“Don’t worry. Chewie will get you there by five,” Boyd said, smirking. “He’s faster than he looks, and his serial-killer mobile has a sweet, souped-up engine.”
Dakota giggled. “You know, your fascination with the dark side is really more Darth Vader than Chewbacca.”
“I’ll give you that. But c’mon, I’m a total Chewie, right?”
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Dakota shook her head.
“Well, he’s big and awkward and goofy. Like me.” Boyd sighed, keeping his eyes fixed to the road. “And he’s sort of ugly.”
“You’re not ugly.”
“Well, I have four years of high school experience to contradict that.”
“High school sucks.”
Boyd said nothing, just twisted his mouth. Like he’d tasted something sour.
“What?” she asked. “Why are you making that face?”
“You don’t have to humor me. Amanda plays tuba in the band, and I went to a few football games last fall, so I know high school doesn’t suck for you. Weren’t you nominated for some homecoming thing?”
“Homecoming Court? Like that means anything. People only voted for me because I’m best friends with the hottest girl in school. But she’s not very nice anymore. This guy I used to like is a complete asshole. And my parents . . . God. They’re the worst. My dad is totally checked out. And my mom’s a nutcase—and a shrink. I mean, my screen name is Cagedbird, and that’s not just because I worship Maya Angelou.”
Dakota tried to stop herself from rambling, but she couldn’t. The same way she couldn’t paperweight herself to the bottom of the pool forever. Eventually, she had to come up for air. Spilling her guts like this, it felt like breathing. A big, refreshing gulp.
“I’d give anything to be your age,” she told him. “What are you . . . like twenty-five? Twenty-six?”
“Something like that.”
“And you’ve got a job and your own money.”
“Yeah. Minimum wage at Reptiles ‘R’ Us.”
She rolled her eyes at his doom and gloom. “When I’m twenty-five, high school will be nothing more than a distant memory. Just an itsy-bitsy speed bump in award-winning investigative journalist Dakota Roark’s rearview.”
“On your way to superstardom?”
“On our way as the dynamic duo who cracked Shadow Man’s case wide open. This caged bird is ready to fly.”
“I like it.” Even so, Boyd’s smile, when it came, strained his face, so that she couldn’t distinguish it from a wince or a grimace. “But I’ve gotta tell ya, in my rearview, high school is more of a pothole.”
****
Dakota folded the AI print out again and again and again until it fit in the palm of her hand. She tucked it inside the back of her Shadow Man notebook and checked her phone.
Her mom was late. One hour late. Without a text or call. The parking lot at the Napa Valley Swim Club had begun to resemble the ocean at night—vast and gray, without another person in sight. She stood in the middle of it as she dialed her mom’s cell again, each shrill ring a jellyfish sting to her soul. In the deep-down bottom of her stomach, the sharks began circling.
“Hello, you have reached Doctor Mollie Roark. Please leave a—”
Dakota hung up and wandered back to the sidewalk. She took a seat on the bench.
Distracted. Her mom had said it herself days ago. But this took it to another level. Dr. Mollie Roark was never late. Not for work. Not for Dakota’s swim meets. Not even for the dentist. Perpetual punctuality. A hazard of growing up with an army vet, she’d told Dakota once. Now, Dakota understood there must’ve been many hazards, the least of which was being on time.
She scrolled through her phone, worrying. For a moment, she considered calling her dad at the hospital. But that seemed like a betrayal since her mom’s distractibility was most definitely his fault. Also, because she couldn’t imagine enduring an entire car ride home with him.
Instead, she texted Hannah.
Did you get my message about the pic? Are you ignoring me?
The response came in an instant. And those circling sharks began to nibble.
Ignoring you? Seriously? WTF.
Dakota blinked at the screen. Pecked out a response. Held her breath.
Did I do something wrong?
She obviously had. As if Hannah had overheard Dakota dissing her to Boyd. But that was impossible.
Like you don’t know.
Dakota replied with a string of question marks and waited. Seconds later, a link appeared. And so did her mother, piloting the Range Rover toward her like it was any other Friday. Her eyes, though, told a different story, once Dakota could see them. The dark circles, the puffy lids, the red rims.
Dakota tugged the door open, and they both spoke at once.
“Where were you, Mom?”
“I’m so sorry I’m late.”
“Well,” Dakota demanded, tossing her bag into the backseat. “Are you going to explain?”
“Something came up, honey.”
“And you couldn’t call or text? Did your phone explode? Is that what happened?”
Her mom’s lower lip trembled. “I . . . I just forgot.”
“Right. You forgot.”
“Traffic was—”
“It’s Saturday.”
“There was an accident, and—”
“Just don’t, Mom. Don’t bother.”
Dakota huffed as she secured her seat belt. She reached for the door, slamming it louder than she needed to.
They drove for a while before her mom extended an olive branch. A shaky little twig Dakota longed to snap.
“Since when do you wear your dad’s clothes? His Wookiee in Training shirt at that.”
“Since when are you late?”
Peace offering sufficiently obliterated, her mom didn’t try again.
Dakota held back her tears, even as they burned her throat. Below, the sharks fed in a frenzy. Because she knew the truth. She’d clicked the link, read the headline. Seen it for herself.
Renowned Pediatric Oncologist At Napa Children’s Hospital Accused Of Sexual Harassment
AFTER
Chapter
Eighteen
(Thursday, October 4, 2018)
The police are in my house again, running their gloved hands over my things. But this time, I can’t retreat to my room and hide under the covers in a Valium-induced stupor, letting Cole take the brunt of their bad news, deflecting the barrage of their questions. He’s a free fish now, rid of me. And Sawyer went back to the Blue Rose hours ago, under protest. No way would I let him bear witness to Detective Sharpe’s pity—that hangdog headshake—the moment he laid eyes on my suspect wall. And the overflowing trash can in the corner of my real office, the one I hadn’t bothered to take out since last weekend’s binge. I should’ve gotten rid of it before the cops got here, but I’d been too shaken to notice.
Too bad Detective Sharpe notices everything. Now, it’s too late. The judgment train has left the station. Its lone passenger stands in the doorway, fielding calls and directing traffic as the officers scuttle by. I avoid his scrutinous gaze, hunkering on the leather sofa that’s much too good for me, wishing it would let me squirm beneath its cushions and stay there. Like a worn penny, lost from someone’s pocket.
The office is dusted for prints.
The collar, photographed and collected. It leaves in a plastic bag, marked EVIDENCE. They’ll probably cart away my empty vodka bottles too. Unequivocal evidence of my breakdown. Of just how far Dr. Mollie Roark has fallen.
Finally, when there’s nothing left to be done save for my utter humiliation, Detective Sharpe fires the first shot at my dignity. It lands with the subtlety of a cannonball.
“Alright, Mollie. Let’s go
over your story one more time. You said you and Mr. Sawyer—”
“It’s not a story, Cliff. A story sounds made up.”
He breathes hard, both nostrils flaring. “I didn’t say you made anything up. I just want to be sure I understand what happened. From your perspective.”
“Sawyer was here with me when I found it. He told you exactly what happened.”
Detective Sharpe joins me on the sofa. He looks like he belongs there, a sharp-dressed detective on his throne. “Mr. Sawyer confirmed you brought him here and got upset when you saw the collar.”
“Of course I got upset.” My voice starts to tremble, and I sink my nails into the sofa’s soft flesh. “That collar has been missing since . . . well, you know. That means someone broke into this office and put it here.”
“We didn’t find any signs of forced entry, and the only prints on that collar are yours. I had them put a rush on it at the lab. I’m not saying it’s not possible, and we’ll have to wait on the DNA, but I want to rule everything else out before the media gets wind of this and starts a shit storm. Puts the Feds on my ass.”
I remember when they’d taken our prints, Cole’s and mine. To cover all the bases, Detective Sharpe had assured us, his voice warm and buttery smooth back then. That was before I’d gone rogue. Before I’d wielded a bayonet. Before the restraining order. Before they’d even found Dakota’s charred remains. Cole had resisted. I’d merely gone along, wondering what he had to hide. Now, I understand his outrage.
“But I already told you that I touched the collar. I didn’t mean to . . . I just . . . I was so shocked I couldn’t help it.”
I look at my hands, then bring them to my lap. These are the hands that held Dakota, that soothed her when she cried. That made puppet shadows and Christmas cookies and braided her hair for swim meets. I hate these hands. Because they’d done harm too. Irreparable harm. These hands didn’t kill Dakota, but they might as well have.
“Mollie, have you been drinking today?”
Neither of us can see the trash can from here, and for that, I’m grateful.
“No. Those bottles were from a long time ago.” Four days. But Detective Sharpe doesn’t need to know that. “I never got around to tossing them out.”
“So you haven’t been out here in a while?” He gives me a look intended to bring the toughest suspects to their knees. But I hold his stare without breaking. After all, I’m a shrink. And a mother. I’ve seen worse.
“Go ahead,” I tell him. “Don’t hold back. Say whatever it is you’re thinking.”
“Is it possible the collar was here all along? Maybe inside that box? You got a little tipsy and pulled it out not realizing.”
“Absolutely not. Gus wore that collar all the time. He ran off once at the dog park chasing a squirrel, and we thought we’d lost him. Dakota was inconsolable. So we had that made, and we never took it off. The bastard is messing with me. That’s what I think.”
“Who?”
“Who do you think? The goddamned Shadow Man. Or whoever it is that killed her.”
Detective Sharpe hoists himself to his feet, meandering toward the other room. As if he’s just a wandering Columbo and not a steely-eyed detective aiming right for it with the speed and precision of an arrow.
“That wall you’ve got in here. It’s impressive.” What he really means to say is wackadoodle. The technical term for what he thinks I am. “But it worries me. You’ve got the Lowry boy on there. And your own husband.”
“Ex. Ex-husband.”
“I won’t even ask how you ended up with a confidential FBI profile. You’re the head doctor, Mollie, so it’s probably not my place to say this, but I think you need help. Maybe a professional to talk to, to help you figure this all out.”
I join him at the door, stare straight ahead with him at the suspect wall. As many times as I’d studied it, it looks different somehow. “With all due respect, that is what I’m doing. I’m figuring this out. Because somebody has to.”
His laugh is one note, dissonant. He pushes the door shut, my wall disappearing behind it.
“I never could figure out why folks always say that. With all due respect. Right before they throw a great big turd pie in your face.”
“That’s not how I meant it.”
He flips his hand, as if to say don’t bother. “Listen, I don’t know exactly what happened here today, but if this is indeed some kind of message from our guy, you should probably get a hotel. Don’t ya think?”
I nod. Because that’s what is expected of me.
Detective Sharpe leaves me with a promise to arrange an unmarked patrol and to call with any updates. Because that’s what is expected of him. We’re both professionals.
When he reaches his car, he doesn’t turn to wave like usual. He only glances over his shoulder with a cursory nod, a tight purse of his lips, that can only mean my pie hit its target.
I force myself to wait until he’s gone. Then I’m off to the races, nearly tripping over the awful wool rug in a hurry to get back inside to my suspect wall. In the silence, it’s obvious to me now what’s changed.
A few of the Shadow Man articles are rearranged and tacked at the bottom with pushpins.
Shadow Man Continues To Elude Authorities
Was Missing Napa Teen A Victim Of The Shadow Man?
Here Without You: Family Grieves As Search For Missing Allendale Teen Reaches 200th Day
The headlines overlap each other, forming a message. Though I doubt anyone would believe me. Which is probably the point. It’s a message meant for a wackadoodle like me. As the typed words blur together, I barely stay upright.
Shadow Man Was Here.
****
I sit on the floor for hours, thinking of Dakota. Wondering what to do next. I feel drunk, though I’m stone-cold sober. Not for lack of trying. At some point, I’d crawled to the trash can and taken out the bottles, one by one, turning them upside down over my mouth, desperate for one more drop of vodka. The one fat and perfect drop that would finally erase it all. But I’d already drained them dry. I think of the bottle I’d tossed in the kitchen, but the house seems so far away.
I should be frantic. Excited even. This is what I’ve waited for. To be certain Shadow Man killed my daughter. To have a chance to draw him out, to meet him face-to-face. One monster to another. To give him what he deserves. But I’m paralyzed, tied to the stake, by all I did and didn’t do.
What kind of mother hits their child? I finally let myself think it, and now it’s all I can think. I didn’t deserve Dakota, and that’s why she isn’t mine anymore. Another darker thought crawls up from the slimy recesses where I’d banished it. I don’t deserve to live.
The sudden buzz of my phone in my pocket sends the thought scurrying from the light like the earthworms that buried themselves under my dad’s kill-count barrel. I read the text from Sawyer, wondering at his timing.
Are you okay? Do you want me to stop by after work?
I don’t deserve him either, and I’d told him as much before he’d left. Before I’d made him leave. Go back to work, I’d said, after he’d given his statement to Detective Sharpe. You shouldn’t have to deal with my mess. You’ve got your own stuff to worry about.
I’m durable, Mollie. That’s what he’d said, chuckling as he’d tapped a finger to his prosthetic. He meant inside though, where I’m damaged beyond repair, the exact opposite of durable.
I’m alright. No need to come over.
I regret it the moment I hit Send. Because the last time I’d started spiraling, I’d gone on a six-day bender.
Are you sure? Have you seen the news?
While I rush to open my phone’s web browser, two more texts come in. Luciana and her insistent CALL ME! And Jane, who I’m fairly certain has never texted me before: I’m here for you.
I type Shadow Man news into th
e search bar and await my fate. The first result is dated today. Breaking news from the online Napa Valley Register.
Potential New Lead In Shadow Man Case
Forty-two years after his first-known crime, the serial murderer known as the Shadow Man may have just taken a step out of the proverbial shadows. According to an anonymous source close to the Napa Police Department, the family of one of Shadow Man’s seventeen victims discovered an item believed to have been left by the enigmatic killer, possibly as an attempt to taunt police. The spokeswoman for Napa PD, Helen Yi, declined to comment on the incident and would not confirm speculation that the item discovered was associated with fifteen-year-old Dakota Roark, whose remains were discovered at Lake Berryessa in September 2016.
Peter Jacoby, Chief Psychologist at Napa State Hospital, explained that these kinds of messages are not uncommon in serial-murder cases. “These communications serve a psychological purpose for the serial killer. He believes he is smarter than the police and takes joy in playing a cat-and-mouse game. Take the Zodiac, for example. He purported to leave clues to his identity in several ciphers, three of which remain unsolved to this day. Imagine the immense pride he feels—the narcissistic delight—as the police, the FBI, and the world’s most-famous cryptologists try and fail to solve his puzzles, which very likely do not reveal his identity. Other killers, like BTK, planted evidence taken from murder scenes in locations where they knew it would be found. Though these sorts of messages are typical of a serial killer’s psyche, they are less commonly sent directly to the families of victims.”
When asked why Shadow Man may have decided to direct his clue to the family member of a prior victim, Dr. Jacoby replied, “That is the million-dollar question. It’s certainly brazen. Because he hasn’t communicated before, his motives are unclear. But I wonder if for Shadow Man, for whatever reason, that particular victim was personal.”
Media whore, Dr. Jackass again. He must be on the Napa Valley Register’s speed dial. That or he’s sleeping with the editor. I feel like he’s speaking right to me. Now and then, my last day at the hospital.
Shadows Among Us Page 21
