Secret Memories

by J. S. Donovan

  Returning to the living room, Angela took pictures of the butterfly scar on Iris’s back and made sure she was actually how Angela had found her. She was waiting outside the room when law enforcement hustled in. They made her answer all the usual questions: what were you doing here? Do you know the victim? etc. Angela told them about her client, the job, and promised to email them what little information she had on Iris. They moved Angela out of the room pretty quickly. She was thankful for it. She wanted nothing more than to go home and take a shower. As she descended the flights of stairs down the first floor of the tenement, she realized that most of the homeless had cleared out, including the crazed woman. That was disappointing. The crazed woman had said that Iris wasn’t alone, meaning that she had seen the killer or someone close to Iris not long before. Angela predicted that Iris had been murdered yesterday or today, because decay hadn’t set in and she didn’t smell like rot. Yet.

  Angela got into her Dodge Charger. She checked the dashboard clock. It was a little after midnight and the snow was still falling. A few officers waved her goodbye. Some of them she’d worked with in previous cases. She waved back and remembered one, if not the biggest reason, she chose to be a P.I. instead of a detective. No homicides. She could tell a married woman about her husband’s affair without batting an eye, but death… death was too close to home. It stuck to her like a bad stink and invaded her thoughts like termites in dead wood. She’d only seen a handful of dead bodies in her life, and all of them were seared into her consciousness. Iris would stick, too.

  Wired, she dialed Rosemary as she drove back home. The police would reach out to her soon, but Angela felt it was her responsibility to tell her first and maybe even return the money.

  An automated voice replied. “The number you are currently trying to reach has been disconnected.”

  Angela pulled over to the side of the road. She double-checked the woman’s phone number in her contacts and tried again.

  “The number you are currently trying to reach--”

  Angela lowered the phone. A bad feeling pitted in her gut. She put the car back in drive and made a sharp U-turn. Her tires skidded on the ice. She pressed the accelerator. The Charger’s V-8 engine roared like thunder as Angela raced down the street. She came to a harsh stop outside of her office building and wasted no time racing inside and climbing up the stairs. She opened the door to her office, flipped on the light, and opened the bottom drawer of her desk. She swiped through the various folders until she found Rosemary’s file. She put it on her desk and opened it, reviewing the paperwork. She checked the woman’s email, opened up the laptop, and sent her a quick message to tell her to call her back immediately.

  The email was returned to her, with a message that read, “Delivery Status Failure.” The email was a fake.

  Angela checked the final piece of information: Rosemary’s address. She put it into her GPS. The place existed. She drove twenty minutes and pulled up to the curb outside of the empty lot. There was no building; just a slab of concrete with little dead weeds and grass leaves sprouting from the cracks. Angela got out of the car, leaving the vehicle running. Dark exhaust misted out of the rumbling tail pipe. Angela rubbed her gloved hands together, feeling the cold sucking at the tips of her fingers.

  She wandered aimlessly around the lot, snowflakes falling on her long brown hair on the shoulders of her fur-lined jacket.

  Rosemary Sylvian did not exist.

  Angela felt her world spin.

  Who the hell was the woman who hired her? Why did she lead her to Iris?

  Angela had no answers. Jason’s words repeated in her mind. What you feed grows. What you starve dies. She blinked and recalled her parents’ cabin from nearly three decades ago.

  Shaken, Angela returned to her home. It was a small, simple-looking house tucked between two mountains and at the end of a skinny driveway. Leafless, skeletal-like trees spotted the yard. It was secluded enough that Angela didn’t have many visitors.

  Angela shambled inside and turned on the lights. She put her folder and laptop on the table and hung her coat on the hanger near the door. She hugged herself and rubbed her upper arms. The place was extra chilly tonight. She slid the needle on the outdated thermostat and listened to the soft hum of the heater.

  Something soft brushed against her leg.

  Angela peered down at the orange tabby. His name was Leonardo. A chunk of his upper ear was missing from the time when he was a stray.

  “Not now, Leo,” Angela said, but still brushed her hand down his back. His spine arched up at the movement. Eyes closed, the fluffy cat seemed to smile. It was the first grin she’d seen all day.

  Angela stripped down and tossed her clothes into the dirty hamper that was starting to spill over before stepping into the shower. She looked over her shoulder and locked eyes with the doppelganger in the mirror. The butterfly scar rose from her skin a few centimeters and had a ridged design. It had grown with Angela and was the size of a tangerine. She brushed her fingertips against the grooves of the scar and thought of Iris, dead at eighteen, but with a dated scar. If she had gotten the scar around age seven, like Angela, then whoever killed Angela’s parents was active as of eleven years ago. Angela shivered.

  Angela stepped into the shower. She felt the shadow watching her as she closed the foggy glass door. She knew he was fake. Nevertheless, he had followed her since she awoke in the hospital.

  Hot water cascaded down her face, washing the stench of the tenement from her skin, but not her mind. She finished her shower, brushed her teeth, put on her button-up pajamas, some gloves and socks to keep her hands and feet warm, and then crawled into bed. She nestled up under the thick covers and shut her eyes. She replayed her conversation with Rosemary.

  Were her tears and desperation all an act? If they were, she was an expert at manipulation. How did she tie into this? Did she know that Iris was dead? Did she want Angela to find Iris? Why? The questions kept coming until Angela forced herself to sleep. She tossed and turned as the night terrors attacked her, as they did every night. When she awoke in the early morning, she was drenched in cold sweat and still drowsy. She never remembered the nightmare that plagued her, but it made getting out of bed every morning a chore. She put on some real clothes, brushed her teeth and hair, and then headed to the kitchen. After making some egg and tea, she sat down at her table and pulled open her laptop.

  She opened the news on her web browser. Using the email address the police had provided, Angela sent over the information on Rosemary and told them that it was probably all falsified. When she’d finished that, she took a sip from her tea mug and researched Iris Sylvain. At least she was a real person. She used various social media platforms: Facebook for her boring stuff, Tumblr for her art blog, and Instagram for her photo collection that was accompanied by some weird image filter. I am a lost soul, her Facebook said in the description. Drifting from place to place. Haunted by my past, but choosing to be defined by my future. I am a wanderer. I am a ghost.

  From the various blog posts and abstract photos Angela found, she knew that Iris was an artistic person trying to find her way in the world. She didn’t have a job or currently attend any colleges. She was a loner, and there was little information about what event turned her from a high school golden girl into a prostitute strangled in a crack house.

  As she browsed the web, Angela looked for regional murders from eleven years ago. She found a news article regarding a triple homicide. A mother, father, and one of their two children were killed outside of Chattanooga. The seven-year-old daughter was the only survivor. Though the article didn’t display the victim’s names, Angela was able to connect the obituaries to Iris and her family. The murders took place in a secluded home much like Angela’s. The parents were stabbed multiple times by a bladed weapon. The big brother was strangled. The girl, Iris, was found wandering outside of the house with a bloody butterfly carved into her back.

  Angela questioned why this was the first time she was hea
ring of this. Then again, eleven years ago she was getting her Ph.D. and not concerned with looking into her dark past. Now that there was a breakthrough, perhaps she could do what Jason said and pull the darkness into the light. What you feed grows. What you starve dies.

  Angela leaned back, feeling queasy. Her mind spun and her head throbbed. She needed to decide how much she’d give up now before she got too involved in the case. If things went as planned and she remembered everything, there wouldn’t be any way to go back to a normal life. Like I have a normal life now. She couldn’t even keep a relationship for two weeks without pushing her partner away. She was too ashamed to sleep with anyone. Not because of the scar, but because of her night terrors. If she remembered what she dreamed about, would that make life easier? She knew that sometimes the truth hurt worse than ignorance. Each time she revealed to a worried wife or husband about their partner cheating, they got angry or sad. Some beat their loved ones, others got a divorce, and a few had their own affair to get back at their significant other. Very rarely did they spend time repairing the marriage. Perhaps it was just today’s culture, but being raised by a conservative, down-to-earth cop, Angela saw marriage as something absolute. Hence why she never got married.

  On one of Iris’s social network profiles, Angela found a photo of Iris’s mother, Rosemary. She had long blonde hair and deep green eyes and looked nothing like the woman Angela had encountered last night.

  Angela got up and paced around her room. Her goal became simple: either find the woman pretending to be Rosemary, or find the connection between Iris and herself. She replayed the conversation with the fake Rosemary in her mind. Something clicked.

  Angela hurried to her laptop and searched up Private Investigator Frank Frankford. It didn’t take her long to find his practice. It popped up almost immediately in the search bar. It was about five years old and not too far from Angela’s. She wondered why she had never heard of it and why the woman hired Frankford to take pictures of Iris. Unless that was a lie, too.

  Before heading out, she went to her nightstand in her room. She opened the drawer and removed the magnetic lock box. She punched in her code and opened it. Resting on rippling foam, the Beretta and its magazine reflected the lamplight. She loaded the handgun and put the sleek black beauty on the leather holster just below her left armpit. Her adoptive father got the gun and holster years ago, but Angela had yet to fire it outside the range.

  She took her navy-blue coat from the rack. Its white and brown wolf fur lining was soft to touch and very warm. She headed outside. It was snowing. The ice truck had already passed by and salted and cleared the street this morning. Angela wished it did the same for her driveway.

  It was still early, and the sky looked the color of an old bruise. Beyond the city skyline, which was weak compared to cities like New York and Chicago, the tall smoky mountains rose from their earth like the jagged spine of some massive beast. Like the buildings, roads, signs, and trees, the mountains had blankets of snow, too.

  As the sun rose during Angela’s drive, she watched the snow turn from white and then to crimson as it reflected the sky. She pulled up to Frankford Investigative Services. It shared a building with a watchmaker and was located near the center of downtown. The walls were old brick. The windows were tall, with beige curtains on the side. The plaque outside the door was hammered into the brick and made out of copper nickel. In truth, the place looked more like its watch shop counterpart than a place where you’d get juicy information about your spouse.

  Angela passed by the sign that said, “Walk-Ins Welcome.” Perhaps the other investigator was a barber, too. Angela opened the door and entered a small waiting room. There was a ginger-haired cutie working the desk and chewing bubblegum. She was in her early twenties and bored out of her mind, even though the day had only just started. She wore a white blouse with skinny pink stripes and studded earrings that were amber like her eyes. A snow globe and other festive decorations lined her desk.

  Angela approached, her hands snug in her pockets and her eyes observing the place. She heard country rock music coming from the P.I.’s office door. Angela paused. The girl at the desk looked up at her. With one foot resting on her chair’s seat and her knee pulled close to her chest, the receptionist painted her toenail pink. She had a nameplate pinned to her shirt. Her hair, freckles, and ne’r-do-well attitude matched her name. Candy.

  “Can I help you?” Candy asked, putting on a false smile. When she noticed Angela’s coat, her face lit up. “Oh, I love your coat. Is that real fur?”

  “It is,” Angela replied.

  Candy’s excitement turned to suspicion at the flip of a switch. “You didn’t kill the wolf, did you?”

  “I did not,” Angela replied. “It’s actually my mother’s. This sturdy thing has survived a lot.”

  “May I?” Candy asked.

  Angela unzipped it and opened it up to allow Candy to brush the inside. “Wow. That’s so soft.” Candy looked up at Angela with her bright eyes. “How much is it?”

  Angela cracked a smile and closed her coat back up. “Not for sale. I’d like to talk to Investigator Frankford. Is he available?”

  Candy turned to the closed door nearby with music playing. “Frank!”

  Her yell made Angela’s head hurt.

  No one replied. Candy smiled sweetly at Angela and held up a single finger. “One moment.”

  She got out of her seat. She was as thin as a stick but filled out in all the noticeable places. Angela started to wonder if the girl got her job more for her looks than the aptitude. She hammered her fist on the door. “Frank! You’ve got a client waiting for you!”

  The music cut off. A muffled voice yelled back. “What?”

  “A client!”

  Angela glanced around the place. Though she was the only one there, she felt embarrassed. If anything, Frankford P.I. gave her confidence that her investigative office was in order.

  “Is it Allen?” the man on the other side of the door yelled. “If it’s Allen, tell him I’m busy and sincerely sorry that his wife keeps cheating on him.”

  “No! It’s--” Candy turned back to Angela.

  Angela introduced herself.

  “Angela Rhymer!” Candy yelled. Angela’s headache worsened.

  There was a sudden quiet on the end of the door. Off of Angela’s concerned look, Candy shrugged. A lock clicked. Candy stepped back as the door opened.

  Standing on the other side was Frank Frankford, in his thirties, a drunken mess of an investigator. Hair disheveled. Clothes wrinkled. He was the type of person that made all investigators look bad, despite the fact that he had handsome features buried behind his scruffy beard. He was six foot four, wearing a cream-colored suit vest and looking like he just got back from a bachelor party. By the stench of alcohol and his bloodshot eyes, he might have actually.

  “Frank Frankford,” he said, extending a hand.

  Angela shook it, doing well to hide her hesitation. It was one of those times she was glad to be wearing winter gloves. “Nice to meet you. I like the place.”

  “You’re the only one,” Frank replied. Angela couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious. “Come in. Come in.” He beckoned her into the office.

  It was the exact size of the waiting room with single old desk, somewhat of a hand-me-down, and plenty of room to walk around. After closing the doors behind Angela, Frank headed straight for the scotch on a tiny table.

  “Want something?” he asked as he poured a glass.

  Angela checked her watch. It was 7:42am. “It’s a little early for me.”

  “Suit yourself,” Frank replied as he opened up the door to the sideboard, showing off his liquor collection. “If you change your mind...”

  With pursed lips, Angela smiled. She glanced out the window that offered a lovely view of the alleyway behind the building.

  Sipping his glass, Frank sat down on the lip of the desk. “So what is it, Ms. Rhymer? Cheating spouses, shady client, runaway son? I do
it all.”

  Angela walked about the room, looking at the various oil paintings that seemed to be wasted in the office of a drunk. “Did a woman visit you recently? A Rosemary Sylvian? Fifties, short hair, looking for her daughter Iris.”

  Frank pulled his glass from his lips and placed it down at the desk beside him.

  Angela eyed him. “She did, didn’t she?”

  “She hired me to take a few pictures,” Frank replied. “Let’s talk about you.”

  “Why?” Angela cut him off.

  “I don’t ask why. Company policy,” Frank replied with a beaming smile.

  Angela replied. “A person’s motive can be a very powerful thing.”

  If the words convicted Frank, he didn’t show it. Behind his beard, his face was hard and gaunt like chiseled stone. “Okay, I’ll play, Ms. Rhymer. Why does this woman matter to you?”

  She faced Frank. “I found her daughter’s dead body last night.”

  Frank’s eyes widened. “What happened to Iris?”

  “Strangulation,” Angela replied, re-imagining herself in the room with the cadaver. “Her fingernails were chipped, so I know she fought back. However, there was only thread under her nails. Not skin. Her assailant must’ve been wearing a jacket and gloves, by the bruises on her neck. It’s chilly outside, so none of that is surprising. What is though is that Rosemary Sylvain, her mother, died eleven years ago. Yet she hired me last night, and you days ago.”

  Frank’s eyes seemed far away despite his face looking neutral. “I know.”

  Angela scrutinized him closely.

  He adjusted his posture on the lip of the desk. “Sure you don’t want that drink?”

  “I’ll pass, thanks,” Angela answered, a little ruder than she had anticipated.

  Frank cleared his throat. “Iris reached out to me a few weeks ago. She was out of high school, living on her own, and didn’t have much money. I don’t do pro bono, but it’s hard for me to say no to a pretty face.”