked behind Holly's back, at least he had a heck of a lot more hair than R.J.
Her dad pulled off his bifocals. "Don't mind your mom. We're thrilled to have you home. I missed you, Kid. I worried about you in New York."
Kris felt a painful and unexpected jolt. How empty her life would be if she lost her father. When she’d lived in the city, they had e-mailed each other daily and spoken weekly. "I missed you, too, Dad. I know you're glad to have me back, but I'm not sure about Mom."
"She's your mother. Of course she's glad. Mom's just concerned whether you made the right decision. As long as you enjoy the newspaper, nothing else is important."
"It is interesting. A newsroom is a whole different environment from an office. My editor, Dex, says if reporters sit at their computers all day, they're not out finding news."
Her father patted her shoulder. "Sounds exciting. Maybe you've found your calling."
"I'll have to pay my dues, but that's okay. The obit page is the most important section of the paper. One typo can compound a family's grief. I do my best to make the obits flawless. I'm in a unique position to protect the survivors." Kris gnawed her lower lip. "That probably sounds strange."
"Strange? Do you know how proud I am of you?"
"Thanks, Dad. That means a lot." Her mind jumped to her library trip of the previous afternoon. "Hey, do you remember reading about a girl who was murdered twenty-five years ago? Diana Ferguson? I came across a story on the microfilm."
"Diana Ferguson," her father repeated. "Is she the poor girl they found in the woods?"
"You do remember her?"
"Vaguely. What was she, a bartender?"
"Cocktail waitress."
"Right." Her father pondered a moment. "The consensus was that she brought it on herself by working in a sleazy place like that."
"You're kidding. That's ridiculous." Kris sat up straighter. The pretty, sober face of Diana flashed through her mind. "It's terrible to die so young, and disgusting that people said she deserved it."
"Blaming her made everyone feel better," her father said. "They didn't have to worry about their own children."
"I guess you're right."
Her dad knew worry. He'd made Kris and Holly take self-defense classes in high school. He bought them pepper spray for college. Kris still carried a canister attached to her keychain. Every couple of years, he gave her a refill for Christmas.
"They never solved that case, did they? After the initial excitement, I don't recall hearing much about it." Her father glanc
ed at the television. "Hey, what a play. Did you see that, R.J.?"
"I guess whoever killed her got away with it," Kris said. "Unless someone digs up the trail twenty-five years later."
At least Nicole's murderer had been punished with life imprisonment.
But it wasn't enough.
It would never be enough.
Kris retreated into the kitchen and wiped her welling eyes on a paper towel. The aroma of roast chicken drifted from the oven. Her dad had prepared the main course while her mom would contribute a store-bought cake to the meal.
She regarded the polished wood floor, oak cabinets and breakfast bar with high-backed stools. Her parents had remodeled the house last year and painted the white exterior a shade of sky blue. Kris used to dread seeing the furniture and decor leftover from her childhood, like the round table where she and Nicole played Monopoly, or the couch they crawled behind for Hide and Seek.
Although the remodeling made visiting the house easier, driving into the neighborhood remained tough. Before their divorce, Aunt Susan and Uncle Neal had moved to Cape Cod. Their former house stood on the corner, unchanged by the new owners, who weren't new anymore. Kris's chest tightened whenever she passed the familiar yellow gambrel, once her second home.
Randolph Coltraine's old house was down an adjoining side street that she hadn't traveled in years. Holly and their mother enjoyed walking the neighborhood, but Kris refused to accompany them. Hearing footsteps behind her, Kris opened the refrigerator and hunted for a drink.
"Dinner should be ready soon," her mother said.
"Mom, why don't you ever call Aunt Susan? Don't you miss the way things were?" Kris uncapped a bottle of apple juice. She hadn't planned to ask the question, but now it hung between them.
Her mother pulled silverware out of a drawer. Forks and spoons glinted in her fist. "Susan? Why on earth are you thinking about her?"
"Holly mentioned her yesterday. She thinks Aunt Susan's lonely. I might visit her sometime."
"If she's lonely, it's her own fault."
