And When I Die, page 24
Ruthie crossed paths with Shannon Kendall the first day of her new junior high, catching a glimpse of her as she glided into the classroom across the hall from hers while gabbing excitedly with another girl (Lyz Cox). Ruthie was mesmerized by Shannon and her long, blue-black curls and smooth skin, the oversized print sweater cinched at her waist with a giant white leather belt, suede purple boots hugging her knees. Like she lived in the pages of YM or Teen.
She was the coolest girl Ruthie had ever seen.
As she sat in the cafeteria next to a girl in her social studies class who’d invited her to lunch, Ruthie stole glances at Shannon, holding court at a crowded table across the room. She wasn’t eating crap from the cafeteria line, or lame bagged lunches like she did. She brought gourmet salads from home in a special pink Tupperware container. Girls hung on her every word and it was clear this beautiful, bubbly mystery girl was the queen bee of Willow Branch Junior High.
In three years, they’d never had any classes together, never had a locker near each other, but it didn’t matter. Everyone knew pretty, popular Shannon, the apple of all eyes, envy of all girls, desire of all boys. In junior high, when the PTA held its annual Valentine’s Day carnation fundraiser, every year, Shannon continually broke her own record for most flowers received. Not only from her cabal of girlfriends, of which there were many—but every boy in school, from the expected jocks, to the invisible boys who knew they never had a shot with Shannon Kendall but were so bowled over by her that secretly gifting her with carnations she’d never acknowledge was enough for them.
For Ruthie, there was no jealousy. Just pure, longing admiration. A careless ponytail looked like the chicest of hairdos. Gobs of spinach never wedged themselves between her two front teeth. She didn’t trip, fall, stutter, or flounder.
Even in junior high, she’d been perfect.
Ruthie had no real plan for how she would get Shannon to be her friend. At first, she worked up the nerve to cast a shy smile at Shannon one morning as she passed her locker. She didn’t see her, of course. She’d breezed right by Ruthie, squealing as she made a beeline for the group of Skip Lane (star tight end, first baseman, CEO father, homemaker mother), Mikey Gold (star receiver, star shooting guard, lawyer mother, CFO father), Sharla Ritter (pom-pom, varsity swim team, student council, doctor mother, doctor father), Lyz with a ‘y’ Cox (cheerleader, varsity volleyball, VP of marketing mother, managing partner father), and Chad Warner (star quarterback, track, star pitcher, mother owned a chain of successful aerobics studios, stockbroker father) at his locker. She watched Shannon throw her arms around Sharla and Liz, while Mikey, leaning against the row of lockers, bit his lip and smiled, just watching her.
Ruthie knew if she wanted to be Shannon’s friend, she’d have to be more proactive than weird, quiet smiles. Her options were few, however. She didn’t play tennis, so going out for the team wasn’t going to work. Not to mention, Shannon was varsity. She’d be laughed off the court before she even picked up a racket. Ruthie couldn’t fathom running track, which left pom-pom squad. Tryouts wouldn’t be held until the spring and her chances of making that were less than tennis and track. Not that she wasn’t a good dancer—she was actually pretty coordinated. The problem was, she didn’t have the personality for it. Too shy, too self-conscious.
She’d have to come up with something else.
Fate intervened a few weeks after school started. She’d lucked out by being given the assignment to work in the administrative office at the start of junior year, which gave her the opportunity to sneak a peek at Shannon’s schedule. That year, they were finally inputting all of the paper schedules into the new IBM computer the school had purchased over the summer. Mrs. McKenzie, the ancient secretary in charge of maintaining students’ schedules, had no idea how to operate the bulky morass of plastic, metal, and wires and entrusted her quiet, hard-working assistant to help her keep it all straight. And just like that, Ruthie magically inserted herself into four of Shannon’s classes: American lit, American history, chemistry, and French. She couldn’t do anything about her calculus or Shannon’s algebra or her second period gym or Shannon’s eighth period gym, which was really tennis practice.
Four out of seven periods was good, though. Really good.
It would give her a chance to get closer to Shannon.
Which was all she ever wanted.
59
RON
Ron ran his hands over the six-day stubble as his eyes flicked to the frosty window next to the front door of his apartment. He’d been trapped in the tiny one-bedroom apartment for days, the tip of his nose icy cold and red from keeping the heat turned down, the bland white walls seeming to close in on him with each passing minute until he was short of breath. His lawyer, a steely, no-nonsense, yet somehow kind and nurturing woman, had ordered him to stay inside and talk to no one until the interview she’d negotiated aired tomorrow night. She wouldn’t even let him go to his brother’s for the holidays, insisting he spend it with her family, all so she could keep an eye on him. In less than twenty-four hours, he would officially go on the record with the truth about his stupid affair with Amber to hopefully quiet the chants about him being a predatory child molester. He’d made one dumb mistake with the wrong twenty-year-old girl who just happened to be a former student.
When you said it out loud, it sounded stupid and simple all at once.
It was clear that he would have to leave Lake Forest. It was even clearer his teaching career was probably over. He’d been placed on administrative leave without pay and he doubted they would have him back. It didn’t matter that he was innocent of all he’d been accused of. The stain was embedded and no school district would want to be tainted by it.
So, what the hell was he supposed to do now? What was he going to do with the rest of his life?
At the moment, he wanted to eat. Ron wandered into his kitchen, already knowing the answer to the question, but somehow unable to resist believing things had changed since his trip in here two hours ago to scrounge the last of some club cracker packages from a long-ago trip to a salad bar. His cupboards still revealed two cans of minestrone, a bag of peanuts down to the dusty skins, a near empty box of Cheerios—not even enough for a bowl—and a handful of ketchup, hot mustard, and salt and pepper packets huddled in one corner. The refrigerator offered an even sadder commentary with its half loaf of bread, shriveled up slice of bologna because he forgot to seal the package shut, and swallow of orange juice. Somehow the prospect of a ketchup and hot mustard sandwich and bowl of minestrone was about as appealing as a ketchup and hot mustard sandwich and bowl of minestrone.
The TV behind him hummed with a commercial from one of those fast-casual restaurants that promised the best night of your life with your five best buddies, complete with a plate of nachos for the table, frothy goblets of sickly-sweet cocktails, and a sizzling platter of fajitas for your entrée. Finished off, of course, with something chocolate and molten. Or strawberry and creamy. Imagining the smell of a hot, freshly cooked cheeseburger and salty, crispy fries made his mouth water.
He glanced at the clock on his cable box. Nine-fifteen on a Sunday night. Who would possibly be out at this hour? Parents were at home dreading the work week, kids wondering what mystery ailment they could conjure up between now and the alarm clock in the morning.
He knew just where to go. A little bar over in Libertyville that was open until three. Dark, anonymous, out of the way.
Perfect.
Ron rushed into his bedroom to throw on a clean-ish pair of jeans resting on the lid of his hamper and a blue cotton sweater hanging in his closet. He shrugged into his coat before grabbing his keys and wallet from the shelf next to the front door, feeling happier than he had in days at the prospect of this clandestine jaunt. Cheeseburgers and fries were always a good cause.
The bitter crush of cold January air rattled through his body as he blew into his cupped hands. The only sounds were the soft shudders of cold breath pushing past his lips, the jingle of his keys as he shook them in his trembling hands, and the squish of his gym shoes gripping the salt-stained pavement as he made his way toward his car, parked in a far corner of the lot.
Ron’s first indication something was wrong was the sound. The growling rev of an engine from across the lot caused him to turn his head, first out of curiosity, then fear as he realized the hulking SUV was barreling toward him. He gasped, his feet momentarily glued to the pavement, the high beams piercing his eyes.
As the roar of the engine grew louder, he commanded the concrete of his feet to move out of the path of the monster, now dangerously close to making contact with him.
Except, he’d made the demand of his feet too late. The SUV plowed into him, mowing him down in a single batter-ramming wallop. Ron wasn’t even sure if he screamed. Just that his torso bent around the hood of the car for mere seconds before he snapped back and thudded to the pavement.
The last thing he remembered before his lids fluttered shut, besides the screech of tires and bright red eyes of the retreating taillights as the car sped away, was that he wasn’t going to get his cheeseburger.
60
ERICA
“Christ, I always knew Regina Knowles was a nutjob, just not enough to try and kill somebody.” Jay threw the morning paper down on the breakfast table in disgust and resumed eating the dense yellow oval of his hard-boiled egg, some of the hard pieces dribbling down the front of his shirt. “Fucking lunatic.”
“Well, she thought she was doing the right thing,” Erica said, scraping the last of her strawberry yogurt out of the carton, spooning it into her mouth. “Protecting her child.”
“She’s been all over Facebook railing against this guy. I mean, you should see some of her posts. She’s fucking unhinged.”
“At least Mr. Byrne is okay. That’s all that matters.”
“It wasn’t even her kid that got killed!” Jay said, disbelieving laughter escaping his lips. “What, does she think she’s the caped crusader of Lake Forest or something? Jesus. Let the police do their fucking jobs.”
“How’d they know it was her?”
“Surveillance at his apartment complex. Apparently, she’d been staking out his place, just waiting for her shot. Too much fucking time on her hands.” Jay scooted back from the table, leaving his breakfast dishes. “Like I said, lunatic.”
“Do you think he’ll press charges?”
“I would, then I’d sue her for every penny she’s got.” Jay poured himself another cup of coffee. “You just can’t go around trying to kill people because you got mad about something. That’s not how the world works.”
“Like I said, I’m sure she thought she was doing the right thing,” Erica said, carrying Jay’s dishes to the sink.
“Now you sound like you’re defending her.”
“What? Oh, no, I’m not, no. All I’m saying is, I’m sure she thought she was doing the right thing.”
Jay scoffed and they both looked up as Jordan thudded down the stairs, beelining for the fridge and her own cup of yogurt, before flipping the hood of her sweatshirt over her head. Erica gawked silently, unable to believe her daughter planned to go to school looking like that.
“Jordan—”
“What?”
Erica sighed and plastered on a smile. Bite your tongue. “I ran into Coach K at the grocery store yesterday.”
“So?”
“Well, we got to talking about pom, and she said you can come back anytime and in fact the squad could really use your leadership right now—”
“You know what, Mom, since you’re so obsessed with pom, why don’t you join?”
“Jordan.” Though he didn’t have to say much, Jay merely uttering the girl’s name caused her to shrink back a little, her eyes pinned to the floor.
“I’m going to be late,” she mumbled, pulling her car keys from her pocket before she quietly closed the front door.
“Babe, give the pom thing a rest,” Jay said. “She obviously doesn’t want to do it anymore.”
“But I just can’t understand why. She’s so good at it. And with Whitney—” She stopped herself. “What I meant to say was, I think it would be good for her.”
“Maybe it’s because of Whitney that she doesn’t want to do it anymore,” Jay said. “Might bring back too many memories, since, you know, that was kind of their thing.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
He kissed her cheek. “You know what, just … stop pushing, all right?”
“Fine, fine. I’ll leave it alone. For now.”
He winked at her then yelled for Kennedy to finish brushing her teeth so he could take her to school. The pair bounded out of the house and Erica busied herself with finishing the breakfast dishes. Her eye fell on the newspaper still on the table. She picked it up and stared at Regina Knowles’s picture, clicking her tongue against her teeth.
61
AVA
Ruthie Stowers.
Ava stared at her computer screen, the words of the report she was supposed to be working on all seemed to morph into that name.
Her brain had traded way thinner for Ruthie Stowers as she woke up this morning, showered, muddled through the breakfast routine with Kyle and Carly. It tugged at her all during her commute, three conference calls, and her lunch meeting. Those four words nagged and teased and Ava couldn’t shake the feeling that something—something—about those four words fit together in some alarming sequence she couldn’t quite grasp.
She felt further spurred to action by the lunacy perpetuated by avenging angel Regina Knowles. How she thought running down Ron Byrne was the answer to whatever ridiculous question was propelling her was astounding to Ava.
It was all too much to fathom. She had to do something.
Ava placed her fingers on the keyboard, a sheen of sweat moist against her upper lip, her underarms burning. The keys rattled against the pads of her quivering fingers and she closed her eyes and typed the name into Google.
Erica. Mitchell.
A LinkedIn profile was the first entry. Ava double-checked that she’d set her LinkedIn searches to anonymous before clicking on Erica’s profile, which featured a grayed-out avatar offering the years her graphic design company had been in business, along with the year she graduated from design school. Glowing recommendations from clients. Not even connected to Jay, whose profile featured a professional headshot and a raft of job titles, companies, connections, and endorsements.
That was it. No other information existed for the woman she’d known for all these years. No other social media profiles. Not a single photograph. Nothing. A plethora of other Erica Mitchells across the country spanning teenager to grandmother filled her screen.
But nothing on her Erica Mitchell.
How was it possible to be a ghost in the twenty-first century?
She scoured her memory in search of a maiden name for Erica, thinking she could type that in, but found nothing for her trouble.
Ava sighed and rubbed a hand over her face, her heart pounding, as she knew the words she had to type next, but terrified to do so. She took a deep breath, her fingers assuming the position on her laptop.
Ruthie. Stowers.
Images of two young girls flooded her computer screen alongside words like, ‘horrific murder,’ ‘brutal stabbing,’ and ‘vicious attack.’ Ava leaned closer to the screen to study the two grainy pictures attached to each other. The girl on the right was undeniably gorgeous. Megawatt, movie star smile, jet-black hair teased out of the frame, dark smoldering eyes, sunken dimples, a pound of glittery makeup, detectable even in an ancient black and white photo. There was no denying this girl was stunning.
Ava’s eyes flicked over to the other girl, scared of the story it would tell.
The girl was cute. Plainly so. Round, chubby face. Tentative smile. Her hair also teased high and mighty. Minimal make up. A perfectly nice-looking girl who probably would disappear in proximity to Shannon Kendall, superstar. A girl who would fade into the wallpaper.
Ava blew up the picture, searching for remnants of Erica Mitchell, and finding none. No straight white teeth, plump lips, button nose. No hazel eyes. Not to mention, the ages were wrong. Erica Mitchell was forty-seven. If Ruthie Stowers was sixteen in 1986, she’d be over fifty now.
Except Melody had seen something in Erica that plucked the chord of Ruthie Stowers.
That had to mean Erica was buried in there somewhere.
Didn’t it?
There was a mountain of stories, her eyes skimming over the details of one humid night in the late spring of 1986 in the wealthy Houston, Texas neighborhood of Bellaire when sixteen-year-old Ruthie Stowers stabbed her sixteen-year-old classmate, Shannon Kendall, to death with a pair of scissors.
In every picture of Ruthie following her arrest, her chin was tucked into her chest, hiding from the cameras, shunning the glare of the spotlight. As though she wanted to fold into herself and disappear.
Just like Erica.
Ava jammed the print icon on her laptop repeatedly, the printer spitting out pages as fast as she could print them. After an hour of skim and print, she gathered up the sheaf of papers and secured them with a thick rubber band, shoving the bundle into her briefcase to read when she got home.
Find Erica.
No. Scratch that.
Find Ruthie.
62
RON
He winced as he limped over to the dresser, a lightning bolt of agony shooting across his right ankle. The doctor told him he’d probably always feel prickles of pain, but it was nothing serious. Ron had scoffed. Nothing serious. Like it was no big deal getting hit by a car.
