by Pamela Crane
“A man … she knew. That’s it?”
I laughed at his clear sarcasm. “For now. Give me time. I’ll have more.”
I heard a car pull up the driveway and a door shut.
“That’s my mom. Just pretend to be a friend, okay? I don’t want to raise suspicion.”
“Sure,” I said. “You are a friend now, so it’s not lying.”
“Maybe we should kiss or something?” he jested.
“Ha! Nice try!”
When Jennifer Worthington walked through the front door, I immediately recognized her to be Landon’s mother, a near-exact female replica—though strands of gray mingled with her dark brown hair, and fine wrinkles creased the corners of her mouth. Her green eyes crinkled up in a smile, accentuating the friendly laugh lines around them.
“Hi, I’m Mia Germaine,” I introduced myself, though my voice sounded strained. I could barely push the words past the lump in my throat.
Something within me ached so hard that I nearly wept. The compulsion to touch her overwhelmed me.
I couldn’t stop myself as I strode up to her and wrapped my arms around her frail shoulders, pulling her into a hug that I never wanted to release. Her torso stiffened under my embrace, but she didn’t push me away from her.
“It’s okay, honey,” she soothed, awkwardly patting my back.
“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my promise,” I whispered, not sure where the words were coming from. I had no clue what I was doing, what I was saying. It was like my body had taken control and I could do nothing about it. For a brief second I wondered if this was what having a mental illness felt like.
“What did you say?” she asked, holding me at arm’s length, searching my eyes. After intense scrutiny, her arms slowly circled me and squeezed tenderly.
A moment later I found myself sobbing. I couldn’t stop heaving as I held her, tears streaming down my cheeks, until after a minute or two she joined me in tearful release. We both stood there crying for several long moments before she pulled away and held me at arm’s length.
“Alexis?” she asked hopefully.
I patted my heart. “Yes. How did you know?”
“Alexis’s promise—you just spoke her final words to me the night she died. She wasn’t fully awake when she said it, though. She was in some kind of a coma, but she spoke to me the moment before her heart stopped—said she was sorry. To this day I wish I could have said good-bye.”
“That’s so sad,” I whispered.
“Yes, but that’s not the only reason I know you, Mia.”
“You know me?” I asked, perplexed.
“I visited you in the hospital when we heard that Alexis’s heart would be donated to another young girl at Duke. You haven’t changed much since then. Still a beautiful young lady.” She rested her palm on my cheek.
I chuckled. “I was twelve years old. I sure hope I’ve grown up since then. Wait—I thought that donor records were confidential …”
“They are, but the hospital couldn’t turn down a grieving mother. I begged the doctor to tell me your name so that I could have some kind of closure, and reassurance that Alexis would live on, in a sense. He couldn’t say no. Of course, I swore to never contact you, but I had a feeling that someday I would meet the one who keeps my baby girl alive. It’s nice to finally meet you … and to be reunited with Alexis.”
Jennifer—she insisted I call her—offered to have me stay for dinner, which I politely declined for now. It had been a long, emotional day and all I wanted was to drop into bed and sleep the exhaustion away. But I vowed to visit again as we exchanged contact information.
As Landon walked me to the front door, I turned and spoke cautiously, “Jennifer?”
“Yes?” she said.
“May I ask what Alexis’s promise was—what she was referring to before she died?”
“Of course,” Jennifer replied with heartache etched in her words. “That morning she had promised to be a better daughter and give me a reason to quit drinking.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be. In a way she kept her promise. She did give me a reason to get sober and become a better person. After her passing I made a lot of changes for the better, and it’s all because of her. Her legacy lives on.”
At least Alexis’s death held some meaning after everything the family had been through.
As I headed into the brisk dim evening, Landon trailed behind me to my car. I inhaled a sweet scent of lilac drifting from the next-door neighbor’s yard. Stopping at my car door, I turned and met Landon’s gaze, barely visible against the dusk’s deep blue backdrop. Twilight’s chill kissed my cheeks and I blushed.
“I’m really glad you showed up on our doorstep, Mia,” he said, opening his arms in a hug.
“Me too.” With a tentative step forward, I hugged him back, unsure what it meant—to him, to me, to us. Was this the creation of “us” unfolding before me? It couldn’t be. I longed for Brad. So before either of us had a chance to interpret—or misinterpret—the moment, I glided backward and slid behind the wheel.
As Landon stood with his hand on the edge of my driver’s side door, propping it open, I saw a seriousness pass over his face as his jaw clenched and his eyes darkened. “Now let’s catch us a killer.”
Chapter 8
Wednesday, April 9
5:23 p.m.
I was surprised to get a call from Landon so soon after our first meeting on Monday. While my thoughts raced back and forth between Landon and Brad for two days straight, my main focus lingered on Alexis. I couldn’t let boy-craziness distract me from my purpose.
It was Wednesday afternoon when Landon left a message on my cell phone, so I called him back on my way home from work.
“Remember me—your cohort in crime?” Landon teased when he answered my return call.
“More like my sidekick, Watson,” I retorted.
He laughed, a good-natured, deep laugh. I smiled at its sound.
“Busy?” he asked.
“Not really. Why?”
“Wanna meet up for coffee and chat?”
“Sure. I’m on Erwin Road right now—heading home from work. You know the Port City Java near the Duke University East Campus? I can be there in fifteen.”
He paused.
“Got it. I’m on my way. I’ll meet you there.”
After we hung up, I noticed the oddly titillating sensation of butterflies flapping wildly in my stomach.
**
Landon beat me to Port City Java and met me at the cash register. Carrying both of our coffee cups—his treat, he insisted—he picked a corner table away from a crowd of undergrads clad in Duke Blue Devil sweatshirts noisily laughing and hogging three tables in the middle of the trendy shop. Was I already old enough to find college students irritating?
Warding off the elder side of me, I instead grinned at their overpowering banter as I sat in a red faux leather chair across from a shiny, knee-high chrome table. Landon took a cushion on a thick leather sofa across from me, hugging his cup to his chest.
“Kids,” Landon grumbled with slight agitation, nodding toward the group.
“Kids? Those are adults, old man.”
“Whatever. They’re loud and obnoxious.”
“It doesn’t bother me. We were kids once too.”
“But doesn’t it seem like they get more inconsiderate with each passing decade? Kids these days are so much worse than in our time. I don’t remember being like that.”
“Selective memory,” I teased. “I guarantee all kids are frustrating to deal with at that age. So anyways, what were you calling about?”
“You sleep well this past week?” he asked with a wink.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Was he implying that I was up at night dreaming about him?
“You know, the dreams about Alexis …”
Flustered at my own misinterpretation, I faltered over a hasty oh, right, that. “Nothing new to report,” I added.
“What did you think I meant?”
“Nothing,” I assured him.
“I was just wondering if you’re hot on any new trails, Sherlock.”
“Two nights of blissful slumber, unfortunately. And no new clues.” I shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t keep digging. Although, I do have something to show you. I made up a list that might be helpful. I’m not sure if this is how the cops do things, but I figured it would help me get the facts organized.”
I pulled out my updated notepad of knows and don’t knows. The killer’s unknown identity was still at the top of the list. I placed the notepad between us and pointed to the handwritten script:
Know:
The girl’s name was Alexis Willoughby.
She was roughly twelve years old in 1992.
She was stabbed in the abdomen.
Her mom was possibly an alcoholic.
She died at Duke Hospital on March 7, 1992.
Alexis recognized the murderer’s voice.
Died from blood loss.
No forced entry.
Lived at 721 Willoughby Way.
Murderer is a man.
Don’t know:
The murderer’s identity.
Alexis’ last name.
How she died.
Where she lived.
Why she was targeted.
Landon sarcastically oohed and aahed over the paper. “Seriously, though,” he said sincerely, “it’s a great start.”
“This is everything I know and everything I still need to find out. In my dream the killer was familiar to Alexis, so if I could find out a little more about her life, who her friends were, it might lead us to him. Based on his ability to overpower her, plus his voice, he’s a guy. Even the method of attack—a stab wound, which isn’t something female killers generally do, though I’ve known a few women who like to stick the knife in figuratively—points to a man.”
“How do you know that?”
“Saw it on Criminal Minds. I’m guessing it’s true, or else they wouldn’t put it on television. Right?”
“I hope you don’t base all of your knowledge on television shows,” he said with a laugh. “Unless you’re telling me that dogs can talk and Godzilla is traipsing around Manhattan.”
“Ugh, you watched that version?” I chided with a scowl.
“Apparently you did too,” he replied.
I looked away in unspoken shame.
Landon picked up the notepad, his eyes following the lines down the page. “How do you know it’s a man … and not a teenage boy? Wouldn’t a teenager fit the profile too, since you said it was someone she knew? Maybe it could be a guy from school.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but if he was strong enough … absolutely.” I scribbled an amendment:
Murderer is a man/teenage boy.
“So, that’s it. That’s all we got.” I frowned. It wasn’t anything. The cops probably had much more and still hadn’t solved the case. “Do you know if there were any fingerprints recovered from the scene of the crime?” I asked.
“I was pretty young back then, so I wasn’t privy to a lot of the details. But I do know they never found the murder weapon and I don’t think any prints were found. He probably wiped them. We could always go down to the police station to see if they can give us any information. Since it was my sister, I’m sure they’ll be willing to pull the file and tell us what they know.”
“Yeah …” the word trailed off as another thought plowed through. “What about a relative—could it be an uncle, cousin, someone like that?”
Landon took a careful gulp of his house blend and stared through me to the space beyond where the door jingled open and patrons swept in and out. His eyes darkened. Something lingered on the tip of his tongue, but I had no idea what it could be. Something painful.
“You okay?” I whispered, placing my hand on his.
As if stunned to find my hand touching him, he jerked back and muttered, “No, yeah … I mean, yeah, I’m okay. Just thinking. Remembering.”
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“It’s nothing. Just my dad. The day Alexis died was shortly before my dad was sentenced for first-degree burglary, felony theft, and attempted manslaughter. At least Alexis wasn’t alive to watch her father stand in that courtroom and be declared guilty, then hauled away in handcuffs. I’ll never forget it. Although, I suppose Alexis had seen her fair share of his screw-ups.”
My heart broke for this damaged family, for Landon especially. Losing a sister and father so close together. I wondered how lives ended up so crushed and out of control.
“Things were a mess at home,” he resumed after a solemn moment. “Neither of my parents were ever sober. My mom was cheating on my dad, my dad was living with my Uncle Derek at the time, and then Dad gets accused of robbing a house and shooting the lady who lived there. Luckily the lady survived or he’d be facing murder one. To this day he claims he didn’t do it, but who knows? I wouldn’t trust my dad as far as I could throw him … and he’s a big man. Life was crazy.” Each sentence ran on the heels of the next as he rushed through the gory details.
And I thought my past was messy.
“I’m so sorry for what you went through.”
“It’s not all bad. Because of all the rough stuff, my mom actually got better. She found God, got sober, went back to school, and landed a good job. Despite losing everything, she got a second chance, and she’s happy now. Doesn’t need the revolving door of men or booze to get through each day anymore.”
I wanted to ask him if he found healing too, but it felt too personal a question.
He paused.
Then cleared his throat.
“Do you think my dad could have done it … killed his own daughter?”
I couldn’t imagine that being the case. But I didn’t know the man. He almost killed someone else, so why not?
“I don’t know. Maybe we should talk to him.”
“Ha! He’s in jail, Mia. And knowing him, I doubt he’ll ever make parole.”
“He’s allowed visitors, isn’t he? Can’t we go see him?”
Landon emphatically shook his head. “I don’t think so. I haven’t talked to my dad since he was sentenced. I don’t even know what I’d say when I saw him. It’s been twenty years.”
“I’ll be there with you. I can do all the talking. He might be able to help shed light on some things.”
“I dunno …” he said with reluctance.
“You don’t have to decide now. Just think about it.”
With a little strong-arming on my part Landon agreed to think about it—no promises, though.
I tipped my head back and gulped the remainder of my caramello leche. But as my gaze leveled, I suddenly wanted to climb under the table and hide. Standing at the counter was Brad, and I knew that if he saw Landon and me together, no amount of explaining could fix things. I grabbed a newspaper that sat a table away, opened it, and hid my face behind it.
“You okay?” Landon asked.
“No—my boyfriend is standing in line. I can’t let him see me,” I whispered, shading myself from view.
“Why not?” a voice replied, but it wasn’t Landon. It was Brad.
The newspaper fell limply to my lap as I searched for words—any words would suffice. My face flushed at being caught, though I didn’t quite know what I was guilty of. I hadn’t been doing anything wrong. I was totally innocent … yet somehow I didn’t feel so blameless.
“Hey, Brad,” I mustered. “This is Landon Worthington, Alexis’s brother. Landon, this is Brad.” The introduction was awkward and tense. Clearly Brad noticed the lack of a qualifier “boyfriend” attached to his name.
“Alexis—as in the girl you dreamed about?” Brad clarified.
“Yep,” I said.
Landon held out his hand, which Brad ignored. When no one spoke, I continued uneasily, “Sorry I never called you back. Things have been a little—”
“Busy?” he finished for me. “I can see that.” He gestured at Landon while glaring at me. “You move on quickly. And here I didn’t even realize we were officially broken up. Next time send a memo, okay?
“Brad, it’s not what it looks like …” I pleaded.
It sounded cliché even as I begged.
“Stop, Mia. I don’t want to hear any more. I just wanted to say hi … and bye. For good, I guess.”
As he briskly turned to go, I jumped from my seat and grabbed his arm. “Wait, please. I can explain.”
“Famous last words,” he said under his breath. “Save it, Mia. I thought we had something special. I even began to come around to the idea of supporting you on this whole investigation thing, but now I’m wondering how I could have been so stupid and naïve to buy into your drama. Just leave me alone. Don’t call me.” He yanked his arm out of my grasp and stormed away from me, a tinkling jingle echoing as the door slammed shut behind him.
As I shot down my mind’s debate of whether to run after him or not, begging and pleading for another chance—knowing Brad was the type who needed to cool off before another confrontation if I wanted to avoid World War III—I sadly wondered if I had lost him forever. While my brain conceded that letting him go was perhaps best for us both, my heart didn’t agree.
I was in love. I’d always love Brad.
Yet in our short relationship, I’d already lost so much of my identity over this man, and I knew it was only going to get worse if I stayed with him while fighting my demons. Over the past few weeks I felt myself slipping into co-dependency. I slept, breathed, longed for him. I … needed him. I’d never needed anyone before. It was unhealthy. I had to shut it off before it—love—consumed me.
Here I was, torn between avenging the lost life of a young girl, or embracing love with a flesh and blood man who made me giddy. It felt selfish to pick Brad over Alexis … so it was the honorable thing to let him go, right?
