The Lonely Dead

by April Henry

  “But I wasn’t wearing these shoes that night. I’m sure of it.”

  Shrugging, he flips back a black rubbery sheet from a yellow pad on one side of the folder, then lays one of the forms, blank side up, on the other side and sets the whole thing on the floor. “It’s just for exclusionary purposes.”

  It’s clear there’s no point in arguing. I stand up and follow his instructions to step on the yellow pad and then the paper, leaving a footprint. Then I do the same thing with my other foot.

  He puts my shoe prints in the file folder. “Now I want you to think carefully before you answer. Did you take anything from the scene? A note, a piece of clothing, even a gum wrapper?”

  “No.” It’s a relief to be back in a space where I don’t have to lie.

  “The medical examiner is releasing the results today. Tori was strangled. I want you to think back. When you were near the grave or leaving the park, did you see anything that could have been used to strangle her? Like a cord or a dog leash?

  A leash. I hadn’t even thought of that. When we were kids, the Rasmussens didn’t own a dog, and I hadn’t seen any signs of one at the party. Tori’s body wasn’t far from the park’s popular off-leash area, but the chance that a late-night dog walker was also a murderer seems slim.

  Geiger switches tacks. “I had an interesting conversation while I was getting your water. Are you under a doctor’s care, Adele?”

  “He wants to know if you’re crazy,” Lisa says helpfully.

  “I’m a patient of Dr. Duncan’s.”

  Geiger nods. “And what kind of doctor is Dr. Duncan?”

  “He’s a psychiatrist.”

  “And what’s your diagnosis?”

  “Schizophrenia.” No point in telling him I think it’s wrong, but I also don’t want him thinking I’m like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, that there could be an evil Adele as well as the one he’s seeing now. “A lot of people think that means you have a split personality, but that’s wrong.”

  “No, schizophrenia means having trouble telling which things are real.” Geiger leans closer. “Do you have that trouble, Adele?”

  “No.” I don’t sound convincing. Of course, seeing the head of a long-dead girl poking through the floor of a police interrogation room doesn’t help.

  “But maybe you had some trouble the night of the party,” Geiger says. “Maybe you got confused and something happened that you never meant to have happen. It’s understandable, really.”

  I don’t say anything, but Lisa does. “I think he’s fishing. He’s hoping you’ll fill in the blanks. I’ve seen him do this a hundred times. He can even lie to you. It’s legal.”

  “I didn’t do anything to Tori.” I want to sound certain, but my voice trembles as I think about blackouts.

  He crosses his arms. “But maybe you know who did.”

  “I don’t!” I rub my temple. The throbbing is making it hard to think.

  “Let me be honest, Adele. You’re in a hole. We already know what happened, and this thing is going to wrap up soon. If you’ll just tell us what really happened, we’ll type it up, and that will be that. Then we can all go home.”

  “I already told you what happened. There’s nothing more to tell.”

  “I’m not here to judge you.” Geiger uncrosses his arms and rests his hands on his knees. “But I can tell you’re scared. What are you scared of, Adele?”

  “I’m not scared.” But my voice shakes. “I just have a headache.”

  “You’re scared,” he repeats. When I don’t answer, he says, “Adele, look at me.”

  I do. Reluctantly. The pouches under his eyes look like bruises. I keep my focus tight, ignoring Lisa.

  “You’re scared because you know the truth. We know you were involved. I listen to people day and night, and I recognize deception when I hear it. Tell me the truth. What happened that night?”

  “I already told you the truth. I went to Tori’s party, we got in a fight, and I went home and went to bed. And that’s it. I didn’t hurt her.”

  From the folder, he takes another photo. This one is a candid snapshot of Tori, in color. “It’s all over for Tori. And for what?” He slides it next to the black-and-white photo of me. In her photo, she’s sunny and smiling, while I’m furtive and lurking in mine.

  “Mark’s a good cop, and he thinks you did it, that you killed this Tori girl,” Lisa says. “Did you?”

  I want to scream. I’m barely holding it together as it is, without a long-dead girl who insists on commenting on everything and asking me questions I can’t answer.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I would if I could, but I didn’t do it, and I don’t know who did.”

  Geiger sighs. “Do you always wear that necklace?”

  My hand goes to the thick leather cord. “Yeah.”

  “Do you mind if I take it?”

  “Wh-what? Why?” I stutter. And then I know why.

  Because he thinks I used it to kill Tori.

  From his file folder, Geiger takes a small manila envelope labeled EVIDENCE in black block letters. He holds the edges between his fingers so it pouches open. “Can you drop it in?”

  Slowly, I pull the cord over my head. Is it possible I did this a week ago? That I got blackout drunk, slipped my own necklace off, dropped it over Tori’s neck, and then yanked back?

  No. No, it can’t be.

  I ball up the long cord and then let it fall into the envelope. The only time I don’t wear the necklace is when I shower. Is that why I suddenly feel so naked?

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1, 4:20 P.M.

  WHAT HAVE YOU GONE AND DONE?

  We’re back in Detective Geiger’s car, and the radio is still talking about the blizzard in Colorado. But everything feels different. Now I know I’m a suspect. And he knows—or at least he thinks he does—that I’m mentally ill.

  My hand keeps going to the empty spot where my locket should be. Geiger even confiscated my phone, after asking me if he could. There really didn’t seem any way I could say no.

  I feel wrung out, hollow. As I was leaving the interview room, Lisa broke down crying, begging me to find a way to get her out of the evidence room, saying that even being in the woods had been better.

  Geiger said he could give me a ride back to wherever I wanted. When I said I wanted to go home, he didn’t even ask for my address.

  As soon as we turn in to the parking lot, I know why. In the visitors’ spaces, a black-and-white police car is parked next to a sedan that looks identical to the one we’re in. And in the back of the lot, an old blue pickup is being slowly winched onto a flatbed tow truck. A uniformed cop is shining her flashlight on the ground where it was.

  “That’s my grandpa’s truck!” My stomach drops.

  “Yup,” Geiger agrees, and I realize he already knows. He pulls up to the curb in front of my apartment.

  “What are you going to do with it?” The truck is Grandpa’s baby. He taught me to drive in it, but even after I got my license last year, he’s never let me drive it by myself.

  “We’re just following the leads where they take us, Adele.” He’s watching me carefully, gauging my reaction.

  “But that’s how my grandpa gets to work.”

  “We’re taking it to a secure facility so we can search it. Depending on what we find, we’ll either retain it or release it.” Geiger tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. “Tell me, has Tori ever been in it?”

  For a second, my thoughts stutter as I think about blackouts. “No,” I say. “Never.” Hoping it’s the right answer.

  “We’ll be in touch. Do you still have my phone number?” When I nod numbly, he says, “Call me anytime, day or night, if there’s something you want to tell me.”

  I get out of the car and look up the stairs. Out of our already open door comes a cop wearing latex gloves. In his arms are two bankers’ boxes, stacked one on top of the other. Behind the cop is Charlie’s uncle. Detective Lauderdale is also carrying two bankers’ boxes, only on t
op of his is my laptop computer. Both of them look down at me with thousand-yard stares. Not friendly, not even unfriendly. Like they’re just doing what has to be done and nothing will deter them.

  After they pass me without speaking, I run up the stairs.

  Grandpa is sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. Around him are heaps of belongings pulled from closets and shelves and then piled on the floor.

  Without saying anything, I walk past him and into my room. The sheets and blankets have been stripped off the bed and then left in a tangle on the bare mattress. My dresser drawers gape open, clearly pawed through. The only shoes in the room are the ones I’m wearing.

  My closet holds a dozen empty hangers. It takes me a minute to figure out what the missing clothes have in common.

  They all have a drawstring.

  Feeling like my head is a balloon and my feet are far away, I walk back out into the living room. “Did they have a warrant?”

  He nods.

  Not knowing what else to do, I start cleaning up. Grandpa doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t get up, he doesn’t help, he doesn’t even look at me. He just sits with his head hanging, looking every year of his age.

  With everything out of place, I can see how bad my dusting has been, only hitting the easily accessible surfaces. I go into the kitchen. It isn’t as bad as the other rooms, although drawers and cabinets gape open. I wad up some paper towels, wet them, and go back out to the living room to wipe away the dust.

  As I work in silence, I try to remember what I’ve googled on my computer and/or phone and how it might look when the cops examine my search history. I’ve used search terms like “strangle” and “ligature,” but all of them were after Tori was dead.

  When Grandpa finally speaks, I jump.

  “What have you gone and done, Adele?”

  “The cops are acting like I might have killed Tori. Which is ridiculous.” I force a laugh, but his sad expression doesn’t change. “You know I didn’t do it.” My voice sounds too high. “Right?”

  I wait.

  He doesn’t answer.

  With every second that passes, it feels like there’s a vacuum in my chest where my heart should be. Like I’m going to implode. Tears flood my eyes.

  “Come on, Grandpa, you know me.”

  He finally lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed. “I do know you. And I love you. I love you so much, Adele. I also knew Tori. I saw how she treated you.”

  Stunned, I slump on the couch next to him. He thinks I did it. And then he says something that makes things even worse.

  “I looked in the bathroom, Adele. I filled your prescription three weeks ago. You should only have seven left. But the bottle is nearly full.”

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1, 4:41 P.M.

  TRYING TO FILL IN THE BLANKS

  Grandpa covers his face with his twisted hands.

  My stomach bottoms out. He thinks I’m a killer. And he knows about the pills.

  “Okay, I did stop taking them,” I admit. “But I didn’t kill Tori.”

  “That detective told me you’re the one who found her body.” Dropping his hands, he raises his rheumy eyes to me. “Is that because you’re the one who left her there in the first place?”

  “No! The reason I knew she was there was because—because she called to me when I was cutting through the park on Monday.” It’s a relief to let go and speak the truth. “And once I realized she was dead, I called 9-1-1.”

  His face goes still and sad. “So you think she was talking to you.” It’s not really a question. “After she was dead.”

  “It was like that girl in the museum, the one I thought was an actor, the one who really died on the Oregon Trail.”

  He scrubs his face with his hands. “And when did you stop taking your medication?”

  “A couple of weeks ago, I missed one by accident.” I try to make him understand. “Then the next morning, it was like the world was in color again, when it had been black-and-white forever. When I’m on the pills, I’m really only half alive. Do you have any idea how bad they make me feel?”

  Grandpa gets to his feet and raises one gnarled hand. Before I even realize what’s happening, he slaps me.

  My mouth falls open as the blood rushes to my stinging skin. The slap wasn’t particularly hard. It’s just the shock of it. My grandpa has never hit me. Never. Not even raised his hand.

  Tears sparkle in his eyes. “And do you have any idea what happens when you’re not on them, Adele? You get like your mom, your grandma, your great-grandma. You see things that aren’t there! You talk to people that don’t exist.”

  “It’s not that they don’t exist. It’s that they’re dead.”

  He’s breathing hard. “Your mom must have put those thoughts into your head. Did she tell you the whole story, Adele? It’s familial schizophrenia. That means it’s in your blood. In your genes. Miriam’s mom, your great-grandmother, was convinced she was possessed by Satan. At funerals, she said she could hear the spirits of the dead calling out to her. Your grandma and I, we knew that was just superstition. We tried to persuade her to get help, but she killed herself.”

  I stare at him, shocked into silence.

  “And then things got so much worse. Because at her own mother’s funeral, it was Miriam claiming she could still see her mom. Even talk to her. She tried to tell me that her mother wasn’t dead, at least not all the way. I took her to a psychiatrist. He said part of her brain was sick and needed to be dealt with, just like cutting mold off a piece of cheese. So he gave Miriam a lobotomy. Your mom was only a few months old.”

  Grandpa has just said more words than I normally hear him speak in a week. How desperate had he been, that he let someone destroy part of his wife’s brain?

  “Did it work?” I only have one memory of my grandma, from when I was five or six. I waited with my mom in a parking lot, waited for my grandma’s head to appear in the fourth-floor window of a big gray building. And my grandpa was standing next to her, raising her limp hand and calling to me and my mom to wave back.

  “Did it work?” Grandpa echoes. He blinks, and a tear rolls down his face. “Well, Miriam didn’t see ghosts anymore.” He makes a sound like a laugh. “She also didn’t remember her own name, let alone mine. She was more like a ghost herself. The nurses let her have this empty coffeepot, and she would sit in her room, endlessly pouring imaginary coffee from that empty pot.” His voice shakes.

  All the time he’s been speaking, I’ve been combing through my memories of my mom. Before the car accident that took her life, she had been acting strangely. Sometimes she even left me at home alone in the middle of the night. And when she returned from wherever she had been, her eyes were wide and lost.

  “What really happened to my mom?” He had been the one who broke the news that she was dead. That was the last time I saw him cry.

  “Your mom had it so hard after your dad died. She tried to keep it together for you. But she was seduced by the idea that he was really still alive. Just like you must want Tori to still be alive. Your mom began spending more and more time at your dad’s grave. Talking and laughing like someone was there and speaking back to her. Eventually, she lost her job. She didn’t care about the living anymore. She had a child—a child!—and she let herself get lost in this sick fantasy.”

  His words are coming slower. “The day that she died, I went to the cemetery and told her she had to come home. That she had to be a mother to you. I forced her into the car. But when I stopped at a light, she jumped out and started running back. She ran right in front of a truck.”

  Sorrow weights my bones. It’s hard for me to even speak. “Have you ever thought that what we’ve all said might be true? That we really can see the dead if we’re where their bones are?”

  “Listen to yourself, Adele. It’s just your mind telling you a story. Something bad happened between you and Tori, and rather than admitting it, you made yourself believe that she’s not really dead. Just like Miriam found a
way to make her mom alive again. Just like your mother wouldn’t admit Ben was gone.” His face contorts. “I love you no matter what. But now I’m going to lose you. Just like I’ve lost everyone else.”

  What’s Grandpa going to do? Is he going to kick me out? Is he going to force me to be hospitalized?

  “I told the police about our family,” he says. “Because it’s the only thing that might save you. You won’t go to prison for killing Tori. Not with our family history. No, you’ll end up in a mental hospital, probably for the rest of your life.” He puts his hands over his face, and his thin shoulders hunch as he starts to sob.

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1, 5:13 P.M.

  DO YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW THE TRUTH?

  I’m locked in the bathroom, mostly because I can’t stand to see my grandpa cry. My mind is whirling, and my thoughts can’t find purchase. The eyes that meet mine in the mirror are red and watery. I guess that’s what happens when you spend most of the day talking to dead people and then learn that the person you love most in the whole world believes you’re a killer.

  And that the cops do, too.

  Is there any chance they’re right?

  Tori wants me to find her murderer. But what if it is me? Ms. Borka said getting blackout drunk makes you act on impulses that the sober you would know were wrong. What if Tori caught up to me after she left the party? It’s easy to imagine her mocking me, telling me there was no way someone as great as Luke would be into me. Would that be enough to make me snap, to decide to shut her up?

  “No,” I say to the girl in the mirror. “No.”

  I feel as stuck as Tori or Lisa, and as powerless to change things. Even if I’m innocent, does it matter? I imagine a jury listening to the circumstantial evidence. I had the motive, the means, and even the opportunity to kill Tori.

  The police think I did it. My own grandpa thinks I did it. There’s only one person who can save me.

  And that’s me.

  But to do it, I’m going to need help. From the same guy who had already agreed to help me.

  Back in my room, I find the laundry bag that was emptied out on the carpet and fill it again. I add the contents of my underwear drawer, which was pawed through by strange hands.