Aberration

by Lisa Regan

  “Looks cozy,” Isaac said as I pulled into the driveway.

  In the backseat, the dogs stood and wagged their tails, whimpering excitedly. As always, the lawn and hedges were immaculately clipped. My mother had hung a decorative wreath on the front door. The stone walkway was illuminated by small solar powered lights shaped like miniature lanterns.

  I felt a little ache in the pit of my stomach. I sighed. “It is cozy,” I said.

  We had just stepped out of the car when my mother emerged from the house, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Isaac paused in his stretching to introduce himself. The dogs were in a full-blown frenzy. My dogs remembered the lady who fed them lots of table scraps.

  My mother clapped her hands together in welcome as I opened the back door to the car. “Where are my grand dogs?” she called as they rushed at her.

  She scratched the wriggling mass of fur surrounding her, pausing to take a good look at me. It was the standard mother-checking-over-her-offspring look—checking for any signs of illness or hidden distress, anything out of the ordinary. When we were children, Lexie and I had endured this full-scale inspection at least once a day, usually after school. Sometimes we got it before going to school. My mother couldn’t send us out into the world with anything amiss.

  It took exactly one second for her to zero in on the major change—my stomach. She straightened her body slowly, eyes glued to my bump as if it might suddenly detach from my body and float over to her. Her eyes were wet.

  “Mom?”

  She smiled suddenly, looking at Isaac and then back to me. “Oh dear,” she said. “Linnea said you had something to tell me, but I thought maybe you’d just gotten promoted or something.”

  My mother embraced me—squeezing tightly at first then cradling me gently. She spoke softly in my ear. “Linnea told me about Jory. I’m sorry. I know you cared for him.”

  My stomach clenched. “Yeah,” I choked.

  She released me and turned her gaze toward Isaac. “You’re here on a case?”

  Isaac nodded. “Afraid so.”

  My mother kept one arm around my shoulder. “And here I thought you were coming home for Thanksgiving.” She sighed dramatically and patted my belly. “So I’m going to be a grandmother.”

  I covered her hand with one of my own, holding it fast against my distended belly. Inside, the baby kicked and rolled. “Oh,” my mother gasped with delight and pressed harder against my stomach.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  My mother beamed. “Finally! I never thought I would see the day.”

  “Me either,” I admitted.

  Isaac got our bags out of the Trailblazer, and we went into the house. My mother gave him a quick tour and instructed him to sleep in my father’s office for the duration of our stay. We ended up in the kitchen. Isaac and I sat at the island countertop while my mother immediately set about cooking a large meal. She loved having people to cook for. Her kitchen was packed with every kind of appliance and gadget imaginable. She had an ice shaver for making snow cones, a breadmaker, popcorn popper and three different types of coffee makers—one traditional coffee maker, one that deposited coffee directly into two travel mugs simultaneously and a single cup brewer. She even had a chocolate fountain—the memory of which suddenly made my mouth water.

  “Where’s dad?” I asked.

  “He’s over at the Norton’s helping Ned put in a new hot water heater. He’ll be back this evening.” She looked at Isaac. “Do you like steak?”

  He smiled—rather charmingly I thought. “Love it,” he said.

  My mother set a glass of water in front of him and started assembling her cooking instruments. “So Kassidy, when were you going to tell me about my grandchild? After his birth—oh, do you know the sex yet?”

  “No. I find out Monday. I was hoping you’d go with me to the ultrasound.”

  I would say her face lit up, but that wouldn’t accurately describe it. She was ecstatic. It was a look I hadn’t seen in almost twenty years—since before Lexie fell from the window of our dorm room. I felt tears behind my eyes and blinked them back.

  “Oh honey,” my mother said, vigorously taking a knife to a large onion. “I’m moving in with you next week. I can finally use all those vacation days. You know your father never wanted to go anywhere unless it involved hunting or fishing.”

  Isaac glanced at me. I read his thoughts. “About that, mom. It’s not a good time to have you at the house. In fact it’s not a good time for me to be there either.”

  She froze and looked at each of us in turn. I knew she was thinking of Nico Sala. “What’s going on?”

  “Remember last month when I called and asked you about all those people—the names?”

  My mother’s brows shot up. Worry lines appeared on either side of her mouth, delicate parentheses. “Yes,” she said.

  I told her everything, starting with how I’d gotten the case after Georgette Paul’s murder. I told her how local law enforcement had asked for the BAU’s help because of the elaborate staging at the crime scene and the unique signature, not to mention the total lack of suspects. I told her about the Sorenson and Henderson murders, about going to Portland to investigate Megan Wilkins’ murder and finding a reference to Sunderlin in Wilkins’ file. About the attack on Michael Bittler and his wife, about finding the criminal complaint. Finally, I told her about Evette Gerst and how it was at that crime scene that I had realized the killings were all connected to me.

  My mother put a hand to her heart. “Oh, I heard about poor Mrs. Gerst.”

  I nodded and continued, telling her how we’d figured out that the For You killer was Blake Foster. I told her how we’d attempted to track him down, but every avenue we tried led to a dead end except that he had a sister who still lived in Sunderlin. Finally, I told her how Isaac had been attacked and that Dale was missing and likely dead.

  “That’s why you called me,” she murmured. “Your neighbor is missing?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You remember Dale—you and Dad met him—it was my second Christmas in that house.”

  My mother nodded. “I met him,” she said. “I don’t think your father did. He was working that Christmas.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Her brow creased. “Speaking of your father, he’s going to be very upset when you tell him that you think Blake Foster is involved in this. He’s never gotten over that, you know. He’ll have enough to take in when he finds out you’re pregnant.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, suddenly feeling hollow in the pit of my stomach. I had been dreading the pregnancy conversation with my father most of all.

  “He remembers Blake Foster?” Isaac said.

  My mother nodded. “He had nightmares about those murders for years. He still gets them from time to time. He was so upset when they tried that boy as a juvenile. My Cameron always believed that people would pay for that decision. I guess he was right.”

  “Your father was one of the original investigators?” Isaac asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We can ask him for particulars when he gets back. In the meantime, we can interview Sarah Foster.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  KASSIDY

  November 24th

  Sarah Foster lived in a trailer park. I had a vague memory of her. She’d been a pretty child—prettier than the woman who answered my knock. She was obese with dull, stringy brown hair and eyes that looked beady all swallowed up in the puffiness of her face. I expected her to have a cigarette in one hand, but she didn’t.

  She didn’t open the screen door. Instead, she looked me up and down and turned her hardened gaze on Isaac. Usually the sight of him softened women, but Sarah was unimpressed.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  I held my credentials up against the screen for her inspection. “My n
ame is Kassidy Bishop. I’m with the FBI. We’re here about your brother.”

  She tore her gaze from my credentials momentarily. The skin above her nose formed a knot. “Brother? I ain’t got no broth—” She stopped abruptly. She looked at both me and Isaac once more, as if considering something. Her lips disappeared into a thin line of consternation. She unlocked the screen door and slipped one pudgy hand out, palm up. “Let’s see it,” she said. “Your ID.”

  I glanced at Isaac. He shrugged. My credentials were swallowed up into her hand, which she quickly retracted, locking the screen door as if I might try to force myself past her.

  Sarah studied it, making a careful comparison of me to my photo. She took her time. Finally, she unlocked the door again. She didn’t open it, but she turned and walked further into her trailer, my credentials in her hands. She called over her shoulder, “Well, come in then. Him too.”

  I pulled the door open. Isaac followed me inside. Sarah’s kitchen was to our immediate right. It was surprisingly large and very neatly kept. In the center of the tile floor sat a round table with four chairs tucked beneath it. My credentials lay atop the table.

  Sarah had her back to us, busying herself at the refrigerator. “I got iced tea and water,” she said without turning.

  Isaac pulled out a chair and motioned for me to sit in it. He sat beside me.

  “Iced tea would be great, Miss Foster,” he said. “Thank you.”

  I glanced around as Sarah poured two glasses of iced tea. The trailer boasted a few well-placed adornments—unlit candles, framed generic prints of flowers, and several houseplants. It was spotless. Across from us was a small sitting room. A tan colored couch faced the television. A coffee table sat between the two with a small silk floral arrangement perfectly centered atop it. There was one end table next to the couch with a lamp on top of it. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be found. There were no personal photos, only a few knick knacks, but the effect was still cozy.

  Although her home was kept with precision, Sarah herself looked a bit unkempt. Her hair was uncombed and her clothes mismatched. She sat across from us, her own glass filled with water.

  “What’s he done?” she said.

  “I’m sorry?” I said.

  “My brother. What’s he done?”

  Isaac took a long sip of iced tea and smiled at Sarah. “Miss Foster, when is the last time you saw your brother?”

  She thought for a moment. “I guess right before he went up for killing our folks.”

  I glanced at Isaac. “That was over twenty years ago,” I said.

  “When is the last time you were in contact with him?” Isaac asked.

  Wordlessly, Sarah leaned back in her chair and reached for the nearest kitchen drawer. It was filled with thick white envelopes. She pulled one from the top and opened the flap. She rifled through its contents and pulled a slip of paper out.

  “Last month,” she said.

  “May I?” Isaac said.

  Sarah handed him the paper. I leaned toward Isaac to get a look. It was a money order for $1,000.00.

  “He sent this to you?” I asked.

  Sarah shrugged. “I assume it’s him. Don’t know who else it could be. They been coming for years. No letter or nothin’. No return addresses—just money orders. At least two a month, sometimes more.”

  I looked over her shoulder at the drawer, which was still partially open. “You don’t cash them?” I asked.

  “My brother is a shit. That money’s guilt money,” she said matter-of-factly. She looked each of us in the eye and wrapped her hands around her glass.

  “Guilt money?” Isaac prompted.

  Sarah’s eyes hardened. “He knows what he done.”

  Isaac glanced at me as if to say “your turn.”

  “He killed your parents,” I said.

  Sarah nodded. Her fingers crept along the table to where my ID badge still sat. She flipped it open and ran her fingers across my name. “Bishop,” she said. She looked up at me, brow furrowed. “We had a Chief of Police by the same name. Cameron Bishop.”

  “He’s my father,” I said.

  Her face lit up a little. “You got a twin sister?”

  I swallowed hard over the lump in my throat. My voice wouldn’t come. I nodded yes.

  Sarah smiled briefly. “Thought so. My brother was obsessed with one of you—or both, who knows. I was younger than him. I don’t really remember. You seen Blake?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You think Blake feels guilty for murdering your parents?” Isaac interjected.

  Sarah sighed. Her gaze dropped to the table. “That ain’t all,” she said. “He killed the wrong people and he knows it.”

  “The wrong people?” I said with a jolt. Isaac shot me a sideways glance. I clamped my mouth shut and let Sarah talk.

  “You know why he killed our folks?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Cause of me,” she said. “Cause our grandfather was hurting me, and when Blake told our parents, they didn’t believe it. They didn’t believe it, and they didn’t stop it. Blake kept telling them, but they said it wasn’t true. Then one night after it happened again, he went crazy. I was down in the living room and he came downstairs all covered in blood and made me go to the basement. He locked me down there. Next thing I know, the police are waking me up. My folks are dead, and Blake is gone too.”

  A tear slid down Sarah’s cheek. She wiped it away quickly. “But killing them didn’t do no good. We both tried to tell on my grandfather, but then he just turned it around and said it was really my dad who done it. They all believed him. Blake should have killed him.”

  Isaac and I exchanged a look. “Your grandfather—did he continue to abuse you after your parents were gone?” Isaac asked.

  Sarah looked him in the eye. Her expression sent a chill to my core. “When I was fifteen, I gave birth to a little girl. I gave her up for adoption,” she answered.

  “What happened to him?” I asked, feeling ill and hoping it didn’t show. “He had a heart attack,” she said. “I was seventeen.”

  “Other than the money orders,” Isaac said. “Do you or have you had any contact with your brother?”

  Sarah shook her head. “I never saw him again. Never even talked to him on the phone. If I passed him on the street, I wouldn’t even know it.”

  Sarah put the money orders into a brown paper bag. We promised to return them once we’d made copies and had them analyzed. I left her my card, which she affixed to her refrigerator with a magnet. I wrote my cell phone number on the back.

  Isaac carried the bag under his arm as we returned to my Trailblazer. “We won’t get anywhere with these,” he said. “This guy has made it his life’s work to be untraceable.”

  I waved to Sarah before getting in. “I’d like to know how much is there,” I said.

  “She doesn’t cash them, but she keeps them,” Isaac said as we pulled out of the trailer park.

  “It’s all she has,” I said. “It’s not about the money. Sure, those money orders represent Blake’s guilt, but they’re also tangible proof that someone cares about her. Someone loves her. Possibly the only person who ever stood up for her, tried to protect her. They mean something.”

  “Sad,” Isaac said quietly.

  “What’s sad is the lengths she’s gone to not to get noticed. Her home is immaculate, but her person is a mess. She’s made herself unattractive so she doesn’t draw attention to herself.”

  “She blames herself for what Blake did?”

  “Not just that—she blames herself for what happened to her. It all started with her grandfather. He picked her to abuse; Blake found out and tried to help. Their parents didn’t believe them, Blake killed them. Then she lost him too.”

  �
�And after she lost her family, she still had to endure the abuse,” Isaac said.

  “And then she brought an innocent child into the world and had to give her up. In Sarah’s mind, all of those things are her fault. Every terrible thing that has happened to or around her is because of her,” I continued.

  Isaac shook his head. “That’s no way to live.”

  “She lives in fear. She’s lost everything. She’s so afraid to get hurt again that she won’t even put herself out there. Being unattractive makes it easier to keep the world out.”

  We pulled into my parents’ driveway. “Sounds like someone I know—except for the unattractive part,” Isaac said.

  I looked over. His eyes were piercing, and that maddening smile played on his lips.

  “I’m not even going to respond to that,” I said.

  He sighed and opened his door. “I know,” he replied.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  KASSIDY

  November 24th-25th

  My father hadn’t come home yet so Isaac and I had dinner with my mother. I ate until I couldn’t move and left Isaac in the kitchen with my mother. I had nothing to contribute to their culinary discussion, so I went into the living room and flipped on the television. An hour later, I heard my father come in. His movements through the house were as familiar to me as they had been when I was a child. He spoke with my mother and Isaac for several minutes before finding me. I muted the television and stood to greet him. He stared at me—his face freezing mid-smile as he took in my stomach.

  “Daddy,” I said.

  He squinted and scratched his head. “You gettin’ fat or am I going to be a grandfather?”

  I suddenly felt like I was four again, tiny, looking up at my father, wanting him to smile and hug me. “I’m pregnant,” I said.