by E. J. Mara
I stopped myself from adding that she would probably benefit from gaining a few pounds. I’d long ago learned there was never a good reason to tell a girl what she should or shouldn’t do about her body weight. My mother had inadvertently made me an anxious mess by doing that, and I wasn’t about to do the same to one of my friends.
“This is so good!” Lindsey exclaimed, in a deep voice that sounded almost exactly like Oprah’s.
I laughed, wondering if that’s who she was imitating.
“You sounded like Oprah just now,” I said, grabbing our three cartons of ice cream and putting them back in the freezer.
“Yeah, she’s my Aunt,” Lindsey said in a carefree tone.
I let the freezer door shut and stared at her with my mouth open, as she casually continued to eat her ice cream cone.
“Shut up,” I slowly replied. “You’re kidding. Is Oprah really your Aunt?”
She laughed and winked at me.
I rolled my eyes.
“Gotcha,” she said. “I can’t believe you fell for that. I figured you’d call me out. But some of the white kids in Sunnyville still think I’m Oprah’s niece, even after I told them I was just joking.”
I grinned and nodded, instantly understanding where she was coming from.
“And has anyone ever told you that you look like Beyonce, even though you totally don’t?” I asked.
“Yes!” Lindsey exclaimed, pointing to me. “Oh, my God, yes! Just because she’s the one black celebrity they know, that’s who they compare me to. Even though I look nothing like her. I mean, I don’t mind being compared to her, because she’s gorgeous. But, let’s be real, I’m more of a Yara Shahidi lookalike.”
“You know, that’s exactly what I thought when I first met you,” I said with a grin.
“Cool.” She tilted her head and looked at me appraisingly. “I’m trying to think of who you look like…”
I blushed as she studied me.
She smiled and said, “Actually, Libby, you’re in a category of your own. You’re uniquely pretty. Like, you could be the celebrity who everyone else wants to look like.”
Heat flushed my cheeks. “Thanks,” I said, awkwardly licking my ice cream cone. “So, um, what movie do you want to watch? There’s that new one with Liam Hemsw…” My voice trailing off, I suddenly realized what incredibly important thing I’d forgotten to do all of yesterday and even this morning, before school.
I closed my eyes and shook my head at my own stupidity. “Cheese freaking whiz, I’m such an idiot,” I mumbled.
“What’s wrong?” Lindsey asked.
My eyes still closed, I said, “I completely forgot to check the surveillance video we set up in Timothy Dawes’ house. I haven’t watched it since Saturday.” I opened my eyes and looked at Lindsey, expecting to find her frowning at me.
Instead, she merely watched me with her normal curious yet laid-back facial expression.
“No biggie,” she said with a shrug. “Let’s take a look at it now.”
“Okay,” I said, leaving the kitchen in a rush, Lindsey at my heels. “It’s in my room. And how on earth are you so chill about this? I’m like, losing my mind, and you’re so relaxed.”
“Well,” she said from behind me. “I did almost lose it when you said, “cheese freaking whiz.” That is what you said, right?”
I laughed and took the stairs two at a time as I admitted, “Yeah, it’s something my dad used to say, when he was trying not to cuss in front of me.”
“It’s cute,” Lindsey said. “Strange, but very cute.”
Thoughts of my dad drifting in and out of my head, I led Lindsey to my room and raced to my computer. She pulled up a chair and sat beside me as I opened the surveillance program Jonathan had given me.
As soon as it was queued up, I clicked on the option that said, “View Current Surveillance in Real-Time.”
A full-color image of Timothy Dawes living room blossomed on my screen and I froze in terror at the sight of what was happening.
“Woah, something’s going down,” Lindsey said with a gasp.
Chills ran up and down my arms and I felt my ice cream churn in my stomach.
Timothy Dawes was facing the camera, a gun drawn. He held it with both hands, aiming it at a woman whose face we couldn’t see.
She wore a baseball cap and a long-sleeved flannel shirt over a pair of jeans. Her back was to the camera and because of her cap and long-sleeved clothing, I couldn’t see the color of her skin or hair, but her slender build gave away her gender.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered. “He’s going to murder another woman.”
Lindsey set her ice cream cone on my desk and reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone. “I’m going to call 9-1-1 and say I heard screaming coming from the house or something like that.”
“G-good idea,” I stammered.
Lindsey dialed quickly and I kept my eyes glued to the screen, praying that the woman could somehow be saved. If she died, I’d never forgive myself. The woman lifted her hands in surrender and took a step back, nearly bumping into the fireplace. My heart pounded in my chest.
Please don’t shoot her, please…
“Hi,” Lindsey spoke into her phone. “I’m walking by a house on Wyndham Drive, um, 8123 and there’s a lot of yelling coming from inside. I think I heard someone yell that they were going to kill someone else… and there’s a lot of scuffling sounds and stuff breaking. Life a fight…”
All at once, the woman kicked the man’s gun out of his hand in a perfect roundhouse.
I jumped, startled.
“Oh my God, what just happened?!” Lindsey exclaimed.
I could hear the 9-1-1 operator talking to her, asking if she was all right, but Lindsey just stared at the screen, watching with me, as the slender woman kicked Timothy Dawes again, this time in the crotch.
He fell to his knees, his face wracked with pain.
She approached him quickly, grabbed him by a fistful of his hair and kneed him solidly in the face. I jumped and gasped as her knee connected with his forehead.
He slumped sideways, his eyes closed and blood running from each of his nostrils.
Horrified, I watched the woman walk away from Timothy, and stoop to grab his gun with hands that I now noticed were gloved. As she leaned over, her baseball cap fell off.
I gasped, my heart pounding and a wave dizziness overwhelming me.
The woman was African-American, with flawless dark skin, hair cut close to her head, like a man’s, and beautiful high cheekbones that I would’ve recognized anywhere.
Tears clouding my vision and barely able to breathe, I watched my mother aim the gun at Timothy Dawes and shoot him in the head.
Lindsey and I both jumped.
Mom looked down at the dead man as his blood and brain matter leaked onto the floor of his home. She crouched beside him and positioned the gun in his hand, making it look as though he’d shot himself.
And then she left the room.
I closed my eyes, hearing the sound of my own heartbeat reverberate in my head as Lindsey spoke to the 9-1-1 operator, her voice shaky, “I think I just heard a gunshot. Please hurry.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
My hands trembled as I tried to use my mouse to close the surveillance program, but my vision was blurred by tears and I kept misdirecting the cursor to the ‘minimize’ icon instead of to the ‘close’ icon.
“Here, let me do it,” Lindsey gently suggested.
I moved aside and let her use the mouse to close the program.
“Thanks,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to blink away my tears.
I still couldn’t believe what I’d just seen.
That couldn’t have been my mother.
She wasn’t a murderer.
And why would she murder Timothy Dawes? How would she even know him?
I took a shaky deep breath.
That must have been someone who just happened to look exactly like her. That couldn’t have been
my mother.
“That was crazy,” Lindsey quietly said. She turned to me and put her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I shook my head, tears streaming down my cheeks.
I was not okay.
Lindsey put her arms around me and pulled me close. I sobbed into her shoulder.
She pat my back and I closed my eyes as waterfalls erupted from my eyes.
I’m not sure how long I cried, but I was grateful for Lindsey’s presence and for not having to watch the horrible scene all by myself.
As I pulled away from Lindsey, I pointed to the soaked right shoulder of her blouse and said, “Sorry.”
She shook her head. “No worries. And don’t feel bad about crying. I mean, even if it was Timothy Dawes and he sort of deserved it, it’s still just not right to see someone die like that.” She glanced at my computer screen, her eyes full of sadness. “And that woman, she looked… I don’t know. She looked like this wasn’t her first time killing someone. It makes you wonder, like, what’s really going on in this town.”
I stared at Lindsey, too numb to speak as I realized two things: A) she’d never met my mother, so she hadn’t made the connection between me and the woman we’d just seen in Timothy Dawes house. And, B) Lindsey was absolutely right- that woman had moved and acted like an experienced killer.
I closed my eyes and exhaled.
“Lindsey,” I said, my eyes still closed. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Yeah, this is way crazier than we thought it would be,” she said. “Um, I think we should call everyone else and meet.”
I could hear her typing something in her phone. I opened my eyes and touched her hand, stopping her.
She looked up at me expectantly.
“Before you do that,” I said, wiping away a stray tear. “I need to show you something.”
“Okay,” Lindsey slowly said.
To the left of my computer was a framed picture of me and my mom. It was taken two years ago, when we’d had one of our rare mother-daughter outings, a hike in the hills of southern California. It had been a cool day, so in the photo, Mom and I were both wearing denim shirts and baseball caps. The picture was almost tucked behind my computer, so Lindsey wouldn’t have seen it.
I picked it up and showed it to her. “This is my mom,” I said.
I watched her carefully.
If she didn’t recognize Mom from the surveillance video, then maybe that meant I’d been wrong… that I’d been conjuring mistaken images in my mind. Maybe I was stressed out and tired and sort of almost kind of like hallucinating or something.
Lindsey frowned at the picture and then her eyes widened. She looked up at me and then back at the picture.
My heart sank as every one of my hopes took a nosedive.
Without a word, Lindsey turned her attention to my computer and re-opened Jonathan’s software. She replayed the video and I turned away, not wanting to see it again.
When I glanced at Lindsey, she’d frozen the video at the part where Mom’s baseball cap fell off, and her profile was visible to the camera. Lindsey’s gaze went from the photo to the video, her eyes widening.
Her mouth fell open and her breathing quickened. She shook her head. “Libby…” her voice trailing off, she turned to me, her eyes wide. “Libby, oh my god…”
I nodded. “Yeah. What do we do? I mean, what do I do?”
Lindsey set the photo down and looked at her phone, frowning. Then, she met my eyes and spoke in a much calmer tone than I expected, “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to text your mom and tell her I asked you to spend the night at my house. And we’re going to go to my house right now. Okay? So, text your mom and then pack your things.”
I nodded, eager to follow any sort of instructions.
As I stood and went to grab my overnight bag, Lindsey said, “I’m going to text everyone and tell them to meet us at my house.”
“Okay,” I said, once again grateful to Lindsey for taking charge.
I threw clothes into my overnight bag, not really paying attention to what I was doing. I was too busy realizing just how wrong I’d been about everything.
I used to think friends were a burden. That hanging out with other girls was just…basic. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Since moving to Sunnyville, I’d learned my lesson.
Friends like Kimberly, Jonathan and Lindsey were an absolute necessity.
***
Lindsey’s house was a lot bigger than ours.
But as I’d started to admire the marble floors and gorgeous staircase that led to the second floor, I’d thought of our house and wondered if Mom had used blood-money to pay for it.
I’d wondered if she’d lied to me about her job. Right there on the first stair in Lindsey’s house, I’d paused in stride as it dawned on me that my mother might have murdered for a living. The clothes on my back, the food in our refrigerator, our entire house- all this time I’d felt guilty about it because I thought Mom made ends meet by stealing money from bad men. But maybe she didn’t just take their money, maybe she took their lives.
When Lindsey beckoned me, I came to and followed her up the stairs to her room, but I couldn’t push the horrible thought from my mind.
It was still sitting there, in the forefront of my thoughts by the time Kimberly, Jen and Jonathan showed up and sat in a semi-circle on the floor of Lindsey’s huge bedroom. She had chairs, so I wasn’t sure why we were sitting on the floor. But I barely cared. I could barely think clearly. I’d just found out my mother was a murderer.
Lindsey warned everyone about what was going on and everyone gasped and comforted me. Then, to my surprise, Lindsey pulled out her phone and played a video of the surveillance footage. While I was packing my overnight bag, she must have replayed it on my computer and recorded it with her phone.
I looked down at my hands while everyone watched the terrible scene.
When it was over, we sat in silence.
Finally, Jen spoke up.
“I hate to say it,” she said, her voice grave as she looked at all of us. “But I think it’s time to go to the cops.”
Kimberly shook her head. “No way. They’ll see a black woman on that surveillance video and they’ll go to town with this whole case- they’ll ignore the fact that their white ex-deputy buddy killed Farrah Duncan and they’ll use Libby’s mom as a scapegoat for the whole thing.”
Everyone glanced at me.
“No offense, Libby,” Jen said, her eyes sympathetic. “But going to the cops is the right thing to do, even if Dawes was a murderer too, he still died at the hands of… I mean, we can’t just sit on this. Like, we saw the dude get murdered.”
I closed my eyes wishing they’d stop using the words ‘murder’ and ‘murderer.’
“Maybe if Ms. Hollister confesses,” Jonathan quietly said. “They’ll be lenient on her.”
I looked at him, and somehow, his words penetrated the barrier of pain that seemed to surround my ability to process information.
Hope returning to my thoughts, I stared at Jonathan as I said, “Maybe there was a reason why she did it. Maybe she could tell them. Maybe he… threatened her.”
“The video does show him pointing the gun at her first,” Kimberly said, nodding. “And he probably did kill Farrah Duncan. So, there’s a good chance she was afraid he was going to do the same thing to her.”
“And if she gets a really good lawyer,” Jonathan said. “Maybe that would force the police to be fair.”
“Maybe…” Kimberly said, frowning.
“Yeah, but before all of that,” Jen said, “she’s still going to have to confess to the police, which means, like I said, we need to actually tell the police.”
I glared at her, wishing I could think quickly enough to come up with a rebuttal.
“Or maybe we don’t,” Lindsey said. “Maybe we can get Ms. Hollister to confess to someone else, someone she’s more comfortable with.”
Everyone looked at me.
<
br /> “Yeah.” Jonathan nodded, his sad eyes assessing me as he said, “And Libby can record the entire thing.”
“And, she can tell her mom that if she doesn’t go to the police herself, she’ll take the recorded confession to them,” Jen said.
My heart felt like an iced rock, its frost slowly spreading throughout my body- turning me into a numb, unfeeling zombie.
“Libby, I know it’s asking a lot,” Kimberly said in a soft voice. She put her hand over mine and said, “But, do you think you could do that?”
I nodded and looked at her, before glancing at everyone else in our small group, even Jen.
“Yes,” I said. “I can do that.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Well, it turned out that getting my mom to confess to murder wasn’t a cakewalk.
Go figure.
The next morning was a brand new holiday, Rosa Parks Day, and for the first time ever, we had off from school on February fourth.
So, armed with a hidden camera and a listening device that Jonathan had let me borrow, I said goodbye to Lindsey and then walked up our driveway as she peeled off in her little yellow Mustang.
I put my hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath before opening the back door.
As soon as I stepped into the house, I heard music. It was coming from the kitchen.
My heart in my throat, I walked in and made my way to the kitchen.
Mom was at the stove, her back to me. Her phone sat on the counter behind her, it was blaring an old-timey Etta James jazz tune.
Mom swayed to the beat as she stirred a small pot of what smelled like oatmeal with cinnamon and raisins.
“Happy Rosa Parks day, sugar plum,” she said, without turning around.
She always seemed to do that, to know when I’d entered a room without even seeing me walk in.
My stomach sank.
Maybe that was part of what made her so good at killing people, she was alert- the way a natural born killer should be.
“Hi,” I said, my voice cracking.
She turned around, a huge grin on her face. It faltered and she looked me up and down.
