Pieces of Her

by Karin Slaughter

  Andy had taken several photography classes at SCAD. She knew how unusual it was to have a candid where someone wasn’t blinking or moving their lips in a weird way. Hippie Lawyer had defied the odds. Both of his eyes were open. His lips were slightly parted. His ridiculously curled handlebar mustache was on center. His silky, long hair rested square on his shoulders. The image was so clear that Andy could even see the tips of his ears sticking out from his hair like tiny pistachios.

  Andy had to assume that Hippie Lawyer had not changed that much over the years. A guy who in his thirties took his facial hair grooming cues from Wyatt Earp did not suddenly wake up in his sixties and realize his mistake.

  She entered a new search: Chicago+Lawyer+Mustache+Hair.

  Within seconds, she was looking at a group called the Funkadelic Fiduciaries, a self-described “hair band.” They played every Wednesday night at a bar called the EZ Inn. Each one had some weird facial hair going on, whether it was devilish Van Dykes or Elvis sideburns, and there were enough man-buns to start an emo colony. Andy zoomed in on each face in the eight-member group and spotted the familiar curl of a handlebar mustache on the drummer.

  Andy looked down at his name.

  Edwin Van Wees.

  She rubbed her eyes. She was tired from driving all day and staring at computer screens all night. It couldn’t be that easy.

  She found the old photo from the newspaper to do a comparison. The drummer was a little plumper, a lot less hairy and not as handsome, but she knew that she had the right guy.

  Andy looked out the window, taking a moment to acknowledge her good luck. Was finding Edwin, who might know how to find Clara Bellamy, really that easy?

  She opened another browser window.

  As with Clara, Edwin Van Wees did not have his own Facebook page, but she was able to find a homemade-looking website that listed him as partially retired but still available for speaking gigs and drum solos. She clicked on the about tab. Edwin was a Stanford-trained, former ACLU lawyer with a long, successful career of defending artists and anarchists and rabble-rousers and revolutionaries who had happily posted photos of themselves grinning beside the lawyer who’d kept them out of prison. Even some of the ones who’d ended up going to jail still had glowing things to say about him. It made perfect sense that a guy like Edwin would know a crazy bitch like Paula Kunde.

  My revolutionary days are over.

  Andy believed with all of her heart that Edwin Van Wees still knew how to get in touch with Clara Bellamy. It was the familiar way she was touching his arm in the courthouse photo. It was also the nasty look Edwin was giving the man behind the lens. Maybe Andy was reading too much into it, but if the professor from Andy’s Emotions of Light in Black and White Photography class had tasked her with finding a photo of a fragile woman holding onto her strong protector, this was the picture Andy would’ve chosen.

  The toddler started screaming again.

  His mother snatched him up and took him to the bathroom again.

  Andy closed the laptop and shoved it into her messenger bag. She tossed her trash and got back into Mike’s truck. Stone Temple Pilots’ “Interstate Love Song” was still playing. Andy reached down to turn it off, but she couldn’t. She hated that she loved Mike’s music. All of his mix-CDs were awesome, from Dashboard Confessional to Blink 182 and a surprising amount of J-Lo.

  Andy checked the time on the McDonald’s sign as she pulled onto the road. Two twelve in the afternoon. Not the worst time to drop by unannounced. On his website, Edwin Van Wees had listed his office address at a farm about an hour and a half drive from Chicago. She assumed that meant he worked from home, which made it highly likely that he would be there when Andy pulled up. She had mapped out the directions on Google Earth, zooming in and out of the lush farmlands, locating Edwin’s big red barn and matching house with its bright metal roof.

  From the McDonald’s, it took her ten minutes to find the farm. She almost missed the driveway because it was hidden in a thick stand of trees. Andy stopped the truck just shy of the turn. The road was deserted. The floorboard vibrated as the engine idled.

  She didn’t feel the same nervousness she’d felt when she walked toward Paula’s house. Andy understood now that there was no guarantee that finding a person meant that the person was going to tell you the truth. Or even that the person was not going to shove a shotgun in your chest. Maybe Edwin Van Wees would do the same thing. It kind of made sense that Paula Kunde would send Andy to someone who would not be happy to see her. The drive from Austin had given Paula plenty of time to call ahead and warn Clara Bellamy that Laura Oliver’s kid might be looking for her. If Edwin Van Wees was still close to Clara, then Clara could’ve called Edwin and—

  Andy rubbed her face with her hands. She could spend the rest of the day doing this stupid dance or she could go find out for herself. She turned the wheel and drove down the driveway. The trees didn’t clear for what felt like half a mile, but soon she saw the top of the red barn, then a large pasture with cows, then the small farmhouse with a wide porch and sunflowers planted in the front yard.

  Andy parked in front of the barn. There were no other cars in sight, which was a bad sign. The front door to the house didn’t open. There was no fluttering of curtains or furtive faces in the windows. Still, she wasn’t too much of an imbecile to leave without knocking on the door.

  Andy started to climb out of the truck, but then she remembered the burner phone that Laura was supposed to call her on when the coast was clear. In truth, she had lost hope around Tulsa that it would ever ring. The Belle Isle Review had provided the salient facts: Hoodie’s body remained unidentified. After analyzing the video from the diner, the police had reached the same conclusion as Mike. Laura had tried to stop Jonah Helsinger from killing himself. She would not be charged with his murder. The kid’s family was still making noises, but police royalty or not, public sentiment had turned away from them, and the local prosecutor was a political weathervane of the vilest kind. In short, whatever lurking danger was keeping Andy away from home was either unrelated or simply another part of Laura’s colossal web of lies.

  Andy unzipped the make-up bag and checked the phone to make sure the battery was full before slipping it into her back pocket. She saw Laura’s Canada license and health card. Andy studied the photo of her mother, trying to ignore the pang of longing that she did not want to feel. Instead, she looked at her own reflection in the mirror. Maybe it was Andy’s crappy diet or lack of sleep or the fact that she had started wearing her hair down, but as each day passed, she had started to look more and more like her mother. The last three hotel clerks had barely glanced up when Andy had used the license to check in.

  She shoved it back into her messenger bag beside a black leather wallet.

  Mike’s wallet.

  For the last two and a half days, Andy had been studiously avoiding opening the wallet and staring at Mike’s handsome face, especially when she was lying in bed at night and trying not to think about him because he was a psychopath and she was pathetic.

  She looked up at the farmhouse, then checked the driveway, then opened the wallet.

  “Oh for fucksakes,” she muttered.

  He had four different driver’s licenses, each of them pretty damn good forgeries: Michael Knepper from Alabama; Michael Davey from Arkansas; Michael George from Texas; Michael Falcone from Georgia. There was a thick flap of leather dividing the wallet. Andy picked it open.

  Holy shit.

  He had a fake United States marshal badge. Andy had seen the real thing before, a gold star inside of a circle. It was a good replica, as convincing as all of the fake IDs. Whoever his forger was had done a damn good job.

  There was a tap at the window.

  “Fuck!” Andy dropped the wallet as her hands flew up.

  Then her mouth dropped open, because the person who had knocked on the window looked a hell of a lot like Clara Bellamy.

  “You,” the woman said, a bright smile to her lips. “
What are you doing sitting out here in this dirty truck?”

  Andy wondered if her eyes were playing tricks, or if she had looked at so many YouTube videos that she was seeing Clara Bellamy everywhere. The woman was older, her face lined, her long hair a peppered gray, but undoubtedly Andy was looking at the real-life person.

  Clara said, “Come on, silly. It’s chilly out here. Let’s go inside.”

  Why was she talking to Andy like she knew her?

  Clara pulled open the door. She held out her hand to help Andy down.

  “My goodness,” Clara said. “You look tired. Has Andrea been keeping you up again? Did you leave her at the hotel?”

  Andy opened her mouth, but there was no way to answer. She looked into Clara’s eyes, wondering who the woman saw staring back at her.

  “What is it?” Clara asked. “Do you need Edwin?”

  “Uh—” Andy struggled to answer. “Is he—is Edwin here?”

  She looked at the area in front of the barn. “His car isn’t here.”

  Andy waited.

  “I just put Andrea down for a nap,” she said, as if she hadn’t two seconds ago asked if Andrea was at the hotel.

  Did she mean Andrea as in Andy, or someone else?

  Clara said, “Should we have some tea?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She looped her arm through Andy’s and led her back toward the farmhouse. “I have no idea why, but I was thinking about Andrew this morning. What happened to him.” She put her hand to the base of her throat. She had started to cry. “Jane, I’m so very sorry.”

  “Uh—” Andy had no idea what she was talking about, but she felt a strange desire to cry, too.

  Andrew? Andrea?

  Clara said, “Let’s not talk about depressing things today. You’ve got enough of that going on in your life right now.” She pushed open the front door with her foot. “Now, tell me how you’ve been. Are you all right? Still having trouble sleeping?”

  “Uh,” Andy said, because apparently that’s all she was capable of coming up with. “I’ve been . . .” She tried to think of something to say that would keep this woman talking. “What about you? What have you been up to?”

  “Oh, so much. I’ve been clipping magazine photos with ideas for the nursery and working on some scrapbooks from my glory years. The worst kind of self-aggrandizement, but you know, it’s such a strange thing—I’ve forgotten most of my performances. Have you?”

  “Uh . . .” Andy still didn’t know what the hell the woman was talking about.

  Clara laughed. “I bet you remember every single one. You were always so sharp that way.” She pushed open a swinging door with her foot. “Have a seat. I’ll make us some tea.”

  Andy realized she was in another kitchen with another stranger who might or might not know everything about her mother.

  “I think I have some cookies.” Clara started opening cupboards.

  Andy took in the kitchen. The space was small, cut off from the rest of the house, and probably not much changed since it was built. The metal cabinets were painted bright teal. The countertops were made from butcher’s blocks. The appliances looked like they belonged on the set of The Partridge Family.

  There was a large whiteboard on the wall by the fridge. Someone had written:

  Clara: it’s Sunday. Edwin will be in town from 1–4pm. Lunch is in the fridge. Do not use the stove.

  Clara turned on the stove. The starter clicked several times before the gas caught. “Chamomile?”

  “Uh—sure.” Andy sat down at the table. She tried to think of some questions to ask Clara, like what year it was or who was the current president, but none of that was necessary because you don’t put notes on a board like that unless a person has memory problems.

  Andy felt an almost overwhelming sadness that was quickly chased by a healthy dose of guilt, because if Clara had early-onset Alzheimer’s, then what had happened to her last week was gone, but what had happened to her thirty-one years ago was probably close to the surface.

  Andy asked, “What colors were you thinking of for the nursery?”

  “No pinks,” Clara insisted. “Maybe some greens and yellows?”

  “That sounds pretty.” Andy tried to keep her talking. “Like the sunflowers outside.”

  “Yes, exactly.” She seemed pleased. “Edwin says we’ll try as soon as this is over, but I don’t know. It seems like we should start now. I’m not getting any younger.” She put her hand to her stomach as she laughed. There was something so beautiful about the sound that Andy felt it pull at her heart.

  Clara Bellamy exuded kindness. To try to trick her felt dirty.

  Clara asked, “How are you feeling, though? Are you still exhausted?”

  “I’m better.” Andy watched Clara pour cold water into two cups. She hadn’t heated the kettle. The flame flickered high on the stove. Andy stood up to turn it off, asking, “Do you remember how we met? I was trying to recall the details the other day.”

  “Oh, so horrible.” Her fingers went to her throat. “Poor Andrew.”

  Andrew again.

  Andy sat back down at the table. She wasn’t equipped for this kind of subterfuge. A smarter person would know how to get information out of this clearly troubled woman. Paula Kunde would likely have her singing like a bird.

  Which gave Andy an idea.

  She tried, “I saw Paula a few days ago.”

  Clara rolled her eyes. “I hope you didn’t call her that.”

  “What else would I call her?” Andy tried. “Bitch?”

  Clara laughed as she sat down at the table. She had put tea bags in the cold water. “I wouldn’t say that to her face. Penny would probably just as soon see us all dead right now.”

  Penny?

  Andy mulled the word around in her head. And then she remembered the dollar bill that Paula Kunde had shoved into her hand. Andy was wearing the same jeans from that day. She dug into her pocket and found the bill wadded into a tight ball. She smoothed it out on the table. She slid it toward Clara.

  “Ah.” Clara’s lips turned up mischievously. “Dumb Bitch, reporting for duty.”

  Another spectacular success.

  Andy had to stop being subtle. She asked, “Do you remember Paula’s last name?”

  Clara’s eyebrow went up. “Is this some sort of test? Do you think I can’t remember?”

  Andy tried to decipher Clara’s suddenly sharp tone. Was she irritated? Had Andy ruined her chances?

  Clara laughed, breaking the tension. “Of course I remember. What’s gotten into you, Jane? You’re acting so strange.”

  Jane?

  Clara said the name again. “Jane?”

  Andy played with the string on her tea bag. The water had turned orange. “I’ve forgotten, is the problem. She’s using a different name now.”

  “Penny?”

  Penny?

  “I just—” Andy couldn’t keep playing these games. “Just tell me, Clara. What’s her last name?”

  Clara reeled back at the demand. Tears seeped from her eyes.

  Andy felt like an asshole. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

  Clara stood up. She walked to the refrigerator and opened it. Instead of getting something out, she just stood there.

  “Clara, I’m so—”

  “It’s Evans. Paula Louise Evans.”

  Andy’s elation was considerably tempered by her shame.

  “I’m not completely bonkers.” Clara’s back was stiff. “I remember the important things. I always have.”

  “I know that. I’m so sorry.”

  Clara kept her own counsel as she stared into the open fridge.

  Andy wanted to slide onto the floor and grovel for forgiveness. She also wanted to run outside and get her laptop, but she needed internet access to look up Paula Louise Evans. She hesitated, but only slightly, before asking Clara, “Do you know the—” She stopped herself, because Clara probably had no idea what Wi-Fi was, let alone knew the password.


  Andy asked, “Is there an office in the house?”

  “Of course.” Clara closed the fridge and turned around, the warm smile back in place. “Do you need to make a phone call?”

  “Yes,” Andy said, because agreeing was the quickest way forward. “Do you mind?”

  “Is it long-distance?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good. Edwin’s been grousing at me about the phone bill lately.” Clara’s smile started to falter. She had lost her way in the conversation again.

  Andy said, “When I finish my phone call in the office, we could talk some more about Andrew.”

  “Of course.” Clara’s smile brightened. “It’s this way, but I’m not sure where Edwin is. He’s been working so hard lately. And obviously the news has made him very upset.”

  Andy didn’t ask what news because she couldn’t bear to risk setting the woman off again.

  She followed Clara back through the house. Even with the bad knee, the dancer’s walk was breathtakingly graceful. Her feet barely touched the floor. Andy couldn’t fully appreciate watching her move because so many questions flooded her mind: Who was Jane? Who was Andrew? Why did Clara cry every time she said the man’s name?

  And why did Andy feel the desire to protect this fragile woman she had never met before?

  “Here.” Clara was at the end of the hall. She opened the door to what had likely been a bedroom at some point, but was now a tidy office with a wall of locked filing cabinets, a roll-top desk and a MacBook Pro on the arm of a leather couch.

  Clara smiled at Andy. “What did you need?”

  Andy hesitated again. She should go back to the McDonald’s and use their Wi-Fi. There was no reason to do this here. Except that she still wanted to know answers. What if Paula Louise Evans wasn’t online? And then Andy would have to drive back, and Edwin Van Wees would probably be home by then, and he would probably not want Clara talking to Andy.