“What’s the alternative?”
His chin quivered. “I’ll kill myself.” His eyes shifted to the knife.
I gasped, and he looked back at me. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. Well…” he said, looking off.
I waited for him to continue. He walked aimlessly around the room, then found another chair and dropped into it. I couldn’t see the chair, he was so big. It was as if he were sitting in a chair meant for a three-year-old. He moved forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees. “Ivy, I hear things that other people don’t hear.”
“What kind of things?’
“Voices.”
“Of people you know, or…”
“I don’t know. It’s almost like I hear myself, but another part of me. The bad part of me.”
“What does the bad part tell you to do?”
He rocked back, rubbing his hands against his eyes. “Bad stuff, Ivy. Real bad stuff.”
I swallowed and somehow managed to keep my expression even. “Remember, you’re talking to someone who killed a man.” I tried to snort out a laugh, but it never materialized. And he didn’t seem to notice anyway.
“But you were acting in self-defense,” he said.
Which told me that his act of violence—his multiple acts of violence—had been unprovoked, just as I’d assumed. We were so very close to him admitting to what he’d done. Just a little closer and I was certain he’d let it all pour out. “Emmitt, I’m not a cop.”
He moved his hands from his face. “You’re not? What are you?”
“I run this small PI firm called ECHO. We try to help kids who find themselves in trouble. I was one of those kids years ago.”
“I did some shit back in the day.”
I eyed his features. He looked to be in his thirties.
“Didn’t we all. But, you know, I’m just trying to help make the world a little bit better for those who need it. Isn’t that what you do here at the church?”
“I suppose.” He exhaled. “I don’t know if I can keep going on. I’m so tired. I can’t ever sleep. Those voices in my head…they just won’t go away.”
“What do they tell you to do?”
His jaw flinched, then he said, “To hurt people. Girls especially.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” He paused, started picking at his nails. “I think I’m being punished.”
“For what?”
“Years ago, after one of my football games, I went out with my buddies. I drank too much, then got back in my car. I ended up running a red light, and I ran over a girl on a bicycle. It killed her.”
Tears streamed down his face, and I sensed his sorrow.
“I went to prison for three years. When I got out, Father Vargas helped me. But I always wondered how God would punish me. And now I get these night terrors that I can’t control…”
“And these are the voices that told you to do bad things…to kill girls?”
He tilted his head. “Yeah, but I never did anything. I wanted to. I thought about it a lot. I even followed a couple of girls home and looked through their window and all. Then I went back home and dreamed how I’d kill them. It’s sick and twisted, which is why I hate myself. But I’ve never done—” He stopped short, then he lifted out of his chair, his hands rolling into fists. “You think I killed those girls in the sanctuary?”
“I wasn’t sure, Emmitt. You did attack Rose, and then me. You were unhinged, uncontrollable.”
He dipped his head to his chest. “I’ll never escape my past.”
He didn’t say another word, didn’t even move. I held my breath and slowly shuffled to the door. This time, I was able to flip the lock.
Stan walked through first.
15
Mia ran her fingers across the satin sheets on her four-poster bed, then waltzed over to the mirror and admired the diamond earrings that dangled from her ears. She felt their weight as she turned left and right. At every angle, they sparkled like…diamonds. Could they actually be real? These were the kind of diamonds that she’d ogled while watching all of the awards shows: Beyoncé, Ariana Grande, Rihanna, even an old entertainer named Jennifer Lopez. All of those women represented so much more to Mia, though—more than just fancy jewelry and designer dresses. They exemplified empowerment for women—even teenage girls who were looking for a gleam of light that would show them the way out of the darkness, the daunting tunnel of shame, and self-loathing.
Not wanting to smear her makeup, and not wanting to drag herself into another emotional recollection of the last year, she gripped the top of the leather makeup chair and fought back the tears. She’d cried enough to fill the San Antonio River. Amazingly, no one had noticed, or cared to notice. They’d been far too busy in their own worlds, trying to survive the game of life, to pay attention to a teenage girl who always seemed to be perfect. She was a master at presenting herself as a girl who had it all together. She never forgot a homework assignment at school, studied for every test five times over, and even still, repeatedly showed up to tutorials. Anything to stay on top of her studies, to get the best grades, to try to make something of herself.
Something her parents never had the opportunity to do.
Under the same false pretense, she put a lot of effort into maintaining a positive and bubbly personality. She put herself out there to be friendly to everyone she met. She routinely sought out the new kids in school who were experiencing typical teenage jitters about finding new friends and acclimating to a different environment. She was the one who made introductions, met them for lunch, and generally took interest in their lives. If not for her, where would they end up? Isolated, for certain; depressed, most likely. It would shape the rest of their lives, and she didn’t want to see anything bad happen to anyone.
She knew she was the girl whom everyone admired; to them, she was humble and, at times, self-deprecating even as she was popular. Money had always been an issue in her life, her parents’ lives, but through a bartering process she’d developed—tutoring students—she’d ostensibly traded her brains to receive trendy clothes from the girl students, usually those who went to different schools. If that secret ever was exposed on Snapchat, her reputation at her own high school would turn to shit in mere hours. She’d become a laughingstock for convincing some other girl to give her the clothes off her back. They’d see her as nothing more than another homeless person begging from the street corner.
Her self-esteem, even though it appeared on the outside as an impenetrable force, was remarkably fragile. She had logged countless hours in the bathroom, trying to find the right combination of colors to ensure her makeup was tasteful, not slutty, and exuded an air of confidence. The same scrutiny was applied to her hair. She wanted a trendy style, but nothing too far on the edge.
She was a young woman who knew where she was headed, what she wanted to accomplish, how to treat people, how to be a leader, an example to all young girls growing up. She’d seen them looking at her, whether it was at basketball camp or speaking at a National Honor Society event. She was their role model. They wanted to be like her. They wanted to be her.
But how could that be, when she didn’t want to be who she was?
More than any of that, however, she wanted to make her parents proud, to show the world what a daughter of immigrant parents could achieve. To show the world what she could accomplish.
She remembered her younger years like they’d happened an hour ago. Living out of the back of a fifteen-year-old station wagon with her older brother. Eating nothing but bread for one dinner after another. Being ridiculed by her classmates in elementary school for wearing the same pair of rust-color Levi’s day after day.
“That’s the nicest outfit. You look so pretty today,” her second-grade teacher had told her on day three of wearing that outfit. Two weeks later, the same teacher who had noticed the hole in the knee of her jeans privately asked, “Is everything okay at home? Do you need help getting more clothes?” Mia had bit into the
side of her cheek and debated how much to share. She didn’t want pity. It would do her or her family no good. So she’d lifted her chin and said, “My mother is so busy running our family restaurant, she just doesn’t have time to buy me clothes. I’m okay, though. She’ll find time eventually, and when she does, she’ll buy me a whole new wardrobe.”
It had been a complete lie, but it had bought her some time, to not worry as much about what others thought. Eventually, the teachers noticed more and more, but not her fellow elementary school classmates. They were too worried about their own little worlds.
It wasn’t until she reached middle school and social media exploded that the idea had begun to take root—to swap her knowledge for possessions. In fact, those roots had expanded greatly over the years as she took advantage of one opportunity after another to enhance her looks, wear nicer clothes, have stuff, all of which aided her ascension into the popular crowd.
She stared at the diamonds in the mirror, thinking about how she’d manufactured this persona over the years. While most of her steps in that direction were purposeful, she had refused to look at the big picture, at how she was pieced together, all attached by the thinnest of threads. Now, after considerable thought in the last twenty-four hours, she could admit with no hesitation that it was all a mask. A veneer to cover up the pain and guilt that hovered just beneath her beautiful skin. She’d grown weary of the never-ending battle to be someone she wasn’t. In some respects, she felt like a two-bit con artist. Look in this hand while I conceal what I’m really doing in this other hand. All to have the privilege of being someone she wasn’t.
She took in a breath, again feeling that emptiness inside her chest. She recalled that one moment when it really started to spiral out of control. It had been almost a year earlier, right around Christmas. Cheerful tunes played on every radio station, venues around the city were decorated with wreaths and trees, colorful lights blinked, and people were in a generous mood. Even her parents seemed to be happier. It was a time of hope.
But amidst the holiday cheer, she’d been tempted without even knowing it. His charm and wit were undeniable. He had those dreamy eyes that made her melt, where she lost all sense of knowing who she was…or who she’d become. While she couldn’t deny having that tingle in her gut—the one that beckoned to the rest of her body to open up and share her heart, to trust him completely—it turned out to be a false signal. Actually, it wasn’t a false signal as much as it was a mask.
He’d made her do those awful things. Things she couldn’t repeat to anyone. At first, she did them out of loyalty. “You’ve got my back, so I’ve got yours,” she remembered telling him. He’d smile, show off that twinkle in his eye. But then at the next opportunity, the cycle would repeat itself. Each time, it got a little more physical. A little more disturbing. She’d tried to trick herself into thinking it wasn’t a big deal, that it didn’t demean her or make her feel like she was less than human.
But it only got worse. And every time she saw that manipulative wink, she wanted to hurl. She’d tried to convince him that all of the demented, twisted acts weren’t necessary. They could be a normal couple, enjoying normal things. Go to the drive-in, hang out at the mall, go to a concert. But he would have none of it. And then it got really physical—more than just during their twisted interludes. She lost weight as she worried, tried to find other things to keep her mind occupied, tried to keep busy so she’d have no time for him.
But everywhere she turned, he was right there, as if he were her shadow. The shadow from hell.
A shudder ran through her, and she swallowed back some emotion.
She picked up a shapely bottle of perfume and sprayed it on her wrists, then took in the musky aroma. The bottle probably cost more than all of her clothes back home combined. She ran her hands down the sides of the black suede dress. It was practically molded to her body.
Another glance in the mirror. She might only be seventeen, but she looked every bit of twenty-three.
That was the way he, the dignified man, wanted her to look. She called him Sal, because of his many salient qualities. Sal had saved her from the humiliation, the brutality of that silly, reckless boy with a pecker the size of her pinky. Perhaps he’d dabbled in all those creepy, hurtful acts to make up for his dick size. She’d read in a magazine that guys with small packages could be like that. It was all about control, the article said.
She looked around her room and saw nothing but luxury. Deep, rich palettes of color on the pillow-top bed—she’d had nothing more than a secondhand, piss-covered mattress during her years at home. Every beautiful dress a woman could dream of. All the finest makeup and creams and hair-care products. Fuzzy, warm robes. A library of classic novels and a catalog of every music tune she could think of. Luxurious furniture. Wonderful-smelling lotions and bath salts, and a two-headed shower. The list went on and on. Everything she could possibly want was in her suite.
It just happened to be a suite that she wasn’t allowed to leave. The door locked from the outside. What was on the outside, she had no idea. She’d been “temporarily disabled” on the drive over. In fact, she couldn’t say for certain how close to town she was. Five miles, fifty miles, five hundred miles? She had left her phone back at school, so she couldn’t map her location. When she awoke, she found a lovely, welcoming note.
She knew life wasn’t perfect. She missed some of her friends and, to a lesser extent, her parents. But this was about setting the course to a new life. One that didn’t involve all the pressures of being Miss Perfect. She’d finally been able to start shedding some of her fake layers, the ones that were there for everyone else’s benefit.
She had nothing to prove to anyone—he’d told her that during their first private moment a few weeks back when they met at the city library, sat in a quiet section, and just talked. They had rendezvoused another six times since then, each one giving her greater hope for a new life.
There was a knock on the door. She felt the corner of her full lips edge upward. She wondered exactly what Sal was expecting to see when he opened that door. She did her best to channel her thoughts into everything she knew about him, and then she quickly conjured up her new self.
She was a natural.
16
At first it was a half-snort. Over the course of a minute, it turned into more of an intermittent giggle. And then, finally, she rocked backward and guffawed. It wasn’t long thereafter that Cristina adjusted the phone in her hands and texted at the speed of light.
If she’d bothered to look up, she would have seen my eyes unblinking in amazement at how she operated. Or perhaps it was her entire generation.
“Oh man, Paula, you won’t believe what I heard.”
That was Cristina having a conversation with an inanimate object, her phone, as we walked to the front porch of the Romero house.
I blew warm air into my hands. The sun had made a cameo appearance at the edge of the clouds in the western sky before dipping below the horizon. The blustery winds continued, and the temperature was dropping.
Again, I had no coat. Where was my mind? Oh yeah, still trying to make sense of how I’d been lucky enough to talk my way out of being sliced up by Emmitt, the caretaker at Mission Concepcion.
While I’d probably put on the best performance of my life, I was fortunate to be alive. The knife that slashed my leg hadn’t severed anything important. Painful, yes, but it wasn’t like I was going to have to live my life like Stan—minus a limb. A bandage was wrapped around my thumb—again, I’d been lucky. By the time all the hubbub died down at the church, where there had been a deluge of police officers, fire trucks, and paramedics, and an even larger contingent of onlookers, Stan and I had both learned more about Emmitt’s background.
Father Vargas had said that Emmitt was telling the truth about killing that girl when he was a senior in high school. He’d driven drunk at an age when he wasn’t legally supposed to get his hands on alcohol. Apparently, the beers had been supplied by one
of his friend’s parents.
From what Father Vargas shared with us, Emmitt had also suffered at least four concussions during his varsity football career. He played middle linebacker and fullback. He was his team’s hammer. With his size and propensity for being physical, he was groomed at a very young age to be the headhunter. The one who made players on the other team withdraw their arms, or duck their heads, or simply run the other way.
He was fearless. He was fully prepared to give up his body for the team. But what coaches didn’t know—or maybe didn’t care to know—was that he was doing permanent damage to his brain.
The priest ultimately found Emmitt at a homeless shelter, unable to find a job after his stint in prison on the manslaughter charge. After hours of counseling, Father Vargas decided to give Emmitt a job at the church. Emmitt would often break down and cry during their conversations, tormented by the constant headaches. He never relayed any stories of the voices in his head. Nor did he ever intimate that he wanted to hurt anyone. Most of the time, in fact, he was quite the gentle giant. He received nothing but compliments from the small church staff, even the parishioners, Father Vargas said.
So, his outburst of violence shocked the priest, although we all acknowledged that if he’d wanted to harm Rose, or even me, he could have done so with very little effort.
Emmitt had been put in a strait jacket and taken to the local state mental hospital. As they drove him away, I told Stan, Moreno, and Father Vargas what Emmitt had shared with me. How he claimed to have had nothing to do with the murder of the girls in the sanctuary.
A day had passed since then, and while my leg was sore, I was able to walk on it. More importantly, Stan had been able to confirm that Emmitt had a solid alibi during the time the girls were murdered. He’d accompanied his brother and sister-in-law to go watch their daughter perform in her school play. He’d stayed over at his brother’s house that night.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 4-6: Redemption Thriller Series 10-12 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 58
