by Leah Thomas
2. Dad's body was found in the trunk of a red 1985 Ford Taurus at Spence Salvage. who found it?
Research reveals this was a woman named Kathy Sturluson. She was the Life Skills teacher at Jefferson High and would have known both boys. She is probably still alive. We can likely interview her. OK to Kathy Sturluson but I don’t see how that’ll help, not like she knows anything special just because she found him. Also we should interview the secretary here at JHS. She knows something too. He was tucked in like someone cared. After I found him I went back to my car, and I saw Beth Peake stepping into the Spence place. Why was Beth there? again, why would gary leave a body to be found?
3. Gary Spence confessed to the murder immediately. why? Typically this sort of thing occurs when someone is protecting a secret or the true guilty party. You should be familiar with the idea of “taking the fall.” The real question is not why, but whom? Whom did this behavior benefit? This is my number 1 question and the question I’ll be asking Dad next time he calls. I believe he was covering for someone, a relative maybe. I think he knew about the body but not what to do about it. I always got the feeling Gary would do almost anything for his crazy family and he had about half a dozen siblings as far as I could tell.
4. New DNA evidence (a jacket) clears Gary Spence of guilt. How? This information will be revealed in court, if there is a retrial. IFA is building a case because the jacket submitted as evidence proves Dad was facing the other way when the gun went off because of the way that the brain matter hit him. (graphic—sorry, Gus) compelling, but I don’t think that’ll get him off without a good attorney. Couldn’t the prosecution argue someone else was wearing the jacket? that would place another witness at the scene.
5. Mom said something like, "You wouldn't live through what I've seen." what has she seen? was it the murder? Is she involved? This might explain some of her eccentricities. Is this why your mother is upset with you? Did you accuse her? No way. I’ll ask her if you want. Your mom has no right to be upset with you gus so that’s some bullshit and I won’t say sorry this time. ☹ Pair this with number four. There’s your witness. Beth?
6. Dad was shot. Why was a knife belonging to Gary Spence found in the trunk with him? This is bizarre, agreed. Even if Spence was trying to frame himself, why plant a knife rather than the actual murder weapon? I don’t know the answer to this except that maybe it wasn’t a framing? GS and JE were in shop class together. So maybe it was like a borrowed knife or something, I don’t think it has to do with the case. borrowed friendship knife? Maybe. they were doing a shop project together.
7. Grandpa Ellis hates Mom. Is this why? or is it because she's gay or something else?
I fail to see why this is relevant. No idea, but fuck him double if that’s true. Not much to contribute here, except that man has been a plague on Samsboro for years, and he’s got his fingers in every pie, as far as I’m concerned he’s done more evil in the world than any Spence. when I was on the force, it was common knowledge that we should turn a blind eye to whatever Mortimer Ellis got up to. It’s one of the reasons I left.
8. Here’s my big question. What’s with the kidnapping story? I mean my dad didn’t kidnap your dad, your dad left a football game at halftime. What made him do that? Who made him do that? Who made him do that? More like what. If there was something that could ’ve made a kid like James skip out on his teammates, it had to be love. Where was Beth? Exactly. Where was Beth?
There isn’t a single magenta mark on the pages. Mom holds her pen like a sword, but she hasn’t taken the cap off. The pages are passed around for a final read-through. They stop at her again.
“Please, Mom.”
She uncaps the pen. Mom writes a single sentence on the last page. She pushes my notebook back to me. There in the margin, bright as an open wound:
you’ve never asked me about my locket, Gus.
I read it aloud. Based on faces around me, I’m not the only one taken aback.
“Your . . . locket?” It’s always been a given that another Dad lives in there.
Mom pulls the chain off her neck. She sets the locket down on the notebook. I pick it up gingerly, as if it might burn me.
The doorbell rings, murdering the quiet. We all startle, cuss, or both.
Kalyn stands. “I mean, if no one else wants to get that—”
“No, I’ve got it.” I don’t know why, but I feel like if Mom gets up now, this story will break in two.
Kalyn leans shamelessly back in her chair, staring at the open doorway; Officer Newton does the same. I get the feeling that Fridge-Dad’s eavesdropping. He might have been mischievous. He had forbidden friendships, after all. Maybe I’m finally getting to know him. Mom only blinks as I head for the foyer.
The faces on the front porch are familiar, and I don’t really think they’re unexpected. There’s John, still poised next to the doorbell, and behind him lurks Phil, just out of reach. The relief I feel, seeing him here, is this big, blossoming thing, but it’s dampened by the way he stares at anything but me. It’s dampened by the presence of two other bodies on the porch.
“That ramp of yours is real handy.” Mrs. Spence smells like cigarettes. “Gus, right? Nice to meet the man of mystery.”
I have to switch hands on her; the right one is still throbbing and contains the locket. She recovers in a blink, and gives my arm a strong shake.
“Um, yeah. Thanks.”
Mrs. Spence smiles a tired smile. I look at her face and wonder if she feels the way we all do: today’s taken a lifetime. Grandma Spence, sitting beside her, looks a little worse for wear—her eyes are pinched shut and she’s clutching the armrests of her wheelchair.
“My girl likes you an awful lot.” Mrs. Spence bites her lip. “She in there?”
“Um, yeah, yeah she is. We’re all just in the kitchen. Talking.”
“Some conversation, I bet.”
John elbows Phil, but Phil looks away. “Phil thought every player should be present for this. The conversation, revelations, et cetera.”
“Yeah, yeah. Of course.” I step aside. “Please come in.”
“Sure we’d be welcome?” Mrs. Spence says, looking over my shoulder, and she sounds so uncertain that my chest hurts.
“It’s my house, too,” I say firmly. “Please. Please come in.”
Any other week, I couldn’t imagine these two women entering our home. But John leads the way to the kitchen, and then it’s just me and my oldest friend.
I turn back to Phil, alone on the porch. His posture is all thorns, and he’s never seemed as untouchable as he does now. Something unseen and large has shifted.
“Thank you for this, Phil.” I want to hug him, but he might run.
“Never thank me,” he mumbles. “I merely thought . . . I . . . I have often believed that if only the Montagues and Capulets might have spoken more, negotiated sooner . . . the deaths of their loved ones need never have happened. It’s imbecilic, not communicating.”
“Okay,” I say, “so come in and talk with us.”
“Surely you have spoken to Kalyn,” he whispers.
I take his hand. “Phil. I want you in here. Please.”
“Why?” he asks, finally looking at me. “I have no part to play.”
I pull him inside. “Because I want you. All right?”
He doesn’t reply, but squeezes my hand back, nodding once. “Okay.”
In the kitchen, the Spences stand awkwardly in the doorway. Everyone else in the room is wide-eyed, awaiting a possible explosion.
Mom stands, flattening her blouse. “Um. You must be Kalyn’s mother.”
“That’s a nice way to say it, yeah,” Mrs. Spence says. She pushes the chair through the door and reaches out her hand. When Mom takes it, I think we all exhale. Kalyn looks entirely gobsmacked. “Louise Spence. You’re softer than you look in the papers. And this here’s Grandma Spence.”
“We’ve met,” Mom admits. “How are you, ma’am?”
If there�
�s a reply, it’s too quiet to overhear.
“ ‘Claire caught fire,’ ” Kalyn mutters. “That’s what she probably said.”
“Yes. Poor Claire.” Ms. Patrick sighs. “Another damn tragedy.”
“Crappy way to die,” Officer Newton says. “For sure.”
“Wait—what?” I have no idea why Kalyn’s eyes are bulging. “What?”
“I was just admiring your ramp,” Mrs. Spence says. “Who built it? I’ll recommend them to my patients.”
“Oh, it was . . . my partner, actually.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, damned if that ain’t good craftsmanship.” Mrs. Spence looks right at Tam and says again: “Damned if that isn’t good craftsmanship, er . . . ?”
“Call me Tam,” Tam says with a small smile.
“Just don’t call you late for dinner!” Mrs. Spence parks Grandma Spence and leans over to kiss Kalyn’s shorn head. “You run into a helicopter, Kalyn-Rose?”
Kalyn touches her scalp. “Somethin’ like that. What the hell you doing here?”
“You think I shouldn’t be here?” she says, and her raised eyebrow is an eerie twin of Kalyn’s. “Surprised you didn’t call me over yourself.”
“Yeah, well,” Kalyn says as her mom settles into an empty chair, “it’s been a day. You watch the parade, Mom?”
“Nah, missed it, but it’s probably already airing on the news. Was at the courthouse again. Might just have to get a bunk there. We’ve got actual paparazzi swarming the salvage yard. I was seeing about a cease and desist order. That’s not how you get one, usually, but squeaky wheels and grease. Our driveway is private property. Trespassers will be shot. But now the news vans are just lining the road instead. Looks like you’re finally famous, Kay.”
“An actress after all.” Kalyn reaches for the locket in my hand. “Mrs. Peake?”
Mom lingers on her feet.
“Open it, Gus,” she tells me.
I hesitate. “Is this really all we. I mean, all it takes?” Faces surround me, friends and photos and family and strangers, too. “This random group of gaggle, um, of people. That’s all it takes to solve a murder? Just . . . putting them in a room together?”
“That’s not all it took,” Tam says. “It took you two caring. It took asking.”
“It took only the smallest effort,” Phil says bluntly. “Minuscule, even.”
There’s a darkness to Kalyn’s words. “He’s right. You’ve all been in Samsboro this whole time. If you’d’ve talked . . . if any of you had made the effort? If you could have grown up, we wouldn’t have had to.”
I look at Mom. “We wouldn’t have been raised half-dead.”
Mom breathes deep. “I wanted things to be better for you. As parents, all you want is for things to be easier on your children, for them to face fewer hardships than you had to. I thought this was the way.”
“That’s nice and all, but just because we popped out kids doesn’t mean we suddenly know more about right or wrong.” Mrs. Spence is definitely Kalyn’s mom.
Kalyn offers me the locket.
I shake my head. “You do it.”
It pops open easily. Kalyn peers inside. Her eyes narrow as she tilts the locket my way. I see two images:
My sixth-grade school photo. A picture of Tam in her wedding tux.
“Well,” Kalyn says, “I don’t get it.”
Mom puts out a fragile hand. “Here.”
Mom plucks Tam’s photo from its frame. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see how it could hurt, leaving her there, Tam. Underneath. It’s been thirteen years since—”
“Oh, it hurts, but not for the reasons you think. It hurts you never told me, Beth.”
She returns the locket to Kalyn, who sets it on the table with a gentle thunk. The adults crane their necks. No one utters a syllable.
Within the frame I see the photo of a stranger. She’s young, maybe sixteen or so, with ashy blond braids. Maybe she needs braces, but her smile is likable.
“Let me guess,” Mrs. Spence says. “That’ll be Claire, right?”
Kalyn’s almost yelling: “Fuck’s sake, who the hell is Claire?”
The answer comes from the last place I expect it. The wispy woman in the wheelchair raises her hand. “Claire was my baby girl. My daughter.”
“And she died in a fire? For real?” Kalyn’s not laughing. “Gran, I’m sorry.”
“Claire was the girl I loved,” Mom whispers. “When I was your age.”
That likable smile, it’s familiar. This is an alternative version of Kalyn.
The final branches break. My thoughts fall out at last, but it’s Phil who says it:
“Claire was the Spence who killed your dad.”
KALYN
STORYTELLING IS ANOTHER Spence tradition, or it used to be. Dad and I might not see each other much, but we’ve had hundreds of conversations. He never hangs up sooner than he has to. Every week of my life, I’ve spoken to him for thirty minutes straight. Minus my toddler years, that adds up to more than three hundred hours of talk.
Most kids get that much time with their dads over just a few months, but still. We make the most of it. You can tell a lot of stories over three hundred hours.
“Have I told you about the time your uncle Hank dropped firecrackers down the church organ? Jiminy Christmas, that was hilarious.” Not that all the stories are hilarious, but Dad tells them anyhow. He talks about overpriced obituaries and tragedies, too.
Dad’s never mentioned the funeral of a sister named Claire.
He’s never mentioned her existence.
And Dad’s definitely never mentioned, oh, you know, that his sister Claire committed the crime that defines all our lives.
That’s the story we’re hearing now, in this crowded kitchen. Every eye is fixed on Gus’s mom as she tells us something true.
There are parts that make me want to yell and interrupt.
But there’s also this feeling hanging around, like the smell of burning sugar, that if anyone stops Mrs. Peake, she won’t finish. This lady’s hidden truths in her house for longer than I’ve breathed air. This feels like some kind of exorcism.
People say you should pull a Band-Aid off all at once.
Give Gus’s mom credit: she’s not a writer for nothing. She might not be funny like Dad, but she can spin a yarn. I bet she’s been writing this in her head for years.
“I was raised in a religious home. It doesn’t really matter what religion; it only matters that it was the kind of religion that gave my devout parents permission, upon walking in on their fifteen-year-old daughter kissing her best friend, to beat their daughter with a belt, send her to a delightful summer camp for conversion therapy, and then move the whole tainted family to a brand-new town. Everyone needed ‘a fresh start.’
“I’ve spent the second half of my life trying to forget the first half. I pretend that camp had no lasting effect. I ended up working my dream job, married to my dream girl, and we’ve raised a son who is better than any I could have dreamed. But there are days when I can’t get dressed, and days when I treat my loved ones like they’re temporary.”
Tamara wipes her eyes.
“In Samsboro, I made a point of dating boys. I made it a spectacle. A parade of handsome young men visited our refurbished farmhouse. I made mistakes. Once I brought home a slender boy with a soft smile and a passion for horticulture. I could see what my father thought when he gazed at this boy from across the dinner table: His waist is so narrow, his face is so pretty. Do I need to call the camp counselors?
“I won’t pretend my motives for dating James were pure. I’d tried not dating for a while, tried making friends and focusing on college applications. But I wasn’t allowed to attend sleepovers or join study groups. My father stared at the empty chair. Do I need to call the camp counselors?
“When James asked me to Winter Carnival, I kissed him on the spot.
“I won’t say ‘I was young,’ because I know that young people are capable of great and terrible
things. And I did care about James. He was genuinely talented and gradually he became genuinely kind. James sat at our table, and my father’s noose loosened.
“James was always trying to become better than his father. That was relatable. We’d both done awful things in the name of our fathers. The difference was, James stopped bullying people by the time I met him. I was still doing an awful thing to James.
“Maybe my eyes wandered. Maybe my laughter faltered. The closer friends we became, the more James probably suspected we were only ever going to be that. Whenever I saw doubt in his eyes, I kissed him harder.”
It sounds so Rose-y. Maybe every generation is made of tragic little pretenders.
“Even before we agreed to pretend she never existed, Claire had an atmosphere of absence about her. She was in half my classes and I never noticed. I didn’t meet Claire so much as become aware of her, like waking up and finding a body warm and breathing next to me.
“James and I were spending more and more time at Spence Salvage. Gary wasn’t allowed to go to the Ellis mansion. I met Mr. Ellis all of once and understood that Spences and Ellises were a caustic combination.
“Gary and James really were an odd couple. James was this shining star. Gary looked like he needed a bath, and burn scars mottled his arms. Teachers berated Gary on principle. Yes, the Spences were poor, but it went deeper. Spences looked perpetually ready to catch fire. Spence faces were built for mug shots.
“I have no idea how they became so close. They were inseparable by the time I moved to Samsboro, a buddy-cop duo. You rarely saw one without the other. If James noticed the looks people gave him for hanging out with Gary, it never stopped him. James was so popular that people couldn’t actually say a word. Eventually they saw Gary as comic relief, the hillbilly jester. James never treated Gary that way.”
