Aberration

by Lisa Regan

  “Where?” Sarah asked.

  “I can’t tell you that now, but it will be far away from here. I want you to come. I’ll take care of everything—money, a place to live. You can change your name. Be someone else. Start over. I’ll help you. I’ll make it up to you—all my failures.”

  He glanced up at her without meeting her eyes. Her face was pale as she considered his offer. “What about the FBI agent?”

  He realized his body was rocking to and fro and willed it to stop. He rested his hands on the table, straightening his back. “If you come with me, I’ll forget about her. I’ll leave her behind.”

  Sarah stared at him for a long moment, her thin lips forming a skeptical line. “I don’t believe you. You’re here for her. She’s in town, and that’s the only reason you’re here. You’ll never leave her behind. You never cared about me.”

  The words cut him. He grabbed her hand. It was soft and clammy. She recoiled slightly. He wanted to let go but forced himself to hold on as he met her eyes. “Just come with me.”

  She shook her head and pulled her hand away. She turned away from him. At the sink, she wet a washcloth and started wiping the countertop.

  “I’ll find your daughter,” Wyatt offered.

  Her wide shoulders slumped. The frenzied scrubbing ceased. Her voice was flat when she said, “I never wanted that baby.”

  Another awkward silence filled the trailer. Finally, Wyatt said, “How can you stay here?”

  She turned on him, eyes flashing, the venom in them startling him. The table was between them, but for a split second he thought she might toss it aside and come after him. This was an expression he had never seen. Fear tickled the nape of his neck. He stood and backed away from the table, from her.

  “How could you leave me here?” she hissed, slapping both hands against the table.

  “I told you, I—”

  “Shut up,” she said, her voice rising in pitch and loudness. She slapped her palms against the table with each word. “Shut up, shut up! I hate you. You’re not here for me. You never cared about me.”

  Wyatt shook his head, taking another step back. “That’s not true. Everything I did was for you. It’s all for you.”

  “You never came back for me,” she shouted.

  “I sent you money—”

  “I never wanted your damn money. You left me alone here. You never cared about me.”

  Wyatt raised his hands, shaking his head. “That is not true—”

  “You’re only here for her—you never cared about anyone but her. Damn you. I hate you.”

  He opened his mouth to offer some explanation, but she pounded the table again. Blind rage flattened her chubby face. Her palms were bright red from hammering against the table. Spit flew from her mouth as she screamed at him. “Get out! Get out, get out, get out!”

  Wyatt slid along the wall of trailer until his hand felt the door knob. Her tone grew more shrill with each word. He had to get out of there before her neighbors came to see what all the commotion was about. Her sugar bowl narrowly missed his head as the screen door slammed shut behind him. He ran, hopping the tall fence that surrounded the trailer park. He was half a mile away, breathing hard, and he could still hear her shrieks.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  KASSIDY

  November 26th

  My confrontation with Isaac had left me shaken. I went after him and stood in the driveway, watching as he pulled away in my SUV. He met my eyes once before taking off down the street. The pain in his eyes was palpable, like a slap in the face. My tears flowed freely and silently, dropping onto my night shirt like fat raindrops. I ran back into the house, used the bathroom and threw on some clothes and shoes. I snatched my mother’s car keys out of the key bowl that she kept on the table in the foyer.

  “Mom,” I yelled. “I’m borrowing your car.”

  I heard her yell “okay” from upstairs. The dogs followed me, and I let them pile into the back of her Hyundai. There was a lot of panting and pacing before they settled in comfortably. I didn’t go after Isaac. I had no idea where he might go, and I didn’t know what to say to him. The memory of his daughter’s face made my heart hurt. A sob rose in my throat. I rubbed my belly and the baby kicked. I sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she was okay, safe inside me. I wanted her so badly. I loved her even though I had never met her—never even seen her profile on an ultrasound. It was so strange. How would I feel when she came?

  I drove to the cemetery. I parked inside the entrance and walked to Lexie’s grave. The cemetery was in a deep, green, rolling valley dotted with oak and maple trees. It was beautiful and peaceful. The only sounds were the birds chirping and the wind sighing. Lexie’s plot wasn’t far from the entrance. The dogs followed along behind me, sniffing everything frantically as if they might be ordered abruptly back into the car at any moment, torn away from all the new and exciting scents.

  I stood before Lexie’s simple granite headstone and stared at the dates. Every time I visited her grave I stared at the dates, expecting something. I wasn’t sure what, but I never got it. It seemed like I should feel something standing at the grave of my sister, on the ground beneath which her body lay. It seemed as though there should be a sign or some tangible indication of her presence, but there was nothing. As always, her cold headstone greeted me with silence.

  And in spite of this I spoke to her, feeling foolish but forging ahead anyway. My voice sounded strange and unrecognizable. I wondered if Blake Foster had followed me, if he was lurking behind a nearby headstone. Then I decided he couldn’t possibly be—I hadn’t seen anyone following me, and there were no other vehicles in sight. I talked to my sister, telling her all the things about the past few months that I would have told her if she were alive. Things I now shared with Linnea or Dale. Poor Dale. I told her about the baby and Jory, about Blake Foster and Isaac. As I spoke, Rocky sniffed her way over and pawed at the ground at one of the corners of Lexie’s headstone.

  I issued a stern “no”, but Rocky returned to the patch of ground, dislodging an object from a loose patch of dirt.

  “Rocky, stop it,” I said. I grabbed her collar and pulled her toward me. In her mouth she held a clear plastic baggie. Inside it was an old book wrapped in two smaller baggies. I extracted the book—it was old, its brown cover crushed and faded, its pages brittle and yellow. I opened it up. It had been sixteen years, but I recognized the handwriting immediately.

  It was Lexie’s diary.

  I sank to my knees, turning pages frantically. After so many years, the sight of her handwriting had almost the same effect as hearing her voice might have had. I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. Sensing the sudden change in my emotional stratosphere, the baby tumbled around madly. I tried to calm myself, but my hands shook.

  Rocky sat beside me, her ears perked straight up, watching me. Smalls and Pugsley roamed nearby, their attention still wholly engaged by the new smells. I flipped to the last two months of the diary. Some of the pages crumbled as I turned them. I tried to slow my manic hands.

  I was breathing through my mouth. My whole body vibrated like a bell that had been rung. A buzzing began in my ears. The first entry read:

  Today I was sitting in the café at Borders trying to study for that damn chem exam, and you wouldn’t believe who came up to me. Blake Foster! I didn’t even recognize him but he knew who I was. I really couldn’t believe it. It was so weird. I thought he would be in jail for life, but there he was, and he looked good. I feel funny even thinking that—I mean he’s a murderer—but he is really cute. He looks way different than he did in high school. He looks like a man now. I never would have recognized him. He was so nice, so mild mannered. I really wonder if everyone got it wrong. Maybe he didn’t kill his parents. He says he doesn’t remember—that he lost the time. He said they let him out when he turned ei
ghteen since he was only a kid when he did it. I asked him if he really did it and he said yeah. He seemed so sad. I don’t know what to think. Maybe there was someone else there that night. He was very sweet. He bought me coffee. We talked for hours. He’s a student at Drexel in their computer program. I can’t believe he’s really here. It is so weird. I don’t know what to think. I know I should be freaked out, maybe even scared by him but I’m not. I know I shouldn’t have—oh my God, dad would kill me—but I gave him my phone number. Maybe he won’t call. But I kind of want him to. Isn’t that terrible? I’m just a terrible person!

  Tears blurred my vision. I wiped them away with my sleeve. Next to me, Rocky whined. The baby’s frantic movements slowed. I sniffed and read on. Two weeks after that entry Lexie had written:

  I saw Blake today. I know—I KNOW—I shouldn’t have. I could have just ignored his calls, but I thought there’s no harm in just talking, right? It was a nice day. We went into center city and went to the Franklin Institute. Then he took me to lunch. He was such a gentleman. The whole time I kept thinking, “Oh my God I’m walking around with a murderer.” (Seriously, dad would have a heart attack.) But then Blake acted so nice and so normal. He said he knew I was thinking about his parents and that it was okay. He said he expected that. I asked him more about it, but he really doesn’t remember anything. He said he is trying to make a clean start and that he should never have approached me, but he couldn’t help it. He said Kassidy and I were the only ones who were ever nice to him in school. I asked him why he never talked to us at school after he got out of the psych ward. He said he was nervous, that he was afraid if we got to know him better we wouldn’t like him. I told him he should have let us decide. We talked for hours. I haven’t told Kassidy about him yet. I know he creeps her out.

  The next two entries went on in much the same way. Lexie was curious and fascinated—attracted to and repelled by Blake Foster at the same time. He exploited the good in her, her sympathetic nature, that quality she had that allowed her to find something worthy even in the heart of a killer. Like many people who had never been to a crime scene or personally known a victim, my sister had difficulty grasping the full extent and gravity of Blake Foster’s crime—particularly in the face of his unfailing normalcy.

  The last entry was dated just three days before Lexie’s death.

  Blake kissed me tonight. We were standing on the corner near my dorm, under a tree. We were just waiting for the light to change and he turned to me, took my face in his hands and kissed me. It was so soft and sweet. I kissed him back. I know I shouldn’t have—God I know I shouldn’t even be talking to him. I just can’t help it. I know what he’s done—what people say he did but I feel connected to him anyway. That kiss—it was so romantic, so nice. I wanted it. I didn’t think I would feel that way about a guy again, well not for a really long time anyway. I felt alive again, and I think Blake did too. You know I’m not perfect either. I’ve made some pretty big mistakes. Of course I haven’t told him yet about any of that, but I think when I do he will understand. I should probably tell him that it was me and not Kassidy who visited him in the hospital. And while I’m at it telling people things, I should really tell Kassidy about Blake. I know she knows I’m seeing someone.

  That was it. Three days later, my identical twin sister plummeted eleven stories to her death. For sixteen years, I’d believed in my heart that she’d been pushed. Now I knew who pushed her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  KASSIDY

  November 26th

  The sun beat down on me, blinding and impervious to my grief. My armpits were wet with sweat in spite of the chill in the air. I’m not sure how long I sat there, holding Lexie’s long-lost diary, knees sinking into the damp earth until my pants soaked through. The dogs froze in place as a black Envoy turned into the cemetery. I watched it weave its way toward me.

  The glare of the sun on the windshield made it impossible to see the driver. There was no reason to believe the driver was anyone but another mourner whose loved one was buried nearby, but I imagined that it was Blake Foster. He was stalking me. He’d been stalking me for twenty years. Surely he knew where I was at this moment. He must have planted the diary for me to find. I’d been to the cemetery thousands of times since Lexie’s death. The baggies in which I’d found the diary did not look very old. Perhaps Foster had waited for this moment to come and confront me. I was alone. No one knew where I was. I had only my dogs to protect me. I’d left my gun at my parents’ house.

  I watched the Envoy approach and wondered what I would say to him—I wished I hadn’t forgotten my gun. Maybe a bullet would be the best expression of my feelings toward him. The Envoy pulled to a stop behind my mother’s Hyundai. The drivers’ side door opened, and TK stepped out.

  The dogs rushed to him. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. TK wore sunglasses, which he tucked in his jacket pocket as he walked over to me. The dogs surrounded him. He patted their heads absently. “Bishop,” he said.

  He put a hand out and pulled me to my feet. I clutched the diary to my chest with the other hand. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I told Isaac I’d be a day or so behind you,” he said.

  “No. What are you doing here at the cemetery? How did you know I’d be here?”

  TK grinned. “I’m a master psychologist, remember?”

  I stared at him.

  “I stopped by your house. Saw your folks. Your mom said she overheard you and McCaffrey having some kind of spat and that you’d both taken off in different directions. I guessed that you’d be here.”

  I sighed and glanced at the ground. I looked once more at Lexie’s lifeless headstone. Then I handed TK the diary, the last vestiges of my precious sister, everything tangible I had left of her. I told him where I’d found it and what was in it. Although he was already busy skimming pages, his forehead wrinkled.

  “Haven’t you been looking for this for almost twenty years?” TK asked.

  We’d known each other long enough and well enough that he was familiar both with the particulars of my sister’s death and with my theories about it.

  “He pushed her,” I said. “That fucking bastard pushed her. Blake Foster killed my sister.”

  TK shook his head, the movement so minute I almost missed it. “Bishop, you know as well as I do that this diary doesn’t prove that.” He closed it. “All this proves is that Lexie was seeing Blake Foster at the time of her death.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “He’s a killer.”

  “Yes, he is,” TK conceded. “And you may be right, but I don’t think we can pin him for Lexie’s murder without a confession.”

  My face was hot. I jutted my chin out. “Then I’ll get one,” I said.

  The corners of TK’s mouth rose in an amused smile. “And that’ll be the next time you speak with Blake Foster, will it?”

  I snatched the diary back from him and stomped off toward my mother’s car. The dogs trotted after me. “You’re goddamn right,” I mumbled.

  TK called after me, “What were you and McCaffrey fighting about?”

  I stopped walking and looked down at the concrete. I thought about his little girl, his wife. I didn’t even know how long they’d been dead. I’d been in his house. He didn’t keep photos of them out—at least not downstairs. Maybe it was too painful. I inhaled deeply, a shudder working its way through my frame. I’d lost Lexie and now I’d lost Jory, but I just couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Isaac losing his child and his wife in a single day. The thought of his daughter’s face made my chest ache as if someone were pressing down on it. How was he able to go on?

  “Nothing,” I replied to TK. “Nothing important.”

  I felt TK’s gaze on my back as I loaded the dogs into my mother’s Hyundai. “I’ll meet you at the house,” I said.

  CHAP
TER FIFTY

  WYATT

  November 26th

  Wyatt had parked a mile from Sarah’s trailer park in the crowded parking lot of a Denny’s. He covered the ground easily without noticing the distance or the crisp air. He could not get away from the trailer park fast enough. He got into the MKX and drove to a nearby gas station. He needed to refuel and regroup. He had no idea what to do next. Everything was falling apart. He hadn’t finished his list, and the FBI was onto his true identity. Kassidy wasn’t working. She was pregnant, and now she was sleeping with McCaffrey. Then there was the Dale Hunter situation.

  Wyatt sighed as he pulled up next to a gas pump. He took a quick scan of the place to make sure they were open. The place was dead. He saw a female clerk inside watching a small television affixed to the wall. Soap operas. Wyatt leaned against his car and started pumping gas. His mind wandered from the myriad issues he faced with Kassidy to the confrontation with Sarah. He had only been half serious when he asked her to come with him. He really had no idea where he was going or what he would do next.

  He should have known from the hardness life had pressed into his sister’s face and poured into her heavy frame that it was too late to reconcile with her. She would never forgive him. He heard her scathing words again and again: “I hate you.” He could not shake the image of her face, like a rabid dog about to tear him to pieces.

  He had thought about the meeting that had just taken place in her trailer for twenty years. He had fantasized about how it would go, what they would say to each other. A small part of him which was foolishly optimistic had always hoped for some kind of tearfully happy reunion. Now he saw that that was wildly out of reach. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it.