by Nina Laurin
I should keep walking, I tell myself when the figure fails to say anything else or move. I’m just asking for trouble, standing here defenseless.
Reluctant to tear my gaze away from him, I slowly turn around. I take one step, another, fighting the urge to break into a run.
“Ms. Boudreaux?”
I stop in my tracks. The voice is young, oddly familiar. When I turn around, the figure is a little closer, peering at me with mistrust, and at this distance, I can see better. The shaved head, the stretched earlobes. It’s not a boy.
“Ms. Boudreaux,” she says as she advances toward me, uncertain, “it’s you. What are you doing here?”
What’s her name? I rack my brain but it slips away before I can grasp it.
“Are you looking for somebody?” the girl asks. And still, I am no closer to remembering her name.
She takes a couple more steps forward. I can see her well now. She squints in the fading daylight.
“Hey,” she says, “don’t freak out, okay? Are you looking for him?”
I should run now but I stand still.
“You’re looking for your brother,” she says slowly and holds out her hands like I might shoot her.
Cass. Her name is Cass, like my mother.
And Cass lied to me last time I saw her, at the shelter, when I asked her if she’d seen Adele around. The moment this fact surfaces in my mind I know I’m not going to run. Not until I get the truth out of her.
Instead, I come closer—close enough to touch her with my fingertips if I stretched my arm out as far as it could go. The smell of acrid smoke clings to her, wafting from her clothes. You shouldn’t smoke that shit, Cass. You’ll die before you’re old enough to legally drink.
“What do you know about him?” I bark out. It comes out harsher than I intended but I feel like we’re past polite introductions.
“He’s not here,” she says, talking slowly, cautiously, like I’m a child, or a cop.
“Do you know where he is?”
She shakes her head. “Did he really do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kill Adele.” Her gaze flees, and her chin drops. She looks like she’s about to cry. And understanding goes off inside my mind like the proverbial light bulb. She didn’t just know her—they were close.
“What do you think?” I must tread carefully. I can’t have her clam up on me now.
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“What’s not to know? She was found bludgeoned to death. In his apartment.” I watch Cass wince. “I’m sorry,” I add, even though I’m not that sorry. But I need to get her on my side. “Was she your friend?”
“No. Not really.” She shakes her head vigorously, as if trying to get rid of a bad dream. “Sort of.”
She sure is in a hurry to distance herself from the dead girl.
“We used to run together,” Cass explains, visibly squirming under the weight of my silence. “We didn’t do anything too bad. Believe me. Just small stuff. Steal wallets.”
This doesn’t help me. I’m trying not to lose my patience, waiting for her to say more. And I know she will. She has no reason to be talking to me unless she has something to get off her chest. “So what happened? She got in with some bad people?”
Cass shakes her head but she doesn’t look certain. “I stopped hanging out with her.”
“Why?”
“She did something bad, okay? And I didn’t want to be dragged down with her when she got arrested.”
If even Cass was afraid, it must have been something a lot worse than just bad. My heart thrums like crazy, and I can’t wait any longer. Even if it means risking losing her. “What did she do?”
Cass gulps and takes two tiny steps backward.
“You can tell me. I’m not going to tell anyone.” Realizing what an easy, obvious lie that is, I backtrack. “I’m not going to tell anyone that you knew. And she can’t go to jail anymore—there’s no one to arrest.”
The girl’s head snaps up. “So what if I tell you?” Her voice, suddenly sharp, rings with angry tears. “Who’s it going to help? It’s not going to get your brother off, if that’s what you think.”
“I’m not trying to do that,” I say.
Ten minutes ago, my only plan was to get a cheap fake ID and run for my life. But now I no longer want to.
“I’m going to make sure he pays for what he did to Adele,” I say levelly. “But for that, I need to know what she did.”
Cass appears to consider this. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and wipes her nose. Then she spits at the asphalt beneath her feet. The constant noise of cars fills the space between us. She must not notice it at this point.
“I wasn’t there,” she says. “I didn’t see. I don’t know exactly how she did it. But she pulled it off, because it’s been more than a year now and no one’s come for her. But then—but then she died.”
“So you thought it might have been because of that.”
“I did. Maybe. I don’t know anymore.”
God, just spit it out. “Who would have come for her? The police?”
“Yeah,” Cass says. “But no one even came to ask questions. I figured she somehow did it without anyone knowing. But what I don’t understand is why. It’s not like anyone paid her or anything.”
“Paid her for what?”
Cass finally meets my gaze directly. She could have been quite pretty, if not for the wear and tear of her lifestyle. Her chest rises as she takes a deep breath, as if she’s about to jump headfirst into murky water.
“Adele killed someone,” she says. “A year ago. It was on the news and everything but only for a while, and no one ever knew. She ran a guy down with her mom’s car.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Adele ran someone over, a year ago.
No one but Cass knows this. And now, also me. And I’m willing to bet my life that my brother knows too.
Because my brother orchestrated it. Talked her into doing it.
I turn my phone back on the moment Cass and the overpass are out of sight. With the details Cass gave me, I have no trouble finding the news story. I find a whole handful. Hit and run, one year ago, unsolved.
Because when a prosecutor gets mowed down, on a street that happens not to have any cameras, close to where he lives, you think about recent cases. Not ones from fifteen years ago. That’s ancient history.
The man’s name, Jacob Collins, is generic enough not to ring any immediate bells, and if I wasn’t looking for it, I would have missed it. He’s not even named in the Wikipedia article about my brother’s case.
But I know where he is named.
The book. Jonathan Lamb’s book, the one that I foolishly hadn’t read because I spent fifteen years with my head in the sand, thinking it would keep me safe.
I’m paying for it now.
God, I wish I still had the CD of that book. I wonder what became of it. Leeanne must have brought it back with her. Maybe I can rent another car, drive over there—
Then it hits me. Technology is on my side.
A short jog and I’m back to civilization, if you can call a small strip mall by the interstate civilization. But there’s a coffee shop with fast Wi-Fi, and within a couple of minutes, the book is downloaded onto my phone. I get a coffee—decaf, thank you very much—and ask the girl behind the counter for a pen and a napkin.
Reading on the tiny screen is a pain. Fortunately, there’s a search option, and I don’t have to keep thumbing through page after dense page filled with ridiculously tiny letters.
The list on the napkin is short but to the point.
Jacob Collins, prosecutor. Killed in a hit and run a year ago.
The judge, according to my quick search, has retired a while back and is in a nursing home with advanced Alzheimer’s.
Gregory Ainsworth, school counselor whose testimony helped seal my brother’s fate, is dying of cancer, as I saw myself.
Me? I’m about to be arrested for two murders
Eli pinned on me.
Two murders. Or perhaps three.
Because of all the people Eli hates, the people he blames for ruining his life, that leaves only one. One that hadn’t even occurred to me at first because he was right there, out in the open, happy to sign his name to his own death warrant because it got him a juicy deal once upon a time.
The author/psychiatrist Jonathan Lamb. Whose expertise branded my brother as a sociopath and who made a mint off of it.
My options run through my mind, and I reject all of them. I could call the police and tell them to put surveillance on Lamb—but that would hinge on them believing me, which is a big if. Worst-case scenario, I’d just be contributing to my own downfall if he happened to be dead already.
I could still run, of course. I couldn’t have murdered Lamb if I was on the bus to New York at the time. Except hiding my head in the sand hasn’t helped me so far. Instead, I ended up playing into my brother’s hands every single time.
He always was good at reading me. Fifteen years later, I’m still an open book.
I have one more option, but it’s risky and reckless—and what’s worse, it involves doing a thing I promised fifteen years ago I would never do under any circumstances. Telling the truth about what happened that night.
Eli will never see it coming.
I pick up the phone and scroll through my missed calls until I land on the right one. I tap the number and put the phone to my ear. It only rings three times.
“Mr. Lamb,” I say, making my voice as bright and cheerful as I can, “it’s Andrea. Thank you so much for calling me.”
He buys it. “Andrea. Lovely to hear from you. To be honest, I’m surprised. I didn’t expect to.”
“Neither did I. No one’s ever asked me my version of events before.”
He gives a genial laugh. “When can you drop by for an interview?”
“Whenever is convenient for you. I think doing this as soon as possible will be in everyone’s best interest.”
He has no idea how much I mean it.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Here’s what I plan to tell Jonathan Lamb:
I set the fire because Eli said he wanted our parents dead.
My brother went to trial and then to serve his sentence.
Now he’s out, and he wants me to pay him back.
I wish it were more complicated than that.
No matter how many times I repeat my rehearsed confession over and over in my mind, it doesn’t get easier. Letting go of a secret that’s defined my life for fifteen years should be cathartic. But if I expected to feel freed, or relieved, or some other crime-and-punishment cliché, I was wrong. All I feel is fear—fear so intense my bones turn to cotton.
I use some of the money stashed in my bra to pay for a cab to Lamb’s place. It’s farther than I expected, buried deep in the heart of a suburb amid rows and rows of cottages set far apart. The house is at the end of a cul-de-sac, the offshoot of another bigger street. It looks like it might have been beautiful a long time ago but a house like that needs regular maintenance, and this one appears as though it hasn’t had any care in years. The hedge has overgrown, hiding a good deal of it from view. The brick façade is spotted with moss, and the windows could stand to be washed.
Once I pay for the cab ride, the car does a sharp U-turn and is gone before I have a chance to rethink what I’m doing. I find myself wondering if he lives alone in there. Does he have a family? If he does, they could be in danger too. I try to shake the thought as I advance toward the front door and ring the bell.
I hear steps almost immediately, and the door opens, leaving me face-to-face with Jonathan Lamb.
He looks shorter and thinner than he did on TV. He has a pleasant look, I’m surprised to discover, maybe hailing from his days as a therapist. He’s probably experienced at putting people at ease, getting them to relax and spill their problems. He lets me in without wasting time—if anything, he seems in a hurry to get me indoors and to close the door behind me.
The inside of the house is not much neater than the outside. I think Mr. Lamb is one of those people with hoarder tendencies who channel them into something more socially acceptable, like collecting everything they can think of. But he keeps all his clutter scrupulously organized and mostly dust-free. In the short foyer alone, there are masks on the walls and two end tables with African figurines.
In the living room, most of the wall space is taken up by bookshelves and display cases groaning under the weight of various unique knickknacks. A set of pre-Columbian (or just designed to look the part) figurines catches my eye: proudly erect penises, ceramic and wood, attached to figurines half their size. I peel my gaze away and scan the space for any indication of anyone else living here—photos, children’s school trophies. I can’t find any.
The place is shrouded in perpetual semidarkness thanks to a set of heavy, tasseled curtains that cover the enormous front window. Lamb flicks a switch and strategically placed spotlights illuminate the collections on the shelves.
“I have an office that I used to use for appointments,” Lamb is saying. “We can go there.”
“There” turns out to be a lot more like I pictured, thank God. A clean, spacious office, walls painted pale yellow, with a desk and two simple but comfortable-looking armchairs. I’m weirdly unsettled by the idea of doing the interview like this. Like I’m pouring my heart out at a shrink’s office. Still, it beats the hell out of the penis figurines.
He invites me to sit, and I perch self-consciously on the edge of one of the chairs. He has a digital recorder that he puts on the end table next to the obligatory box of tissues. I eye it warily but he hasn’t started it yet. I ask him if he minds if I record as well. He says he doesn’t, and I set my phone down conspicuously on the armrest of my chair.
“Before we start,” I say, “can I ask what this is for, off the record? Is there going to be another book?” Now that my brother killed two more people.
He tilts his head. “Are you familiar with the original book?” he asks, eschewing my question.
“I know what I need to know,” I say, matching his evasiveness.
He smirks, which makes me nervous. “There’s something you said on the phone earlier,” he says. “You told me no one has ever asked for your version of events before. What did you mean by that?”
Convinced I’m being psychoanalyzed, I squirm in the armchair. “I was being literal,” I say dryly. “No one ever asked me. I wasn’t present at my brother’s trial—”
“Because you were in the hospital,” he interjects.
I nod. This is technically true. “I wasn’t interviewed for any media features. My adoptive mother saw to it that I wasn’t harassed.”
“But you did talk to the police. You told them things about your brother, what he said and did.”
Again, this is technically the truth. It’s true that he wasn’t in his bed that night. But he wasn’t in the hallway when the fire started.
He did say he wanted our parents to die a painful, fiery death.
Technically.
I feel like this is the psychological version of a standoff—that we’re circling each other like two cats about to fight, moments before the claws come out.
“Did you ever regret what you told the police?”
I tense but he quickly adds, “That you, to put it in more childlike terms, tattled?”
“Are you recording this?”
“I’ll let you know when I start recording. I know how this works. The last thing I want is lawsuits when I publish,” he says.
“So there will be another book.”
“Maybe.” He smiles. “You’re avoiding all my questions.”
“I’ll have time to answer them when the recorder is rolling.”
“I just wanted a quick snapshot of your mental state before we start. It can impact things quite significantly.”
“Is this an interview or a psych eval?”
“A little bit of both. I am a
psychiatrist by education.”
A corner of my mouth tugs up in a grim smile. “An author by calling.”
“It turned out that way.” He shrugs. “I understand you majored in psychology?”
I have a bachelor’s degree. We’re not exactly equals. But I nod anyway.
“Every author is a psychologist a little bit. Every good one, anyway,” he says. “Studying psychology helps you understand others, but first and foremost, it helps you understand yourself.”
“So I heard.”
“Then tell me. Did it help you better understand your brother? I mean, you must have drawn the obvious parallels and comparisons.”
Oh, I understand my brother now. Better than I ever wanted. Too bad it’s fifteen years too late.
“I think my judgment might be biased. After all, he’s the only family I have left.” I’d been hoping to throw him into confusion but he doesn’t show the slightest hint of it. “You’re the one who evaluated him,” I say, shifting the subject. “What did you think then? Has that changed?”
He gives me a long look, and in his silence, I sense something. Something dark, malicious. He’s trying to read me. And he’s holding something back, something he doesn’t want me to know yet.
I’ve read enough of his book to know his stance: Back when he wrote it, if Dr. Jonathan Lamb had his way, my brother would have been locked up for life. So what’s different now?
“Depends,” he says.
“On what?”
“On what you tell me, Andrea.”
I clutch the wooden armrests of the chair, my hands slippery with sweat. Suspicion gradually gives way to understanding, then to certainty.
“You know that he’s going to try to kill you, right?” I blurt out. “He’s out for revenge against everyone he thinks ruined his life. And I bet you’re pretty high on the list.”
To my dismay, he doesn’t look shocked at the revelation. He only sighs, shifting in his chair. “He’s not going to kill me. Really, there’s only one person on that list, when you get down to the basics. It’s you, isn’t it? And why would he kill me, when I can single-handedly tear you down and bring him back up?”
