And When I Die, page 22
“After being held for questioning in the murder of East Lake Forest High School junior, Whitney Dean, Ron Byrne was released today, the police citing his alibi for the night of the murder. Byrne’s attorney, Gail Emmets, emailed this statement to us earlier today, saying, in effect, there were a trough of false and egregious statements made with regard to Mr. Byrne and his teaching career and that he would ‘have his day’ in order to set the record straight. Although she did not indicate what that meant, we can safely assume this will mean an interview of some sort in the near future. Until then, Byrne has been released and police have not indicated they have any additional suspects or persons of interest at this time. Reporting live in Lake Forest, Wendy Sheridan, Channel 4 News.”
An audible gasp had gone around the café at the news of Mr. Byrne’s release and the barista quickly turned the sound back down on the TV, the void filled with the churn and whir of coffee machines and resumption of alt-rock crooning softly from the overhead sound system.
Dionne whirled around, her eyes hard and cold on Jordan. “Too bad, so sad for you. They’re coming for you.”
“Yeah.” Carly cleared her throat again as her voice cracked. “You’d better be careful.”
Jordan’s shoulders tightened and she felt her legs lock into place. They were right. The police would be back now, pressing her all over again about where she was that Saturday.
Now she was in trouble.
She gulped and forced her legs to move, bumping against Dionne and Carly as she rushed out of Coffee City, trembling all over now, the sounds of the weather man presenting tomorrow’s forecast of partly cloudy with a chance of rain fading behind her.
52
AVA
“Didn’t I read that they’d arrested someone? A teacher or something,” Ava’s brother, Frank, said as he handed her a glass of white wine. He grunted a little as he settled onto one of Ava’s barstools, his beer gut drooping over the top of his baggy jeans, his metal studded bracelet knocking against the counter.
Ava’s stomach seized, an all-too-familiar sensation these days. Selfishly, she’d been elated when Ron Byrne had been arrested. If he did it, that meant Carly hadn’t, though it still didn’t tell her why Carly had a bloody sweatshirt and an X-ACTO knife.
But for a moment, a glorious moment, her daughter was innocent of murder.
Except now that he’d been released, she had to confront the question of her daughter’s possible guilt all over again.
And now, it was the thick of the holiday season. There had been Thanksgiving at her parents in Minneapolis and now Christmas at her house. Her son, Jimmy, had arrived a few days ago from college, taller, it seemed, more handsome, if that was possible. Her older brother and his fiancée, Melody, had flown in last night and her parents would blow in on Christmas morning. Between shopping, decorating, hosting, and cooking, Ava convinced herself that she would just get through the holidays and then, she and Kyle would sit down with Carly and extract a confession from their daughter. They’d take her to the police station then blow their world apart.
“He had an alibi for that night,” she responded to her brother’s question. “They had to let him go.”
“And they don’t have any other suspects?” he asked.
Guilt and fear hammered her insides as she quickly gulped her wine. “I’m not sure.”
“Was Carly friends with her?” Melody asked as she fluffed her hands through her wiry dark waves, her modest engagement ring flashing in the kitchen light, her accent a mash-up of her Texas upbringing and summers spent in Mexico with her extended family.
“Yeah, they uh … they were on the pom squad together, so she and Whitney were pretty close.”
“Melody was telling me earlier a girl she went to high school with was murdered too,” Frank said, pointing his wineglass toward his fiancée.
“Oh. Wow. Really?” Ava said as she rolled around her recently liberated wrist, still getting used to the freedom.
Melody quickly swallowed her wine. “It was my senior year. The girl who was killed was a year behind me. They both were.”
“What do you mean ‘both’?” Ava asked.
“It was another student.”
Fear surged through Ava. “Another student?” she asked, her voice raspy.
“I can’t remember all the details, it’s been so long, but Ruthie stabbed her. Shannon. Ruthie stabbed Shannon to death.”
Ava gripped the kitchen counter, her bowels cranking, her mouth dry and gummy. She whirled around toward the refrigerator to fill her wineglass with ice and to keep her brother and future sister-in-law from seeing her distress.
“Wow,” she repeated, hoping she sounded appropriately horrified as she watched the ice chunks shoot into her glass. “How awful.”
“It never made any sense,” Melody said. “Shannon was one of those pretty, popular girls. You know, varsity tennis, pom-pom squad, drama club—”
Ava bit her bottom lip. “Sounds just like Whitney.”
“Were they friends and got into a fight or what?” Frank asked.
Melody shook her head. “No, they weren’t friends. I think they may have had a few classes together, but that was about it. There wasn’t a trial, so Ruthie didn’t have to testify and she never did any interviews, never wrote a book, so we never really knew why. A lot of people thought maybe Ruthie was jealous of Shannon or something and that’s why she did it, but that didn’t make any sense either.”
“Whatever it was, it sounds like some crazy shit,” Frank said.
“My sister got interviewed a couple of times since she and Ruthie were sort of friendly.” Melody ran her finger along the rim of her wineglass. “April always said she was the last person you’d ever suspect.”
“She still in jail?” Frank asked, scratching the bottom of one bushy sideburn, which stopped just below his jaw.
“Nope. Because she was a minor, she only got ten years.” Melody sipped her wine. “Don’t know what happened to her after that.”
“Ten years? For killing someone? That’s bogus,” Frank mumbled as he opened another bottle of wine.
“Yeah. Gosh. How awful,” Ava said, her voice croaking.
“I heard later Shannon’s mother died. Heart attack, I think. My mother always said it was really a broken heart. Her father remarried, had a couple of kids with his new wife.” Melody took a sip of wine. “Life goes on.”
“Jeez. No kidding,” Frank said as he poured more wine into Ava’s glass. “Well, sis, I hope they catch your murderer here before too long.”
Ava’s arms prickled with goosebumps and she nodded feebly. “Yeah, me too.”
53
LAUREN
Lauren fingered the red top of the storage bin, ‘Whitney’ scrawled across it in black Magic Marker. Whitney’s box of Christmas decorations. She’d always given the kids their own set of decorations, adding to it each year with the little crafts they made in school, or ornaments they saw in the stores each holiday that would leave them incomplete if they didn’t get them right that minute: singing Nutcrackers, jingling bells, blinking reindeers. Mostly though, she’d been the one to make the deposits into their boxes, sometimes choosing a theme such as Swarovski-encrusted snowmen and snowflakes, or ornaments from around the world like bagpipe-playing Santas or Fabergé egg replicas. There were always too many, the tightfisted Christmases of her childhood—filled with pathetic disintegrating Charlie Brown Christmas trees wrapped in cheap red and green yarn, cylinders of tube socks underneath—never far from her mind.
Once upon a time, despite her misgivings, she used to invite her parents over for Christmas every year. Her parents hadn’t approved of her marrying a Black man and having brown babies, didn’t like her clothes, her big house, or the luxury cars she upgraded every few years. Still, despite their condemnation of every aspect of her life, she was their only child, so Lauren felt she had to try.
So, every year, she extended the invitation. And every year, it was a disaster. Her mother brought half-eaten vegetable platters pilfered from her office holiday parties. Her father brought boxes of old, tangled tinsel, dusty strings of Christmas lights pocked with burned-out bulbs, and mangy stockings reeking of mothballs, always hurt when she refused to put any of it anywhere near her tree or her kids. Her mother criticized the poofy velvet dresses with stiff crinoline slips she dressed Whitney and her stepdaughter, Janine, in, while her father unplugged the tree every time her back was turned.
And never any presents for their biological granddaughter. Definitely nothing for Janine, whose existence Lauren learned about when she was nine months pregnant with Whitney. Her mother, a woman whose name Steve probably never knew and definitely didn’t even remember from a bachelor party fling he was subsequently forced to fess up to, showed up on Lauren’s doorstep one day with two-year-old Janine and said she couldn’t do it anymore.
Instead of even something benign as nice sweaters for the girls, her parents passed out pamphlets on starving children in Africa with a note clipped inside declaring that what they would have spent on presents was used to donate to the cause in Whitney and Janine’s names. The year Whitney was seven, Janine nine, Parker a newborn, Lauren bought gifts for them from Grandma and Grandpa. Her parents flipped, shredding the cashmere sweaters, ripping the Barbie dolls from Whitney’s hands, her mother throwing them in the trash, her father berating her for her “irresponsible stunt,” while the kids howled with terror, both her parents fuming they wouldn’t be made to reimburse her for her gross excess.
That was the last straw. She stopped inviting them to any family gatherings at all. Inexplicably, they were shocked at the exclusions. It was the end of any formal relationship, their interactions limited to Lauren sending the family Christmas card and exchanging terse, uncomfortable phone calls for birthdays. She was shocked they came to Whitney’s service. Apparently, even they had limits to their heartlessness.
Lauren looked down at the box, running her palm against the hard plastic. What was the protocol for celebrating Christmas when your child had been brutally murdered? Did you put on a happy face and spout platitudes about gratitude and tradition? Did you ignore it, the guilt of celebration and reveling in good cheer threatening to swallow you from the inside? Did you trim the tree with one ornament honoring your dead child?
She pushed the box away, tears pricking her eyes. Lauren hoisted herself up from the floor of the basement and went upstairs, the sanctuary of her bedroom calling her. She stumbled toward the bed, flopping into it and letting the tears flow. From inside the pocket of her jeans, her phone dinged. She blew her nose into a Kleenex before digging the squawking device from her pocket.
At first, she tilted her head to the side, not sure what she was seeing.
Then she got angry.
A news alert previewing an interview that Ron Byrne would give in the New Year, sharing his side of the story regarding what his lawyer called his false arrest for the murder of Whitney Dean.
Rage ripped through Lauren like a hot spear. Tell his story? Why should he get to tell his story? What about Whitney’s story? What about her child?
Her fingers trembled as she dialed Steve’s number, pacing the room as she waited for him to pick up. The call went to voicemail and she tried four more times, getting the same result. She ran downstairs in search of her purse, specifically the card of that reporter who was on Channel 4 every night. Wendy something. Lauren should be the one telling stories about Whitney. Not these cable news talking heads, these pedophile teachers who got away with murder.
The card poked out of the inside pocket of her purse and she plucked it out with two fingers, slamming it down on the kitchen counter and dialing. She sniffed and waited, irritated when the call went to voicemail.
“Hi, Miss Sheridan, this is Lauren Dean, Whitney’s mother. I’m ready to talk about my daughter.”
54
AVA
The air hummed with the jingle of Salvation Army bells and a small band of carolers in full Dickensian garb stood in front of the fountain at the head of Market Square, their breath billowing out in song, sporadic bits of snow swirling around them like confetti. Behind them, the bell of an approaching Metra train jangled. Strings of sparkling white lights, garlands, and wreaths blanketed the tiny shops, while ice sculptures of snowmen with carrots for noses, and real-life Nutcrackers filled the courtyard. Some weary shoppers clutching coffee cups parked themselves on the black metal benches and at the wrought iron tables that ringed the lawn as they listened to the carolers.
“Hard to believe by this time next year, I’ll be married,” Melody said, pulling her coat closer around her small frame as she and Ava stepped out of the bookstore and strolled in the direction of Coffee City, glittery red, gold, green, and silver shopping bags swinging from their arms. Getting swept up in the revelry of the holiday had loosened Ava’s shoulders considerably as she shoved her hot, gnawing guilt about Carly down into the farthest cavern she could find in her soul. Get through the holidays had become her persistent mantra.
“It’s hard to believe someone is about to get my brother down the aisle for the first time. Ever,” Ava said. “Woman, you are a saint.”
“Only a little,” Melody said, and the two women giggled.
Erica stepped out of Coffee City, a handful of shopping bags adorning her wrists, a large coffee cup in one hand, the bottom fringe of her black wool poncho fluttering against the top of her tall black leather boots.
“Oh, no,” Ava groaned, as she weakly returned Erica’s excited wave. Another happy hour invitation was coming, she just knew it.
“What’s wrong?” Melody asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” she murmured before forcing the corners of her lips into a pained smile. “Happy holidays,” Ava said brightly as the three women came together.
“Happy holidays to you, too,” Erica said as she pulled Ava toward her, who allowed for the dual cheek kiss ritual to boot. Erica glanced at Melody and smiled uncertainly.
“Erica, this is my sister—well soon-to-be sister-in-law, Melody. She and my brother are visiting for the holidays. Melody, this is Erica Mitchell.”
“Erica.” Melody paused before slowly grasping Erica’s extended hand.
“Looks like you’re getting in some last-minute shopping as well,” Erica said, quickly dropping Melody’s hand and gesturing to Ava’s bags.
“Yes, and thankfully, this is the last of it,” Ava said. “I’m officially done and if I don’t have it by now, it’ll have to wait until next Christmas. Are you all done?”
“I’m heading into the bookstore to grab a book for Jay and then that’s it, thank goodness,” Erica said. “How’s Carly? Jimmy?”
Ava ignored the pang of panic piercing her chest. “Carly’s okay. It’s been great having Jimmy home, of course.”
“How was his first semester?”
Ava smiled in spite of herself. “Dean’s List.”
“Well congratulations, Mom,” Erica said. “Sounds like he’s off to a great start.”
“So far, so good. How about you, how are things?”
“Busy as ever. Business is going really well, and Jay’s heading into yet another acquisition, which makes him crazy, which means I’m crazy. Makes the holidays look like a cakewalk.”
“And Jordan?”
“Oh, you know, like Carly, okay. Day to day.”
“Have you seen Lauren at all?”
Erica shook her head. “Not since Whitney’s memorial, and even then it was for a few seconds. I’ve called her a couple of times, sent a few text messages, but no response.”
“First Christmas,” Ava said. “Can’t say I blame her for hiding out.”
“I know. Terrible.” Erica looked at her watch. “Oh, listen, hon, I’ve got to run, but maybe we can have drinks in the New Year, get caught up?”
Ava winced inside, wondering how soon to beg off from that little get-together. “Sure, sounds great. Let me look at my schedule.”
“Wonderful.” She smiled at Melody. “Nice to meet you. Enjoy the rest of your trip.”
“Thank you.” Melody paused. “Erica.”
Erica rushed off and Ava and Melody ambled down the sidewalk toward the coffee shop. Melody frowned as she looked back over her shoulder in Erica’s direction.
“What’s wrong?” Ava asked.
“I—” She shook her head. “I’m probably just imagining things.”
“What?” Ava repeated.
Melody rolled her eyes and shook her head. “This is probably because I was talking about it the other night, but you remember I was telling you about the murder that happened when I was in high school, how the one girl stabbed the other girl?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“It’s—God, this is going to sound crazy.”
“What?”
“Your friend, Erica. She looks like Ruthie Stowers.”
Ava frowned. “Who?”
“I mean, she’s thinner—way thinner—and the teeth and the nose are different. Not as pale. The eyes, but…” Melody nodded and looked over her shoulder again. “I would almost swear on it.”
“Wait, who do you think she looks like?” Ava repeated, still confused.
“Ruthie. The girl I was telling you about the other night. The girl who went to jail for murdering another girl.”
Ava grabbed Melody’s arm, bringing them both to a stop. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute! You think Erica stabbed someone? Murdered a girl?”
