Pray for the Girl

by Joseph Souza

  “How could I see who took it if the person was behind me?”

  “This person wasn’t behind you. The person who snapped that photo lifted you up and positioned themselves in front of you so they wouldn’t be seen. In the blown-up version, you can make them out in the reflection in your eyes. It’s the same person who hit you with that rolling pin and left you for dead.”

  I remember the dangling rolling pin and the black boots. I assume they belonged to one of the boys in the group. Either Knit Cap or Preppy.

  “I have to go now, but I’ll send it to you.”

  “Wait!”

  “No, I have to go. When you see the person in the photo, then we’ll talk. You may be surprised. Or maybe you’ll have figured it out by then.”

  The call ends. I wonder who this girl might be. It must have been that pretty girl glaring at me from the opposite sofa. Who is she, and why is she helping me? Are those out-of-control kids responsible for all the mayhem and death that has occurred in this town? The notes from that cornfield bonfire seem to indicate that this is the case.

  My phone beeps, and it’s another text message. This one is a .jpg file. I open it and see the glassy reflection of a person. It takes me a few minutes before realizing that I’m staring into someone’s pupil—Iggy’s pupil through the brown contact lens. The person’s identity is hard to discern, but after studying it closely, I can finally make out who it is. Their identity shocks me. It’s certifiable proof of arson and attempted murder. Possibly two murders.

  Now I need to figure out why.

  30

  IT WILL COME AS A REAL SURPRISE TO SOME PEOPLE WHEN THEY CLEAN that rubble up only to discover that there’s no burnt corpse buried beneath it. The firefighters and investigators will have no idea that someone was supposed to die in that blaze, which means that they’re not expecting to find Iggy’s body. Only those involved in the crime will be shocked when this is revealed. They’ll want to know how Iggy escaped and who helped him out of that burning diner.

  A long time has passed since my father disappeared into his room. I wonder if he’s all right. The prosthetics lie on the floor beneath me, but I’m hesitant to put them on. But then an hour passes and I have to use the bathroom. I slip them on and walk gingerly to the toilet. After relieving myself, I hobble to my father’s bedroom and check up on him. It’s dark inside and smells oddly medicinal. I stick my head in the door and hear him moaning.

  “Are you okay, Dad?” I kneel next to his bed.

  He opens his glazed eyes and looks at me, then nods his head imperceptibly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think it’s time, Lucy.”

  It can’t be. I don’t want to consider the possibility that he’s leaving me so soon after we’ve been reunited. I fight back the tears.

  “Would you like me to call an ambulance?”

  “There’s nothing they can do for me.”

  “They must be able to do something.”

  “What? Extend my life for a few more miserable months? No, I won’t stand for it.”

  “Tell me, what can I do?”

  “Just stay by my side and hold my hand.”

  “I will, Dad, and for as long as you need.”

  “Please forgive me for all I’ve done.”

  “I’ve already forgiven you.”

  “Good. I just wanted to make sure we’re all right.”

  “We definitely are.”

  “I’m scared, Lucy.”

  “I know, Dad. I’m scared too.”

  I stay by my father’s side as he slips in and out of consciousness. At times he seems like he’s getting better. He sits up and eats a little soup. He asks if I’ll light a joint for him, and I do. The weed seems to ease his pain and make him more comfortable. It’s only delaying the inevitable, but at least it keeps his mind off the fact that he’s dying. Or maybe he’s already made peace with this.

  Two days pass in this oscillating state between recovery and near death. I’d brought the radio in his room so he could listen to the music he likes. We talk a little, but not much and not too deeply. He’s not in a talkative mood. Our conversations tend to the banal: weather, time, things that need to be done around the house before another brutal winter hits. By the third day things take a turn for the worse. The pain intensifies, and he begins to slip in and out of consciousness.

  “Hold my hand, Dad. It’ll be over soon,” I whisper.

  “Take my van and get out of here before they find you. Promise me you’ll do that.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “You’ve been good to me, Lucy. I don’t deserve a daughter like you.”

  “Shhh,” I say. Because no one deserves a daughter like me.

  “In my bottom drawer there’s a shoebox with some money in it. Share it with your sister.”

  He smiles and lifts his forefinger and thumb up to his mouth as if smoking a joint. Had my father been dealing weed all these years to support his lifestyle? He closes his eyes and falls asleep. I hold his hand and watch as his breathing becomes labored. After an hour of watching him fade away, he gasps and takes his last breath. I kiss his cheek, pull the sheet up over his head, then cry for my father for the last time. The father I barely knew.

  * * *

  I set myself up in a hotel near the bus station. I’d ditched my father’s van in a dilapidated lot a few blocks away. Using the Tracfone, I call the medics and tell them where to find him. I expect Wendy to call soon after and deliver the bad news. When that happens, it will be time for Lucy Abbott to return to Fawn Grove and tie all these disparate ends together.

  Lying in bed, I open up the shoebox and am shocked at what I see. There’s more than fifteen thousand dollars in neatly banded twenties.

  Drug money?

  * * *

  The church is half full of mourners. Dalton is sitting in the third row and Nadia in the second. Wendy sits next to me alongside Big Russ and Brynn. I can barely make eye contact with this duplicitous niece of mine after what happened the other night. Did she know what was planned for Iggy? For that diner? Or was she in it just for the kicks? Someone obviously convinced those kids that Iggy could be a conventional scapegoat for the torched Galaxy. There’s something evil lurking beneath the surface of this mill town that has the feel of rot and disease.

  The grieving moves to the cemetery. The weather is typical of a Maine autumn, overcast and blustery. The wind rushes through the uncut lawn and rustles the roses that my sister laid next to the grave. I can feel Dalton’s eyes on me throughout the service, and it gives me the creeps. When it finishes, we walk as a family back to the pickup. Dalton approaches me before I have chance to escape.

  “I’m so sorry about your uncle, Lucy.”

  “No big deal. I wasn’t that close to him anyway,” I say, despite the shame I feel after saying it.

  “He was a good man.”

  “No need to lie,” I say. “We both know that he abandoned his family and sold dope to make ends meet.”

  “You knew he was a dealer?”

  “Didn’t everyone in town?”

  He nods sympathetically. “Have you given any thought to the diner?”

  “Haven’t had much time, considering all that’s happened.” I open the door to the pickup. “You find the guy responsible for torching it? That cook?”

  “Not yet, but we will. This Iggy character couldn’t have gone too far.”

  “You knew him better than anyone, Dalton. Did you have any idea he was capable of such a crime?”

  “No. He seemed like a lovable loser to me. They’re now saying that dirtbag was responsible for burning down the Denny’s as well.”

  “I still don’t understand how someone could be so stupid as to take a selfie while the place was burning.”

  “Who knows why criminals do what they do?”

  “How about the Afghani guy you booked for murder? Still convinced he’s the one?”

  “Says he has an alibi for the days those k
ids were murdered. Wouldn’t you know it’s his wife. Of course the freeloader’s on the dole and probably gets housing and medical for nothing, so he had all the time in the world to do it.”

  This statement infuriates me, but I try to keep my composure. “But you found the knife with the boy’s blood on it. That should be enough evidence to convict him, right?”

  “One can only hope. I’m fairly certain he killed that kid, but you can never have enough evidence in this day and age. We also found a pamphlet about jihad in the trunk of his car.”

  I climb into the pickup and roll down the window. “Good luck with the investigation, Dalton.”

  “Can I see you again? Maybe grab a cup of coffee while you’re in town?”

  “Sure.”

  “I hope you can stick around now that we’ve got a suspect.”

  “Everything in my life is so crazy right now. How about we wait and see what happens?”

  “Sure, but you should seriously consider bringing back The Galaxy. The bank is willing to make the new owner a deal they can’t refuse.”

  “Give me some time to think about it.”

  “Take all the time you need.” He rests his hand on the door. I place mine over his and let it linger a few seconds longer than I should.

  “It’ll be some time before they clean up that rubble.”

  “Maybe burning to the ground is the best thing that could have happened to that dump.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  * * *

  I text the mysterious girl and set up a place and time for us to meet. She seems eager to get things off her chest, operating under the deluded notion that she’s dealing with this fictional character named Iggy. She tells me to meet her tomorrow afternoon down by the riverbank where the immigrant girl was killed. It’s an unusual place to meet, but what choice do I have? For all I know, it could be a setup for something else. But why would she save Iggy’s skin only to kill him again?

  I’ve agreed to meet Nadia tonight for a drink in one of the downtown lounges. Should I tell her what Stefania’s been up to? No, best to remain quiet and let events unravel as they will. Maybe she already knows about Stefania’s wild ways and is purposefully ignoring this behavior, choosing to live her life in a bubble. After what Stefania has done, she deserves to be punished—and severely. It would upset Nadia greatly to learn that her daughter runs with a group of wild kids who drink, do drugs, and are responsible for torching her father’s beloved diner.

  What about Wendy and Big Russ? Do they have any idea the extent of Brynn’s true nature? It pains me to think how clueless they are as parents, too caught up in their own health issues to see the truth about their only child. Wendy and Russ seem to be operating under the misguided belief that Brynn is a good kid merely going through a difficult phase in life. Do they have any idea she smokes weed, gets drunk with her friends, and is an accessory to attempted murder?

  I walk downstairs and see Russ in his chair watching television. Suddenly his parental shortcomings appear all too obvious and it pisses me off. I want to grab him by the collar and shout for him to get out of that chair and pay attention to his daughter. He nods at me as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened, then returns his attention to the show. Maybe this is his way of escaping his parental responsibilities, his chronic pain, and my father’s death. I wander into the kitchen and see Wendy chopping vegetables and then palming them awkwardly into a large ceramic bowl. An uncooked chicken sits nearby, waiting to be rubbed with oil and seasoning. I sit down across from her and watch as she performs the prep work.

  “What are you making?”

  “Chicken pot pie. It was Dad’s favorite.”

  “Never knew that.”

  “There’s a lot of things about him you didn’t know, especially being away all those years.”

  “Like that he sold drugs to support himself?”

  She stops cutting. “How did you know about that?”

  “Wasn’t it obvious?”

  “I guess if you lived in this town long enough you knew that about him. But he’d stopped dealing years ago.”

  “I hope his weed never made its way into the hands of kids.”

  “No one ever said our father was an angel.”

  “No, he was never accused of that,” I say. “Where’s Brynn?”

  “She’s out with some friends. I think it’s good for her to be with others in her time of grief. The death of her grandfather has affected her more than anyone realized.”

  “Do you think she loved him?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Take it easy, Wendy. I was just asking.”

  “She’s young and has experienced a lot of hardship in her short life. Those two dead kids were her classmates, and I would imagine it’s a difficult thing for a teenager to deal with.”

  “Would you say that Brynn’s a bit wild herself?”

  She looks up at me as if taken aback by my comment. “No more than any other kid in this town. And if I remember correctly, you weren’t exactly a saint either.”

  “No, not even close.”

  “You gave Mom so many ulcers that she had chronic stomach pains. You were often the wildest kid in your group.”

  “But I was never malicious or mean-spirited.”

  “No, you were never that.”

  “Would you say that Brynn has issues?”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Issues that concern you?”

  “What’s this about, Lucy?”

  “I’m just concerned about her.”

  “Brynn’s issues are nothing like the ones you or I have.” She holds my gaze. “Why are you asking me all this? Did Brynn say or do something?”

  “No.” I try to keep a straight face.

  “I told you she sees a therapist from time to time. It’s not like we’re ignoring her problems.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “I just have this gut feeling that she may need more help than she’s getting.”

  Wendy glares at me for longer than I’d like. “How dare you! You think you can just waltz into my home and tell me how to raise my daughter?” She slaps her stiff hand down over the table. “You’re the last person in the world who should be lecturing me on how to raise my child, especially after what you put our mother through.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Maybe that’s why Dad left. Because he didn’t know how to handle an out-of-control kid like you. A kid who refused to listen to authority or obey rules, and who would break his school’s windows and steal cars with his friends just to go out on joy rides.”

  “I’ve changed, Wendy. I’m a better person now.”

  “That doesn’t change what you’ve done.”

  “Look, I’m sorry about what I said before.”

  “You were way out of line.”

  “I don’t know what it is, but this town has a strange effect on people.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t stay here. Maybe this town just isn’t right for you anymore.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “This might be hard for you to believe, but I actually like living here. So did Mom. She thought this was the best place on earth to live and raise a family.”

  “But she grew up here when people had jobs and nice homes and everyone was happy.”

  “True, but her love for this town was unconditional. To the day she died, she could never understand why you wanted to leave Fawn Grove so badly.”

  “I’m sorry, sis.” I stand to leave. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

  “Where’re you going?”

  “To meet Nadia.”

  “Are you planning on staying with us for long?” she asks coldly.

  I shrug.

  “Could you at least help us out with some of the chores while you’re staying here? Dad used to drive us around before his health got worse. Then he handed the job off to that firebug. Guess you never really know people, right?” Is she referring to me or
Iggy?

  “Dalton tells me they haven’t found him yet.”

  She laughs. “No, but they will. The funny thing is, he seemed like a decent little guy.”

  “Must not have been too smart if he’s taking selfies at the crime scene.”

  “I feel bad about The Galaxy burning down. As bad as that place was, it’s an important part of our history.”

  “Some people believe this Iggy character didn’t do it.”

  “He took his picture inside while it was burning. Who else could have done it?”

  I shrug before saying good-bye and then leave out the kitchen door. Discussing Brynn with her was a bad idea. She’ll find out the truth soon enough. Because when Wendy gets mad like that, she’s someone I’d rather not be around.

  * * *

  “My father’s really depressed about what happened,” Nadia says to me as we sip sweet margaritas at one of the chain Mexican restaurants. A pile of greasy yellow chips and bowl of processed salsa sit on the table between us. “He was really hoping he could turn The Galaxy around after all these new customers started coming in.”

  “He had to know it was only temporary until Denny’s was rebuilt.”

  “Not really. He felt that he could win them over with the new menu he was developing, thanks to you, using real eggs and fresher ingredients. If only he didn’t hire that creepy line cook.”

  “Iggy?”

  “Yes. He applied for the job a few weeks after you left. Didn’t even catch his last name because he insisted on being paid in cash. Who knew he’d resort to burning the place down in a drunken rage?”

  “Did your father have insurance on the place?”

  “Not enough to rebuild. Even if he did, I’m not sure he has the energy to go through with such a project. He refinanced his house to cover the diner’s losses, and the insurance will barely allow him to break even.”

  “That’s too bad,” I say. “Do the police believe this Iggy torched the Denny’s too?”

  “That’s what I heard, but who knows?” She sips her drink. “What a mistake it was to hire that guy. It was just so hard for my father to find good help. If only you’d stayed on, things might have been different. As it is, you at least managed to convince my father to change his menu, although it may be too late now.”