“You weren’t in school on December fourth. Do you remember where you were?”
“No, I don’t. Like I said, I thought I was in school.”
“Could it be that you were on the trail where you used to hang out with your friends?”
She gave no indication whether or not she knew what he was referring to.
He pulled a photo of the trail from the file, the one that clearly showed the large oak tree with the Kilroy was here carving in the trunk. “Does this look familiar?” He slid it across the table for her to see.
She looked at it, her body static, her hands unmoving in her lap.
“The woods around the trail tend to blend together,” she said.
He pointed to the carving. “Do you see that?”
“Yes.”
“Your friend, Officer Scott Best, said you and your girlfriends used to hang out by this tree. It’s a little more than halfway up the mountain.”
“Yes, that sounds like something we used to do.”
“Take another look. Does it look familiar to you now?”
“Yes, it does look a little familiar.”
“Were you on the trail Thursday, December fourth, specifically in this area right here?” He tapped the photo.
“I can’t say for sure.”
He was frustrated, but he tried hard not to let it show. He pulled another photo from the file. This one was the image of the bat. “Do you recognize this?”
“It’s a baseball bat.”
“Technically, it’s a softball bat. Do you know what these initials stand for?” He showed her another photo, the blown-up image of the bat where the initials S. S. with the heart around them were easily identifiable.
“Yes,” she said. “It stands for ‘Slate Sisters.’ It was a friendship club I was in when I was a kid.”
“Did you carve the letters with the heart into this bat?”
“Yes, I did.”
His heart pounded. “And this is your bat?”
“Technically, it was the school’s bat. I stole it from gym class. What does this have to do with anything? I can’t imagine you brought me in here for stealing a twenty-dollar bat.”
“This bat, your bat,” he said and pointed to the photo.
“Yes, so?”
“It’s the weapon that struck and killed Lester.” Parker butted up against the table, watched her reaction closely. Her face was unreadable.
“The softball bat,” she said. “This is what killed him?”
“Your bat,” Parker said. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
She seemed confused, or was she surprised; he couldn’t be sure. Then she laughed. She covered her mouth and laughed.
“Do you want to tell me what’s so funny?” he asked.
She continued laughing, holding her side as though it hurt.
Her behavior was unsettling. He was firm when he asked, “How is it that the softball bat you stole from the school, carved initials in, is the same bat that struck and killed your stepfather?” And then in a quieter voice, he said, “I know why you did it. I know why you killed him. I know he abused you.”
She stopped laughing, looked at him.
He continued. “Do you want to know what I think happened?” he asked. “I think you hit Lester in the head with this bat because of what he was doing to you. And then you buried him in the woods to cover it up.”
She sat back in the chair, looking more relaxed now than ever. “It wasn’t me,” she said. “I didn’t do it.”
She sounded so confident. It wasn’t the reaction Parker had been expecting. He pressed on. “You can talk to me, Trisha. I understand what he did was wrong. It was the worst thing he could’ve ever done to you. Maybe you thought he had it coming to him. Maybe you believed he deserved it. I can understand how you might’ve felt that way. I can understand how it happened.”
She leaned across the table, looked him in the eye, and said, “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.”
He stared back at her, tried to get a read on her. Was she that good of a liar? “Then who did?” he asked.
“I honestly have no idea,” she said, a smile playing on her lips.
“What happened to your ribs?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“I noticed you were holding your side like you were protecting your ribs. What happened?”
“I fell down the stairs.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said.
“I don’t care what you believe.”
“Do you have a good relationship with your husband?” he asked. His phone went off, Geena texting, What are you doing?
“That is none of your business, Detective.” Her eyes darkened, glazed over.
His phone chirped again, Geena texting, Get out here now.
“Wait here,” he said and left the interview room. He went to where Geena was watching on the CCTV.
“What’s with the husband questions?” she asked.
Parker turned in circles, scratched his chin. “I don’t know,” he said. He had to focus on their case. “What do you think? Do you think she’s telling the truth?”
“She’s pretty convincing,” Geena said.
“Yeah,” Parker said. “It still doesn’t explain where she was on December fourth and why she lied about being in school.”
“Maybe it’s as simple as she just doesn’t remember.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you want to do?” Geena asked.
“Let’s let her sit in there for a while. Keep the camera on her. Give her a chance to think things over.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
JUNE 1987
Carlyn dropped her graduation cap onto the kitchen table, kicked off her shoes. She rubbed her foot where a blister had formed. She’d left the park where the graduation ceremony had been held. She’d walked down Broadway in heels. She cursed herself for not wearing her running sneakers like she’d wanted to. She thought wearing a dress with nice shoes was required. As it turned out, the kids in her class had worn all kinds of crazy stuff underneath their gowns—cowboy boots, bathing suits, shorts, and flip-flops.
Carlyn’s name, Walsh, had been one of the last to be called. She’d hurried onto the platform, shook the principal’s hand. She hadn’t bothered looking into the stands, believing there was no one there to clap for her, no one for her to celebrate with, to acknowledge her academic achievements. Dannie hadn’t even shown up. She’d picked up her diploma in the principal’s office on the last day of school. And Trisha, well, Carlyn hadn’t seen Trisha in weeks. They’d stopped hanging out together, the Slate Sisters. The burden of their secret had driven them apart.
High school was over, finished. All Carlyn had had to do was exit the stage, but she’d hesitated, heard the faint sound of her name. There on the bleachers, she’d found her mother, standing, clapping, calling to her. She’d shown up. Carlyn had waved the diploma in her mother’s direction, smiled her first genuine smile in months.
Now she played with the yellow tassel on the cap. She’d graduated with honors, third in her class. With the help of a scholarship and high SAT scores, she’d been accepted into a private college in Easton. She was all set, her future going as planned. So why did she feel miserable, as though a heavy weight pressed down on her shoulders? Why did her heart feel empty?
She raced upstairs and changed into gym shorts and running sneakers. She’d go for a run, clear her head. She stepped outside. Two houses down, her mother sat on the porch with Mrs. Haines. She found herself walking toward them. Her mother was supposed to be working the night shift. Had she taken off work for the ceremony?
They were drinking beer, their feet up on the railing. Seeing their mothers together like this, chummy, felt like a kick to the gut when she was missing her own friends.
“Is Trisha here?” she asked Mrs. Haines.
“Gone,” Mrs. Haines said. “She took off a couple days ago. Took some clothes, all my tip money I’d saved in a jar—abou
t five hundred bucks she took from me.”
Carlyn’s mother touched Mrs. Haines’s arm, left her hand there.
“Where did she go?” Carlyn asked.
“She didn’t say.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I don’t. She’s eighteen now. I couldn’t stop her even if I wanted to.”
“Maybe it’s for the best,” Carlyn’s mother said and gave Mrs. Haines’s arm a squeeze. “When you love someone, you let them go.” She glanced at Carlyn.
“I guess she didn’t tell you where she was going either?” Mrs. Haines asked Carlyn.
Carlyn shook her head. “Did she leave a note?” she asked.
“I didn’t see any,” Mrs. Haines said. “You’re welcome to check her room if you’d like.”
Carlyn rushed inside, passed the torn couch, the washed-out dining room, and raced up the stairs to Trisha’s room. She stopped inside the doorway. The sheets and comforter were rumpled, half on the mattress, the other half on the floor, as though the bed had been slept in recently. The closet door was open. Carlyn searched for some of Trisha’s favorite clothes: the black leggings, the torn jeans, the oversize gray sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder. They were gone. She opened a dresser drawer and pulled out Scott’s T-shirt that Trisha had slept in. She brought it to her nose, inhaled Trisha’s scent on the cotton. She was sorry for walking away from her, for putting so much distance between them these last few months.
She needed to tell her she wasn’t mad at her. Not anymore. The thought of going away to college, leaving Second Street and her only true friends behind, had sneaked up on her—how she still needed them, wanted them in her life. It couldn’t wait. It was urgent she find her friend before she lost her forever. But where would Trisha have gone? There was one place that came to mind. When Trisha had first moved to their street, she’d mentioned her real father living back in Chicago. That was where Trisha would go. She’d seek out the only other person she knew in the world.
Carlyn was sure of it.
Carlyn blew most of her babysitting money on a plane ticket to Chicago. It hadn’t been easy finding Frank Ciccerone. The biggest help had come from Mrs. Haines. It appeared she’d been in touch with him on and off through the years. The last she’d heard from him had been a couple of months ago, which meant it was highly likely he’d been in contact with Trisha too.
Carlyn had taken an early-morning flight, the cheapest flight she could find from Philadelphia to O’Hare International Airport, then boarded a bus. She’d paid for the round-trip bus ticket with the few bucks Dannie had given her. “Take it,” Dannie had said. “Bring her home.” Even Carlyn’s mother had offered to help by giving her a credit card. “Only use it if it’s absolutely necessary,” her mother had said.
In a little less than an hour, Carlyn was dropped off at the Stateville Correctional Center. She went through a security checkpoint. She’d brought her driver’s license and birth certificate as proof of identity. She’d read that female visitors had to dress appropriately for prison, which meant they had to wear a bra, no underwires, and nothing that showed a lot of skin. She looked at her jeans, her sneakers, tugged at the cuff of her long-sleeve T-shirt. It was June. It was hot. But her body was covered.
She jumped at the sound of the gate locking behind her. The prison had a sweaty, disinfectant smell to its walls and floors, the scent of being institutionalized. The guard escorted her to the visitors’ room, where a long glass wall separated the prisoners from their guests. All along the glass there was a string of small booths, each containing a chair and phone. She was instructed to sit in one of the booths. She sat in the small chair, tapped her foot against the metal leg. She didn’t know what Frank Ciccerone had done to land in a maximum security prison. She’d once heard Trisha mention something about armed robbery. She wasn’t about to ask him.
He was brought in by another guard. Frank was wearing a jumpsuit and chains. He sat across from her. He was small like Trisha. He had short clipped hair that had once been dark but now had turned gray. They both picked up their phones.
This might’ve been the stupidest thing she’d ever done. Now that she was here, staring at the man through the glass window, she wasn’t sure he’d be any help at all.
“You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of your daughter’s, Trisha,” she said.
He didn’t respond. His face showed no reaction to the mention of Trisha’s name.
“I’m worried about her. She left home and didn’t tell anyone where she was going. I was wondering if she came to see you.”
“You say you’re a friend of hers?” Frank asked. The tattoos on his forearm blended together in one black splotch due more to his age than craftsmanship.
“Yes. A good friend.”
“If you’re such good friends, why didn’t she tell you where she was going?”
“It’s complicated.”
Frank smiled.
Carlyn saw Trisha in his face, or an older version of what Trisha would look like when she aged. Carlyn had always imagined them growing old together: friends, maybe more, sitting on the porch with their feet up, drinking beer like their mothers. Or maybe they’d be sitting on a beach somewhere warm, feet in the sand, fruity drinks with umbrellas in their hands. Wherever they ended up, she thought they’d be together, they’d find their way back to each other. A girl could dream, couldn’t she? She went to put her hand on the glass to touch the resemblance, the dream, but stopped herself when Frank laughed at her.
“Was Trisha here or not?” she asked.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Carlyn.”
“Well, Carlyn, she came to see me two days ago.”
Carlyn’s pulse spiked. She was right. “Where is she now?”
“I hooked her up with a friend of mine on the outside. I figured she needed some work—a little money to get wherever it is she was going.”
“What kind of work?”
He leaned forward. He might have been old, but she saw in his eyes that he was dangerous.
“The kind of work you young ladies are good at,” he said.
Carlyn almost dropped the phone. Then she gripped it tight, her lips close to the receiver. “You pimped out your own daughter?”
He didn’t respond, kept staring at her with those menacing eyes.
“What’s in it for you?” she asked.
He laughed.
“I’m her best friend, Frank. Where is she?” she asked, her jaw set.
“I can’t tell you that. If she wanted you to know where she was, she would’ve told you herself.”
“Tell me how to find her.”
He hung up the phone, motioned for the guard.
“You piece of . . .” She slammed her phone down and turned to the guard on her side of the glass partition. “Get me out of here,” she said.
Carlyn took the next bus back to the airport, not any closer to finding her friend. Trisha could be anywhere on the streets of Chicago, or maybe she’d already left the state of Illinois to work the streets in some other city. How could she ever find out? How could she know if what Frank had told her was true? She couldn’t. Her only hope was that Trisha would contact her to let her know she was okay. But somehow, deep down, Carlyn knew she wouldn’t. She was gone. She wasn’t coming back.
Everything Carlyn owned was shoved in her backpack. Her stomach growled. She dug in her jeans pockets for loose change. She was out of money, and her flight wouldn’t leave for another two hours. She went back and forth about whether she should charge dinner on her mother’s charge card. In the end she ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and small drink—a $2.60 meal.
When she finished eating the burger and fries, she licked the salt from her fingers. She didn’t want to believe Trisha had faked the time they’d spent together. You couldn’t fabricate the kind of tenderness she’d shown, the yearning in the touch of her skin. Carlyn clung to the memory. Trisha was the only one who knew Carlyn had a secret of her o
wn. And now what would happen? Where would she go from here? Who would she love?
She didn’t sleep on the plane or on the bus ride back to Bangor. She was exhausted by the time she reached Second Street. Dannie was waiting for her on her front porch.
“Did you find her?” she asked.
“No,” Carlyn said. “She’s gone.”
Dannie got up to leave, paused. “It’s not your fault, you know. She would’ve left no matter what.”
“I guess.”
“Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe she can start over and put everything behind her. Maybe she’ll finally be happy.”
“Maybe,” Carlyn said, holding back what she’d learned from Frank. Dannie needed to believe it was better this way, for Trisha, for all of them. Only Carlyn would know the truth: another burden she’d carry for her friend, because that was what friends were for, best friends.
“See you around,” she said to Dannie and went into her house, up to her room. She dumped the backpack on the floor. She’d spend the next two months working, saving what little babysitting money she could make for college, and come August, she’d leave.
No one would ever know she’d loved a girl and lost her.
She reached in her jeans pocket and pulled out a pink lighter. She turned it over in her hand and made a promise to herself.
She’d take her secret to the grave.
CHAPTER FORTY
Trisha sat on the hard plastic chair in the interview room for what seemed like a very long time. Her skin was tacky. She picked at the underside of her wrist. There wasn’t a clock anywhere in the small holding tank, and since she’d tossed her phone before she’d left Vegas, she had no idea how long she’d been waiting for the detective to return. It was likely his plan to leave her here for an uncomfortably long time, hoping her body language would reveal her guilt, something he hadn’t been able to get her to admit.
Her bruised ribs hurt from laughing. She wasn’t over the shock that she was innocent. She’d struck Lester with the whiskey bottle, not the bat. She didn’t kill him. But then who did?
Maybe the detective was playing with her, but for what purpose? What would be his angle? It didn’t make sense. No, he clearly believed she’d done it. All the evidence had certainly pointed in her direction—her bat, her motive. If he was hoping for a confession, he could suck it. She was innocent.
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