“Okay, now you’re grabbing at straws,” she muttered to herself.
Ellie got to her feet, went into the kitchen, and poured another glass of wine. Before taking another sip, while she still had a clear head, she went around and checked all the first-floor windows to make sure they were closed and locked. She also double-checked the back door. Then she grabbed her purse and returned to the sofa. Taking out her phone, she looked at Diana’s text again:
In terrible trouble. Am at d grotto by d church. Please come meet me. Need 2 C U now. Counting on U. Please hurry.
She scrolled back to the last text Diana had sent before that:
OK, we’re on for dinner Wed night at 6:30. This time U will hear all the gory details about the date w/JT. He still hasn’t called by the way. To hell with him. Looking forward to seeing U!
The two texts weren’t written by the same person, Ellie was sure of it. Diana spelled out “see” and “to.” She didn’t substitute “C” and “2” for them. She also spelled out “the.”
Ellie remembered Hannah telling her the same thing about the text she’d gotten from her missing sister: I mean, she’s texted me a lot, and I know her style. She never uses “D” for the word “the.” That was just one thing that was off . . .
“It’s the same person,” Ellie whispered.
She imagined Detective Castino pointing out that a hell of a lot of people use “D” instead of “the” when texting. Still, Ellie couldn’t help thinking that Diana’s “suicide text” and the text from Hannah’s missing sister had been written by the same person.
On her phone, Ellie looked up Hannah’s email address from her class list. Then she composed an email to her with the subject heading Have You Heard from Eden Yet?
Dear Hannah,
I was wondering if you’ve heard from Eden again. If she won’t meet with you in person, I’d make sure she talks to you on the phone. I think you’re right not to believe any texts or emails from her. It’s very possible someone might have gotten a hold of her phone. Please, let me know if you hear from her.
Thanks,
Ellie Goodwin
Ellie sent the email and took another gulp of wine. She hoped to numb herself. Otherwise, she’d start crying again and never stop.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, September 15, 7:55 P.M.
Hannah noticed the sign when she stepped into the Sunnyside Up Café: PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF. This was her first time here, and the place wasn’t as bad as her instant assessment of it from the train station nearly two weeks ago. She realized she’d been in a haggard, snotty mood at the time. Actually, it was a nice little dive with kitschy old ads on the walls, some Do-Do-Ron-Ron oldie on the jukebox, and the smell of bacon coming from the kitchen behind the counter. The place was nearly full, and a lot of the diners looked like students from the college.
She took a seat at the counter. The skinny, older waitress was taking orders at a table at the other side of the restaurant. Hannah figured it might be a while before the woman made her way over, which was fine. Hannah wasn’t very hungry. She’d already eaten dinner at the cafeteria in O’Donnell Hall.
Hannah had come here tonight because Eden liked the place. She figured maybe Eden had swung by on Friday night—before she’d disappeared. Maybe someone had seen her. Maybe Eden had said something to somebody here about catching the Metra to Chicago later. Hannah just wanted someone to tell her that, and then she’d stop worrying.
Her mom and dad had texted her today—separately. Apparently, they’d also each left Eden voice mails that hadn’t been answered yet. The two of them seemed more annoyed with her half-sister than worried. Hannah kept having to remind herself that they’d been through this disappearance routine with Eden on numerous occasions in the past—and Hannah herself hadn’t given it much thought at the time. Her mom and dad seemed to believe the weird “screw school” text had been from Eden and no one else. In her communiqué today, Hannah’s mother had said maybe they should wait one more day before calling the police to report Eden missing.
Obviously, as far as her mom and dad were concerned, the more pressing crisis had to do with Rachel’s real parentage. Hannah’s mom didn’t say anything about it in her text. But her dad wanted to know if Rachel had agreed to take the DNA test. His doctor had sent the kit by FedEx this morning. Hannah texted back that Rachel was fine with it.
Hannah had briefly talked with her brother Steve this afternoon, catching him during his lunch period at school. She’d wanted the lowdown on how her parents were handling the bombshell about Rachel. “Well, Mom went out for a long walk last night. Then later, around bedtime, I heard her crying alone in their bedroom. Dad slept in Eden’s room. So things are kind of tense. Aren’t you glad you asked? Hey, y’know, I looked up Rachel Bonner on Google, and it’s weird because she sure looks like the photos of Aunt Molly.”
Her parents had said they’d call tonight. Because of the time difference, Hannah realized she probably wouldn’t hear from them until after nine-thirty. She wondered if either one of them would want to talk to Rachel.
Her new big sister was being very sweet and supportive lately. Rachel kept saying she felt responsible for this whole mess. She even apologized for getting so upset at Ellie Goodwin. “I know she’s your friend and that you like her. You had to talk to somebody about all this, and our sister isn’t around, so it’s understandable you’d turn to Ellie. I get it. It’s just that my parents are freaking out and all up my ass about it.”
Right now, Ellie and Rachel were the only ones around here in whom she could confide. They were also the only ones who seemed to share her concern over Eden’s disappearance. Hannah had woken up this morning to an email from Ellie, urging her to get in touch with Eden again and insist on talking with her—if not in person, then at least on the phone.
So Hannah had done just that—in what must have been her twentieth text to Eden since Friday night. She’d sent the text this morning.
And of course, no response.
Hannah was so deep in thought she didn’t even realize the waitress was now behind the counter. The woman set a glass of water in front of her. “You get a chance to look at the menu yet, hon?” she asked.
“That’s okay,” Hannah said, pulling out her phone. “I’ll just have a Diet Coke, please.”
While the waitress got her soda, Hannah found a photo of Eden, one of the scant few she had of her half-sister. Her dad had taken a picture of them together at Sea-Tac Airport the morning they’d left for college. Neither one of them had been in the mood for a photo-op, but it had actually turned out to be a pretty cute picture. It was the most recent shot Hannah had of Eden, and she couldn’t help thinking that it might be the last one ever.
“Here you go,” said the waitress, setting a tall plastic tumbler of Diet Coke and a paper straw in front of her.
“Thanks,” Hannah said. “Listen, I know you’re busy, but I was wondering if you recognize the girl here in this picture with me.” She held up the phone for her to see.
The waitress squinted at the phone screen and then adjusted her glasses. “Oh, yeah, sure, that’s Eden.”
“Were you working on Friday night? Do you know if Eden was in here?”
The waitress seemed to think about the question for a moment, and then she nodded. “She was sitting just about where you are now.”
“Do you remember what time it was on Friday night?”
“Hmm, around nine o’clock.”
Hannah was surprised at how late Eden had been there. It would have been pretty stupid of her half-sister to catch a train some time after nine-thirty at night so she could go explore Chicago. It would have made a lot more sense to start out on a Saturday morning. Then again, Hannah often had no clue as to how Eden’s brain worked.
The waitress started to move away as she wiped down the counter.
“Excuse me again,” Hannah said. “Did Eden say anything to you about where she was going later?”
�
��Not to me. But she was chatting with some guy here at the counter. In fact, he bought dinner for her. Maybe she told him where she was heading. Why? Is she missing?”
“Kind of,” Hannah said. “You haven’t seen her since Friday night, have you?”
The waitress shook her head. “I’m sorry, hon.”
“What about this guy she was talking with, do you know him? Is he a regular customer?”
The woman shook her head again. “Nope, at least I’d never seen him before.”
“Could you describe him?”
“Well, he was quite easy on the eyes, I’ll say that much. And he was a good tipper.”
“You mean, he was nice-looking?”
She nodded. “Very.”
“Did they leave together?” Hannah asked.
She pondered it for a moment. “No, Eden left first. In fact, now I remember. He stuck around for about five minutes after that. He barely touched his food. As soon as I gave him the check, he was—phffft—out of here.”
“Was this guy another student, do you think? Was he around my age?”
“No, he was an older fella, maybe thirty or so.”
“Besides him being handsome, do you remember anything else about him?”
The waitress cracked a smile. “You mean, like hair color, distinguishing marks, that kind of thing?”
Hannah nodded eagerly.
“He had dark blond hair, and—oh yeah, he had some scars on his arm. Does that help? Does that sound like someone you know?”
Hannah stared at her and nodded. “Yes, it does. Thank you.”
Tuesday, 8:40 P.M.
A slightly chubby student aide with a goatee and an ugly plum-colored sweater stood behind the information desk on the first floor in the college library. “Look Homeward, Angel by Thomas Wolfe?” he asked.
Ellie nodded. “I know it’s checked out. I’m wondering when it was checked out.”
He turned to his computer monitor and started typing on the keyboard.
Ellie couldn’t stop thinking about the books that had fallen out of Diana’s tote bag at the scene of her “suicide.” She knew she’d become obsessed over what seemed to be an insignificant detail. Still, she’d gotten in touch with Diana’s two liberal arts teachers to find out if Look Homeward, Angel was part of their curriculum. It wasn’t. So Diana wasn’t reading the book for school.
Ellie remembered the book had been an edition from the college library. How long had Diana had the book checked out?
“Um, we have two copies of Look Homeward, Angel,” the librarian told her. “Both are in, so you’re in luck. In fact, one of them is brand new. You’ll be the first one to check it out.”
Ellie shook her head. “That can’t be right. One copy is definitely checked out. Are you sure you don’t have three copies?”
“No, just two copies—”
“Well, was one of them returned today?” She couldn’t imagine that someone from the Delmar Police Department had decided to return Diana’s library book for her.
“Nope,” he sighed, obviously getting a bit tired of her questions. He looked at the computer monitor again. “The last time this title got checked out was in May—last semester. Before that, back in April, the other copy was reported missing. It must have been stolen or something. We replaced it two weeks ago. So, would you like to check out the book?”
Bewildered, Ellie shook her head. “No... thanks,” she murmured. “Thank you for your help.”
Four minutes later, she was in the library’s vestibule, which was practically floor-to-ceiling windows. From one vantage point, the windows looked down at the ravine; and from another, there was a view of the student union across the quad. Ellie leaned against a beam separating the windows on the ravine side. “Don’t you see?” she whispered into her phone. “The book was stolen from the library six months ago. I knew Diana pretty damn well, and she wasn’t the type of person who stole. But someone else took that book, and they left it there by Diana’s body for a reason.” Her voice cracked a little. “I think they left it there after they killed her.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Ellie waited for Detective Castino to say something. “All right, that’s an interesting theory,” he said, at last. “But I can think of a hell of a lot of other explanations for why your friend ended up with a stolen library book. She could have bought it at a secondhand store or at a flea market. A lot of stolen stuff inadvertently ends up in the hands of honest people . . .”
Ellie could tell the detective wasn’t exactly thrilled about her call. When he’d given her his business card with his home number scribbled on it, he probably hadn’t expected her to use it—certainly not at a quarter to nine at night. “I know you’d like to give some significance to this book—and the way it landed on the floor,” he said. “Maybe Diana wanted us to see a quote or a passage from the book that would tell us something. You’re looking for a reason or a motive, something to explain why she took her own life. But in most cases I’ve come across, suicides aren’t so conveniently explained away. For the survivors, it’s often easier to think what happened was an accident—or even a homicide. That way, they don’t have to blame themselves—or the deceased.”
This time, Ellie was the one who was silent for a moment. Spare me the pop psychology, she wanted to say. But she held her tongue.
“Are you still there, Ms. Goodwin?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “Did you talk to J.T.?”
“Yes, he told us that he had a date with Diana on Saturday—dinner at the student union, followed by a movie, and then he took her to the recreation center where they had a make-out session by the pool. In true kiss and tell fashion, he said he got only as far as second base. Then he walked Diana back to O’Donnell Hall. Does that sound right to you?”
“Yes,” she said. “It jibes with what Diana told me on Sunday.” She’d almost wished she’d caught J.T. in a lie. Maybe Castino was right with his Psych 101 speech; she was looking for someone to blame.
“This lifeguard fella claims he didn’t see her or talk to her again after that,” Castino said. “By the way, you know that business with the photos? He has about five hundred of them on his phone—all candids of pretty girls by the pool. I don’t think we can charge him with anything. But if you want to raise a stink about it with the school or his boss at the recreation center, I’ll be happy to back you up.”
“Did you see the photos?” Ellie asked quietly. “Was Diana one of his unaware models?”
“No. I’m afraid he wasn’t very serious about her. Apparently, he was just looking for a good time on Saturday night. He admitted that he didn’t plan to go out of his way to impress her. He made it pretty clear that he thought Diana would be a—well, I’m not sure how to put it . . .”
“An easy lay?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. Do you suppose Diana might have sensed that?”
“It’s possible. But I know that Diana wasn’t all that crazy for him. She really didn’t know how she felt about him.”
“Still, it must be hard for a young woman to know she’s regarded that way—even if it’s by some guy she’s not even crazy about. We spoke with her family. Diana’s parents and her older sister said that Diana suffered bouts of depression. Her roommate, Tara Bernhardt, described her as ‘gloomy’ and ‘moody.’”
“That’s because Tara had the TV on all the time, and it drove Diana crazy,” Ellie pointed out. “Diana had to go to the library to do her homework.”
“Well, that’s where she told her roommate she was going last night at eight o’clock.”
“Listen, I know you think I’m in denial about this whole thing,” Ellie said. “But I keep coming back to the text Diana supposedly sent. It just didn’t seem like her. It had all these abbreviations that Diana never used—like the number two for ‘to’ and the letter ‘D’ for ‘the.’ I can’t help thinking that someone else wrote that text on Diana’s phone. In fact, a friend of mine—another student—her sister disa
ppeared sometime around Friday night or early Saturday morning. And on Sunday, she got a text—supposedly from her sister—saying she was fine and in Chicago. But it was the same thing. The text had a bunch of abbreviations her sister didn’t ordinarily use—like ‘D’ for ‘the’ and so on . . .”
“What, are you saying the same person who sent Diana’s text also sent this other girl’s text?” He sounded incredulous. “Do you know how many millions of people use ‘D’ for ‘the’ when they text? And how do you consider your friend’s sister missing when she sent a text telling her where she is and that she’s fine? I’d say she’s pretty much accounted for.”
Then you’re not a very good detective, Ellie wanted to reply. But she didn’t wish to agitate him any more than she already had. Besides, everything he said made sense. Her theories sounded pretty wild and far-fetched when she said them out loud.
“Listen,” he said. “I know you’re trying to help, and I appreciate it. But you should think about helping yourself, Ms. Goodwin. You’re grieving over the loss of your friend. It might help you to talk to someone about it—a counselor or maybe a priest. You’d certainly have your pick of them there at the college.”
Ellie closed her eyes and sighed. “I’ll take that under advisement. Thank you, Detective Castino.”
After she hung up the phone, Ellie just stared out at the dark ravine for a few moments. Once again, she remembered the memorial wreath someone had set there around this time last year to commemorate the anniversary of the first victim of the Immaculate Conception murders. Like Diana, the girl had been at the library the night she’d been killed.
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