Because there had been a fire. And you’d let it burn and consume a girl alive. More than once.
* * *
—
“James?” Bob asked him. “The preacher’s son?”
“Yes,” Andrew said.
“Huh,” Bob said. He looked down at his lentil soup for a moment, then took a spoonful. “I smell bacon,” he said to Minda, half turning.
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.” He turned to Andrew. “She fed you, didn’t she? Something good?”
“No,” Andrew said.
“So it wasn’t good?”
Andrew thought he was understanding more and more why Bob and Minda were married.
Bob pushed his soup away and gave Andrew an unusually piercing stare. “What’s your gut telling you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Think.”
Andrew tried not to roll his eyes.
“Fine,” Bob said, reading this expression clearly. “What if I tell you your gut is right?”
Andrew felt his eyes widen. “It is?”
“Well, partially right,” Bob admitted. Minda took a seat next to him at the table and pushed his bowl back toward him. Bob gave her an aggrieved look before turning back to Andrew. “We’re not looking at James Pechman for this, but he did have…an encounter with us recently.”
“For what?”
“Like I’m telling you details when no charges were even brought.”
“That’s a detail right there,” Andrew pointed out. “That no charges were brought.”
Bob glared at him. “Too smart for your own good. I’ve said it for years.”
“So he did do something,” Andrew said.
“Define something.”
“An attack. On a girl in the church.”
Bob raised his eyebrows. “Where’d you get that from?”
Andrew said nothing, but Bob gave him a shrewd look.
“Just what exactly have you been getting up to? Because I can tell you right now, your information’s dead wrong.”
Andrew’s heart was beating fast. He felt like he was about to get yelled at. Why was he even asking about this? This wasn’t his theory. It was Catherine’s. Catherine’s and Henry’s. He wasn’t even in the picture at all.
But then he saw her again in the hall in the yellow dress and her bruises might as well have been burns.
Andrew sighed. “We heard…There might have been something about a cover-up.”
“What kind of cover-up?”
“The police.” Andrew took a deep breath. “Doing Pechman a favor.”
All of Bob’s irritation seemed to disappear. He actually chuckled at that. “Pechman likes to think we do him favors. Likes to throw his weight around. But that case—yes, I know the one you’re referring to, though I’ll admit I’m surprised you heard about it—it was a he-said-she-said in the simplest of terms. It was going absolutely nowhere, Pechman or no Pechman.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Fine.” Andrew relaxed back into the chair. “So, if you’re not looking at James, who are you looking at?”
“Tell you what. You tell me what she made you and I’ll give you something in return.”
“Carbonara,” Andrew said, ignoring Minda’s exaggerated look of betrayal.
Bob turned to her. “Carbonara. You must hate me.”
“It’s out of love, dear.”
“Lentil soup is not love.”
“You know, that would make a great bumper sticker.”
He took a spoonful of soup. “Okay, it’s not that bad.”
“Oregano,” she said, looking pleased.
“So if you’re not looking at James,” Andrew interjected, “is it that Eric guy? The one Catherine did the sketch of?”
Bob shook his head. “Alibi.”
“A good one?”
“Considering he was raising hell at Barnes & Noble by refusing to leave at closing time and then spent the night sobering up in one of our holding cells, yes, it’s a good one.” He turned to Minda. “Salt?”
She shook her head. “Remember it’s out of love.”
“I want a divorce.”
“You’d die in two weeks if I left you on your own.”
“Fair enough.”
“I have a question about alibis,” Andrew cut in.
Bob sighed. “Go ahead.”
“Well, they’re based on time of death, right?” He was still thinking about James, about Henry. That nine-to-eleven window. “But how do you even know time of death so exactly? I thought it was usually a range, especially with extreme temperatures.”
“Nine to eleven isn’t a range?”
“It’s a narrow one, from what I know about TODs.”
“And here you told me you were going to be a journalist. Having second thoughts? I can wrangle another internship, if you like.”
“No,” Andrew said flatly.
“Suit yourself, but you’ve got a natural inclination to the profession, if you ask me. Anyway, to answer your question—there are a few reasons. One, the body was found shortly after death. This wasn’t a case where the body is left for days or weeks and decomposition sets in and you have to get bug experts and soil technicians and all that. Two, she was a child. We don’t have to guess her schedule, like a college kid out partying who wanders off sometime between the hours of ten and, say, midmorning, when her friends start sobering up and notice her missing. Or, even worse, an adult who lives alone. And because Amy was so young, we don’t just know her entire schedule the day of her death—we also know the exact time, quantity, and content of her last meal because she ate with her parents. Coroner used stomach digestion to establish TOD. Amy’s parents said she ate dinner at seven-thirty that night. A substantial amount of it was still in her stomach when she was killed. Ergo, it couldn’t have been later than eleven, and even that’s pushing it, according to the coroner. Amy’s mom said good night to her at just after eight-thirty. So it’s a pretty small window, which I’m not complaining about, believe me. Makes alibis easier to check. Like Eric Russell’s, for instance.”
Andrew considered this for a moment. “But you said you have DNA, too, right? Is that from…” He trailed off, shooting Minda a look. “I mean, I know you’re looking at the registry.”
“It was hair,” Bob said flatly. “Pulled out by the roots. We found it in her hands. No hits yet, but DNA can take weeks.”
Andrew said nothing.
“Listen,” Bob said, leaning forward. “Someone can be flawed. Really flawed. Like our Mr. Russell. Doesn’t make them pure evil, though. Doesn’t make them a child murderer. There are levels to these sorts of things, you can’t forget that—even if you’re not going to join up.”
“So, who then?” Andrew asked.
Bob took a few more spoonfuls of his soup, looking contemplative. “Someone she knew. So far, the evidence suggests Amy did sneak out to meet someone, so it was unlikely to have been a stranger, not to mention stranger killings are much rarer than people think. No, odds are she knew the person. Amy was active on social media, promoting her little bread business, and she did exchange messages with several people just before her death, so we’re narrowing down that list right now.” He smiled at Andrew’s expectant expression. “That’s all you get from me. Unless you saved some carbonara?”
“Nope,” Minda said cheerfully.
Bob spooned some more soup into his mouth in silence and Andrew, sensing defeat, pulled out his phone.
Bob says not James
They’re looking at her social media though
She was selling her bread online?
Sec
onds later, his phone screen lit up: Catherine. Three dots blinking, blinking. Then—
Forget James
I know who did it
Haunt me then!
Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!
—EMILY BRONTË, WUTHERING HEIGHTS
Her Instagram page was still up on the iPad. Her dad’s iPad. Amy’s Instagram. Catherine couldn’t believe it. She’d been lying on the couch after Henry left, idly staring at the ceiling, all her past fervor and determination gone, leaving her exhausted, drained. Her mind started to drift in that way it never had before that night in the dorms, to something dark and dire. The iPad was on the coffee table, sealed neatly away in its black cover. She reached for it without getting up, put in the password—her birthday—and scrolled idly through Yahoo! News before typing Instagram into the search bar, wanting something mindless.
As she scrolled—posts and pictures—she realized it wasn’t her own account she was seeing.
Amy was still logged in, from the day she’d come over with the bread. Catherine saw the sliding images of food and selfies, Amy’s small circular picture at the top: blue ocean waters, sand on skin, a tongue sticking out. Amy at the beach last summer, a week Catherine got off. What had she done, while Amy was away with her parents? She couldn’t remember.
Catherine’s hand stilled. She was scared to click anything, sure the page would refresh itself, bring her to a login screen. How was the account still up? Her father, who didn’t have an Instagram, clearly hadn’t been using the website. And hadn’t Amy signed out of her account? But no, Catherine remembered. They’d gone right to YouTube. Comedians and food. Always back to food with Amy, always.
Maybe it was the iPad’s settings. To remember passwords, to keep accounts logged in. But still, it unnerved her.
“Amy?” she said softly.
You have to look.
The page was glowing. The time in the corner read nearly five. Her dad was upstairs resting after his shopping, her mother due back from work within the hour. Slowly, as though waiting for the iPad to detonate, Catherine clicked on the icon that would bring her to Amy’s direct messages.
The page didn’t reset. Instead, the messages popped up. Catherine scrolled through them, looking for any messages sent before Christmas or right after.
Hannah is going insane over your bread. Even better than last year. How do you do it?
lol it’s baking, like science
nah, you have a secret I know it
lol NO i just like baking
glad hannah likes it
i like it too.
not ignoring me for lama hannah are you
*lame I mean
i think lama hannah is better
lol you may be right
but seriously it’s awesome
i want more
And on and on and on. Catherine felt sick reading them. Matt Walsh. Sixteen years old. Flirting with a twelve-year-old who wasn’t even in high school yet. Catherine swallowed against the bile in her throat.
Her phone buzzed. She tore her eyes away and read Andrew’s text message.
And she felt so, so stupid.
Why hadn’t she thought of Amy’s social media? Why hadn’t she realized how much danger that exposed Amy to? So much for her wariness when it came to Amy, her protectiveness or awareness or whatever you wanted to call it. She hadn’t even told Henry and Andrew about running into Matt at Starbucks. And she’d been too casual about her encounter with Hannah. She should have made it clear exactly what Hannah had said about Matt, how weird it was, how important.
She texted Andrew back, then Henry, the whole time picturing Matt in the rain, the scratches up his thin, wet arms.
Catherine sat up straighter on the couch and read through the messages again. Things kept popping out at her with every new reading, little details that made her want to scream.
Like how he changed his tone to match hers, his first line more formal and then following Amy’s the more they talked. Matt adding lols and using less capitalization and punctuation with every line. Joking. Flirting. She could almost see Amy at her computer in her bedroom, typing and giggling, her heart beating fast even though she wasn’t moving. Catherine had been twelve once. She knew what it was like. But her only interest then had been Henry, and they’d been the same age.
It’s illegal, she thought. Has to be.
Flirting’s not illegal, that stupid mean voice inside her said.
No, she said back. But other things are.
She shut the iPad off, snapped the cover closed. Forget James. Forget weird cryptic phone calls and prescription pills and pastors.
Amy’s killer lived three streets down. Amy made him soup once. They’d boiled the broth all afternoon.
i want more
She was out the door in an instant, running down the road in the dark. No coat, her sneakers half on, the wind tearing at her throat like a hand.
* * *
—
Catherine thought her rage would get her there quickly, but it was cold and the Walshes’ house was farther away than she thought. By the time she arrived at the house, she was panting, the skin on her face hot but the rest of her goose-bumped and shivering. She rang the doorbell before she could stop herself, waited a moment, then hit the door a few times until her palm stung. The porch light was on, and through a window she could see a clean, neat home with square rugs and pillows ramrod straight on a slim couch.
You were here. You were here this whole time.
The door opened, showing a wide entryway and a set of stairs. Hannah stood before her, already in pajamas. They had Disney princesses patterned on the blue fabric. The sight of them made Catherine want to cry.
“Is Matt here?”
Her voice was too fast, her question like a whip lashing out, and Hannah’s eyes narrowed. She took a step back.
Hannah’s mother suddenly appeared, a small dog on her heels, its nails clicking on the hardwood. “Catherine,” she said, looking alarmed at the sight of her. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see Matt.”
“Matt?”
Catherine smoothed down her hair. She wanted to look normal and knew she was failing miserably. Even the dog was gazing up at her with its head tilted to one side. “Please,” she said. “It’s important. Is he here?”
Mrs. Walsh appeared to hesitate; then she said, “We were just about to sit down to eat—”
“No, we weren’t. You still have to make the rice,” Hannah said, seemingly recovered. She’d picked up the dog and was stroking its white fur. She looked up at Catherine. “Brown rice takes forever. Plus, it’s gross.”
“I’ll get him,” Mrs. Walsh said, putting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Come on. Back to the kitchen.”
Hannah gave Catherine one last look. “I miss Amy. I keep thinking I see her around, you know? And she’ll come over to hang out. Like now, I thought you were her. Knocking to come in.”
It was like the girl had slapped her. Catherine felt her face burn, her eyes smart.
“I—” she began, but Mrs. Walsh had already led Hannah away and called Matt’s name up the stairs. The door was left wide, but despite the cold, Catherine waited on the doorstep until Matt came down the stairs toward her.
“Hello?” he said, eyeing her with some surprise. “What’s going on?”
“Can you come outside?”
“Why?”
“Please.” She nodded to the brick walkway. “It’s important. It’s—about Hannah,” she invented wildly.
“What abou
t Hannah?”
“Please. Just for a second.”
She looked at him in the low porch light, wondering if Amy thought he was handsome. Maybe. Almost. And at twelve, almost was usually enough.
He joined her on the walk, closing the door behind him and crossing his arms over his chest, still looking uncertain. “What?”
“It’s not about Hannah. It’s about Amy.” Her voice was shaking as well as her body. She didn’t want that. She wanted to be calm, stoic even, so sternly indignant he would have to confess. Instead her teeth were chattering so hard she could barely speak.
It was the scratches on his arms, she thought. They made her want to lunge at him, break open the thin red lines with her own nails. Do what Amy couldn’t.
“I don’t want to talk about Amy—”
“But you talked to her. You—on Instagram. You talked to her—”
Her teeth bit down on her tongue and a burst of pain exploded in her mouth. She winced and put her hands to her lips, and by the time she looked back at Matt, his face was knowing and bitter, his eyes narrowed to slits.
“Instagram,” he repeated. He raised his arms above his head and let his hands rest on his hair. The door was red behind him, the porch light small and pale and yellow. “Fucking Instagram.”
“You t-talked to her.” Her tongue felt like it was bleeding, like she’d torn a hole in it. “The cops, they already know—”
Monsters Among Us Page 21
