by Gregg Olsen
“Mac and cheese?” I say to Emma.
“The good kind?” she asks.
The good kind is the fluorescent orange pasta from the blue box. I made the mistake of making it from scratch one time—with smoked Gouda and panko on top. It was delicious to me. To Emma? Not so much.
“Yes,” I say. “The good kind.”
I could stuff Stacy’s head into a pot of boiling water. I could put her head into the oven. I could mix broken glass into her pasta.
Killing Stacy is the only way to be rid of her forever. For Emma’s sake, it is the right thing to do. It is also probably the only way to save myself.
But saving myself isn’t a good enough reason to kill my sister.
The water boils, and Emma and Shelby sit in the kitchen while I open the box and pour the pasta into the pot.
“Auntie Mommy,” Emma says, “I wish you could go to the beach with us tomorrow.”
“Me too,” I say, sprinkling some salt into the boiling pot. “But you know I can’t. If I could I would.”
“It’s just that summer is almost over. We haven’t gone hardly anywhere.”
I look at her. She’s sitting on the floor with Shelby’s head resting in her lap. Both of them mean everything to me. Everything in the world. I set the timer and join them.
“I know,” I say, putting my arm around Emma. “Not much I can do about it. I have the kind of job that takes over your life. Most people can put in for a vacation and with a little luck get it approved by their boss. I have to wait until there’s a lull in whatever major investigation is going on. Haven’t been too many lulls lately.”
“Can’t Mr. Hanson do it by himself?” she asks. “We could go to Seattle again.”
I shake my head. “Not right now. I promise when things quiet down we will. We really will.”
Her beautiful eyes are filled with disappointment, and they stab at my heart.
The timer goes off, and I give her a hug.
“Promise?” she asks.
“Promise,” I say, getting up from the floor and reaching for the timer.
First I need to get rid of your mom, I think. It’s a song. An ugly one, I know. Yet it won’t leave me.
Later that night, I do just what I imagined I would when Emma is asleep and Shelby has to be let out for the umpteenth time. That song plays over and over, but it’s not a song. It’s an anthem that tells me that getting rid of my sister by killing her is absolutely the right thing to do. Even though it is so wrong, I go with it. I drink some wine and ponder what might happen if I did kill Stacy. In one scenario, I would get away with it. All would be fine. Emma would grow up smart, perfect, beautiful, and loved. She would never need to know the treachery of her mother and how a life with her would have starved her of true happiness. In another scenario, I’d get caught and Emma would be a ward of the state. Both of her parents would be dead. I would be tried and convicted. It is likely that she would never forgive me for what I’m thinking of doing. She doesn’t know her mother the way I do. If I got caught, the only good thing would be that Stacy would be dead and—barring the possibility that she’s a female version of Freddy Krueger or Jason Voorhees or Michael Myers—she would be gone forever.
That’s good.
Just then I see my reflection in my wine glass. I’m smiling. It’s not a happy smile but one of strange satisfaction. But I see something in my eyes too. It startles me a little, and I take the last gulp of wine and set the glass down on the ceramic coaster I made my mother in school. I wonder who that woman is. Who is that woman who would kill her own sister?
Is it you, Nicole Foster?
Do I even know who I am anymore?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Thursday, August 24
It’s a drumbeat that hits me like a sledgehammer every morning. Nine days now. Nine days since Ally was killed. Nine days is not a long time for a homicide case.
If we can prove it.
Nine days.
Hammering at me.
The videotapes that WinCo assistant district manager Darren Huff brought in are not tapes at all. Someone in Aberdeen has finally gone digital. That’s a good thing. Surprising too. That’ll make things easier and faster. Spinning hours of analog videotape was necessary and tedious work. On the other hand, a digital asset could be manipulated by a keyboard, not a “Play” or “Fast-Forward” button.
Carter is holed up in his office, on his cell phone, dealing with a family issue. I can’t tell if it’s about one of his kids or if his ex-wife is dropping another bomb in her quest to annihilate him. According to him, that’s what she’s been up to. First the affair. Then the promise of reconciliation, followed by a process server. Then the divorce. I know that there are two sides to every story, but since I work with Carter, I’m on his side. I have to be. Partners need that kind of unconditional trust. No questions asked. At least, never asked aloud.
I put the thumb drive in my computer, and it whirls away, sucking in the video. I find the time stamp and move my curser close to the lunch hour. The parking lot is relatively empty except for the Tomlinsons’ Subaru. It’s quiet. The angle isn’t perfect, though. In my own sad heart, I long to see if Ally tried to fight her way out of that car, but there’s no way of really seeing that. Ultimately, I think that’s good. I wouldn’t want Mia to sit in a courtroom and watch as her daughter’s torture played out before a jury of twelve strangers. No mom should ever endure that kind of gruesome reality TV.
I let the images move across my screen a little faster than normal speed while I drink coffee and think about the case. As I sip, my eyes stay glued on the screen. Finally, I see some activity. It’s Luke. While the picture is less than ideal, I’m sure of it. He cuts through some shadows from trees at the edge of the parking lot. His gait is slow, deliberate.
I freeze the image and check the time stamp.
It nearly matches what his coworkers Gavin Wilcox and Al Black said about their return from Jersey Mike’s: 12:38.
I slow down the video to a frame-by-frame view.
My face is nearly pressed against the screen, I’m so close.
Luke looks left, then right, as he approaches the car. He puts a bag on the front seat. He cocks his head a little inside the driver’s side. I wonder if he sees Ally. Or if he hears her. It’s so fleeting that it would be hard for anyone to argue that he actually saw his daughter.
And then the unexpected.
Luke looks over at something out of the range of the camera. He puts his hand up to his mouth for a second. I can’t see if he’s talking or not, but it seems very, very clear that there is another person just out of camera range. Luke turns and looks at the Subaru and then back at what I’m sure is another person. He’s saying something, but I can’t read his lips.
My heart is pounding. I didn’t expect anything like that.
Luke walks a few steps to the car and then does an about-face. His fists are clenched now. It’s as if he’s very angry at something.
Or someone.
Carter pokes his head into my office.
“You look like you’re going to lose your cookies,” he says.
“If I’d eaten some, I expect I would,” I tell him. “Check this out, Carter.” He sits down, and I swivel the screen in his direction. “Look. Right there.” I tap the glass. “Luke Tomlinson is talking to someone.”
Carter’s eyes widen. “Seriously? To who?”
“I have no idea.”
“Can you read his lips?” he asks.
I shake my head and turn my attention back to the screen. “No. But he’s definitely talking to someone. He looks angry too. Upset, even. Hard to read.”
I click on the icons indicating the content recorded by the other two cameras. The images roll by, and I see nothing but a blank parking lot and a seagull tussling with what appears to be a dead rodent.
“WinCo might have a vermin problem,” Carter says.
“We have a vermin problem,” I shoot back. “His name is Luke Tom
linson.”
Carter moves from the space next to my computer to the visitor’s chair across from my desk. He sits and stretches out. His long arms find their way behind his neck, and his fingers massage the tenseness from, I expect, his phone call with his ex-wife.
“It’s none of my business,” I say. “But whatever you were talking about with whoever it was . . .”
“Right,” he says. “It’s none of your business.”
Carter is shutting me out right now. I know it’s because he doesn’t want me to see him at his worst. I know that he has an immense pride and that his failing marriage has all but chewed it away.
“I know,” I tell him. “I just want you to understand that I care. You know, I’ve gone through some real shit in my life and I know that if I had a real advocate and not someone who substituted lead for a life vest, I’d have pulled out of the mess a whole lot faster.”
I’m thinking of Stacy, of course.
“Appreciated,” Carter says. “But I’m not you.” His facial features have tightened, and I know that I’ve hit a nerve. “I’m digging my way out of all this on my own. Enough said. All right?”
“All right.”
“My guess is Luke was talking to one of his buddies or maybe Rachel Cromwell,” he says, putting the conversation back on the rails, where it belongs.
I’m not sure, and I tell him so.
“It’s possible, Carter. I guess it is. When I think about his coworkers at WinCo and Rachel, I just don’t see them leaving out a confrontation with Luke—not when there’s so much at stake. Leaving it out would make them complicit. And I really don’t see that.”
Carter thinks for a minute. “I know what you’re saying. I get it. Yet, if it wasn’t one of those three people, who the hell was he talking to?”
That’s the big question.
“We’ll need to find that out,” I say, looking down at my phone.
A message from Ocean View:
Your father has been asking to see you.
I look at Carter.
“Something’s up with my dad. I was already there once today.”
“You better go,” he says. “Could be something.”
I shrug. I really have no idea.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Thursday, August 24
A young nurse’s aide whose name tag proclaims Hi, I’m Sammy-Jo hurries over as I maneuver my way past a group of women in wheelchairs, their heads hanging as though something very intriguing were happening on their laps. Her smile is so broad that it threatens to cut her face in two.
“Stacy,” she calls over to me. Her voice burbles with enthusiasm.
“I’m Nicole,” I say back.
“Sorry,” she tells me. “I just wanted to let you how much your father loved the Mexican chocolate. We all did. It was so nice of you.”
I look at her questioningly. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know anything about Mexican chocolate.”
Now Sammy-Jo looks as confused as I feel at that moment.
“Stupid me,” she says. “It was your sister. Stacy, right?”
Stacy wrong, I think.
“She’s never been to see our father,” I say. “She lives out of the country.”
Sammy-Jo shakes her head; her blue turquoise drop earrings threaten to break orbit from her earlobes. “But she has. I’m sure of it. Your dad adores her.”
“My dad has Alzheimer’s and he thinks Richard Simmons is president,” I say.
Sammy-Jo brightens. “Follow me. She signed in the book. I saw her. Are you twins?”
“No,” I say, trailing Sammy-Jo as we proceed to the welcome center. I know that I’m supposed to sign in, but I never do. I don’t see the point in it. Not really. My dad doesn’t know who I am. The staff does. Except Sammy-Jo.
She opens the sign-in book and turns its pages back to the previous pages of the visitors log. She presses her finger on a signature and spins it toward me.
“There. Stacy Chase. That’s your sister, right?”
The air is propelled from my lungs with such a force that I’m all but certain everyone at Ocean View can hear my gasp. But there it is. In that overconfident, swirly, girlie script that my sister thought made her look as though she were autographing a fan’s photo is her name.
And Julian’s too.
I didn’t know it, but my sister has not only returned to Grays Harbor County, she’s done so with a new last name. My sister. My adversary. My love. My hated rival.
The poisoned blood of my lineage.
When I can finally speak, my words come in a whisper.
“She’s back,” I say. I had felt her shadow, but now it was real.
“I don’t get along with my sister very well, either,” Sammy-Jo says, throwing some kindness in my direction to mitigate what is a stunningly awkward moment. “She hogs the bathroom when she knows I have to get to Ocean View. Being late is a serious offense around here. Sometimes I think my sister wants me to be late because she’s so jealous of my work here.”
“Sisterhood is a challenge,” I say.
She closes the book. “She left a note for you,” Sammy-Jo says, suddenly remembering something very important. “It’s in your father’s room. Pinned on the bulletin board with all of his memory reminders.”
Dad’s room is quiet. He is asleep. Or dead. I watch for a second for a slight rise of the sheet covering his shrinking chest. It moves. He’s alive. The whiskers on his chin are tiny white spikes, and it angers me that the staff here doesn’t keep him clean-shaven. Dad was particular in that way. Even when he worked those long, grimy hours at the mill, he never left for a shift without looking like he might be going somewhere special. I saw how other dads looked when they made the same trek to work. I knew that my dad took extra care because he’d married my mother. He stepped it up. He knew that she was the most beautiful woman in Hoquiam, which I know doesn’t sound like much, but she was. He was handsome. Strong. Neat. Clean. He didn’t have her charisma, but he knew that if he wanted to keep her, he’d have to provide her with the right setting. She was the diamond. He was the gold band.
The memory reminder board has done nothing to spark a memory for my father. Emma and I scoured the house for pictures, ticket stubs—the Rolling Stones in Seattle!—his old car keys, anything that we thought could trigger some kind of recollection. I put pictures of Mom, Stacy, Emma, and me in a row across the top. I selected the worst photo of my sister that I could find—a quest that wasn’t easy. She was going out on a date with a boyfriend who she’d stolen from me. Dad took the shot and must have clicked the shutter before she stood, hook-armed and beaming. Her eyes are half-shut.
I love that shot.
Images of our house and yard are affixed below the family photos. I even pinned Dad’s locker tag from the mill.
Every now and then I add something new to see if it sparks any kind of remembrance.
None of it does.
And there, pinned over a photograph of our house decorated for Christmas, is a present that I never expected to see. Or wanted. It is a white envelope, and it is addressed to me. The handwriting is undeniably my sister’s.
I park myself on the edge of my father’s bed. He stirs. I fill my lungs with air and notice that my fingers tremble as I open the envelope and remove its contents. For a second I feel like a shadow has covered me. A chill. A kind of darkness that I knew would come for me. Stacy is like the psychopath in a horror film. She’ll disappear, but she’ll always come back. With Stacy I doubt it will ever be safe to go down to the cellar alone.
Dear Nic,
First things first. I’m not about to make any trouble for you. I could, but you know that’s not who I am. I’ve been away for a couple of years now and I think I’m a better person for it. I’ve grown. I’ve made some mistakes and I’m sorry about them. At least most of them. I’ve been living in Mexico and, well, things just didn’t turn out the way I thought they would. I guess you could say that I miscalculated how my life would
go after Cy died.
She’s being careful with her words. When I read that line, I think, how my life would go after I murdered Cy, but that’s just me.
Dad moves his leg and I pat his foot. A nurse walks by the open doorway, and I glance in her direction. She smiles warmly. She thinks I’m sharing a touching moment with my father when in fact it’s my sister on my mind. And the wetness in my eyes is not from sadness but fear.
I read on.
Nic, I want you to know that I appreciate everything you’ve done for Emma and I see how she’s growing up. I want to visit her. I want her to know that I still love her and that I might not have been the best mom ever but that I did the best I could. When you think about it, we didn’t have the best road map for motherhood, did we?
She’s right. Our mother was a narcissist. We were important to her when we were young enough to dress up and show off to her friends and admirers. The term show dog comes to mind. As terrible as Mom was, as far as I know, she wasn’t a criminal. A person who made money from a child’s death. A killer. My sister was all of those things, and I’ve known that deep in the marrow of my bones for a very long time. And yet as wrong as it is, I keep letting her inch into my life. I keep thinking of that beautiful little baby sister and how happy I was when she came home from the hospital.
I’m here for a couple more days. I’m staying at the Quinault Beach Resort & Casino. I really don’t want to cause you any trouble. You have to believe me. I’m in room 322. Come and see me. I want you to bring Emma too. She needs to know that I’m all right. I’m sure she misses me terribly.
Emma did. The first few weeks after Stacy handed her to my care, Emma was distraught. She knew her daddy had died. She knew that her house had been destroyed. That her world had been shattered. She loved her mom. Missed her. We always love our moms no matter what. I was in the worst position then. I wondered if I’d made the right decision, taking her like I did. I had a willing participant in my sister, of course. Stacy was wrapped up in a litany of drama of her own doing. She just wanted to be free.
