And When I Die, page 31
She’d hunted high and low for an email address for Alice Stowers, but found nothing, instead taking a chance and sending her a DM through Facebook in the vain hope she’d see it.
That had been two days ago and so far, nothing.
Like everyone else, Lauren’s interview had also been preoccupying her thoughts. Her Facebook feed continued to be lit up with posts reacting to it, about half cheering her on for putting some pressure on the police, half dismayed she’d fingered Jordan, albeit cryptically. Ava fell in the camp of dismay, well aware of where that finger could really be pointed.
From across the table, Kyle heaved another big sigh. “All right, Mate, what is going on with you?”
Ava blinked and focused on a perturbed Kyle, his head cocked and face scrunched up in irritation.
“What do you mean?”
“These past few weeks. You’ve been distracted and holed up in your office way more than usual, all hours of the night and morning. And I hear the printer constantly running. What the hell have you got up to?”
Ava hesitated, not ready to tell Kyle her suspicions about Erica. Her fears about Carly. She licked her lips and shrugged. “It’s nothing. Psycho Kitty has me on a huge project. It’s just taking up a lot of time, that’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah.”
“How long is it going to take, then?”
Ava pursed her lips. “I don’t know.”
Kyle wiped his mouth with his napkin and leveled his gaze at her. “You’d tell me if it was something else, right, Mate? Something serious?”
“Like what?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re the one keeping secrets.”
Ava’s heart fluttered. It was tempting to spill it all. He’d think she was nuts, which these days, she wondered.
Instead, she reached across the table and grabbed his hand, kissing it. “English, just bear with me a little while.”
The hard line of his lips melted into the sexy, lopsided grin that had first intoxicated her at the Lambda Chi party her roommate, Skyler, had dragged her to junior year. She’d always thought love at first sight was a crock until she met Kyle.
“Okay,” he whispered and squeezed her hand. “But I’m serious Mate, if there’s anything—”
“I know.”
He winked and they gave each other knowing smiles and she asked him to finish telling her about his deal, deciding to listen in earnest this time.
And that’s when the thought drifted into her head.
“Yearbooks,” she whispered out loud.
Kyle squinted. “What?”
Ava threw down her napkin and grabbed her purse, afraid if she didn’t act on this impulse right now, she’d lose it somehow, though the thought was now stamped onto her brain.
“I have to run to the restroom,” she said as she scooted back from the table, dropping a quick kiss on his bewildered cheek as she ran to the back of the restaurant toward the restrooms. She groaned as she tried to decipher which was the ladies’ room, thwarted by the cutesy, nearly indiscernible illustrations meant to stand in for gender. She hated that shit.
She figured out the right one and bolted inside while digging into her purse for her phone. Tremors surged through her fingers as she pulled up one of the yearbook sites she’d been fooling around with the other night and took a deep breath and typed Patricia Stowers into the search function, wondering why it took her so long to connect those dots.
“Yes,” Ava whispered triumphantly, smiling as the name Patricia Davis, Stowers in parentheses, popped up. It had to be her.
She went back to Facebook and typed in Patricia’s married name.
Her profile popped up instantly.
Ava gasped as she leaned closer to the screen to examine the smiling, euphoric image of Patricia Davis, an HR VP in Houston, Texas. Same chin. Same cheekbones. Same wide forehead. Practically the same nose, though the thin taper of Patricia’s was a little closer to Erica’s than Ruthie’s flat, wide one and the yellow overbite of Patricia’s smile was no match for Erica’s pristine little white rows.
But there was no mistaking it—the two women were related.
Mesmerized, Ava scrolled through Patricia’s timeline. Unlike her other sister, Patricia was an active and engaged Facebook user, constantly posting pictures of her kids’ sports games, date nights with her husband, boozy tropical trips with her gang of girlfriends, funny memes, and silly videos. Her most recent update was late last night.
And she was online now.
Roll the dice.
Ava clicked on the messenger app and typed her spiel about doing a project on Ruthie.
The response came within seconds.
What do you want to know about my sister?
77
ERICA
“Mrs. Mitchell, what I’m saying is, East Lake Forest may no longer be the best environment for Jordan.”
“No, what you’re saying is, you’re kicking my daughter out of school.”
Principal Bain sighed and cocked her head as she looked at Erica, a mixture of pity and resolve on her face. She’d been summoned to the principal’s office this morning after Jordan called her in tears yesterday to take her out of school. The principal had said something about discussing Jordan’s future at East Lake Forest and that she wished to meet with her and Jay, who’d left town this morning to finalize his merger. Erica wished she didn’t have to deal with this alone, as he would have blown in here, swung his dick around, and by the time he was done, Jordan would have been appointed principal.
“Whitney’s murder … it’s been quite a blow to the student body. She was so beloved. Homecoming queen. Honor Society. Pom-pom. President of the French Club. Secretary for the Young Women’s Club. She was quite respected and looked up to here. Very popular.”
“Jordan is also very popular,” Erica shot back.
Principal Bain nodded slowly. “Yes, Jordan has always been an admirable young lady. Pom-pom squad, Honor Society, class boards. Very admirable.”
“I’m still not understanding what popularity has to do with you wanting to kick my daughter out of school.”
“I’m afraid Mrs. Dean’s interview has put an unfortunate focus on Jordan. A distracting focus.”
“She didn’t mention my daughter by name,” Erica said. “Why is she being punished for innuendo?”
Principal Bain folded her hands together as she delivered one of those condescendingly warm smiles people gave you when they wanted you to bend to their will and didn’t understand why you hadn’t just given in already. A message Erica knew how to send all too well.
“I just feel that Jordan’s continued presence here will be a disruption both for her and her fellow students, and it might be best if she were in an environment where she could just … blend in as it were.”
Erica flinched inwardly. How did everything go so wrong? With Whitney gone, things were supposed to turn around for Jordan. She could go back to pom squad free and clear, and definitely would have been named captain. Not co-captain. Captain. Homecoming queen, prom queen—the sky was the limit.
Instead, it was backfiring in spectacular fashion. Lauren accusing Jordan of murdering her precious, utterly awful, utterly vicious daughter. Her fellow classmates were turning against her. The principal wanted her gone.
This was not how this was supposed to go. None of it.
Erica gathered up her purse, her resentment cranking inside her like a furnace as she stood up, commanding her shoulders to snap back in haughtiness.
“I’m keeping Jordan out for the rest of the week and my husband and I will decide if we want her to come back.”
“Mrs. Mitchell, I—”
“Goodbye,” Erica said, huffing toward the door of the office and flinging it open before she slammed it shut.
78
AVA
Even at this early hour of seven forty-five a.m., the dawning days of April, vapors of heat floated up from the asphalt as the white-hot sun beat down on the streets of Houston. Despite the frost of the AC billowing out of the vents in voluminous clouds, Ava’s palms itched with sweat, leaving wet smears on the steering wheel of her rental SUV as she pulled up to the little coffee shop Patricia Davis had directed her to for their meeting. She took several deep breaths, but the action did little to quell the churning in her stomach over this impending get-together.
Ava had been so shocked by Patricia’s quick—and agreeable—reply, she could only stare at her phone in a stupor for a few minutes before hastily responding that she was working on a book idea about the murder of Shannon Kendall. She didn’t know why she said that, or how on earth she planned to back up the lie if the woman started firing questions at her about when the book was coming out, or who else she’d interviewed. To her relief, Patricia had merely replied she had some time that afternoon and asked when would be good for a phone conversation. She was about to write back when it occurred to Ava she could hop on a plane and talk to the woman in person. She had a stockpile of PTO and despite Psycho Kitty’s best efforts to run her ragged, was between projects, so being out of the office a couple of days wasn’t going to bring her division to its knees. Patricia was open to it, saying she’d caught her at a good time, as she was headed out of town herself. Though he was used to these last-minute emergencies she sometimes had to tend to, Kyle was perturbed when she told him that night as they were going to bed, though he wearily told her to have a good trip. Carly had been unfazed, like Kyle, numb and accepting of these urgent, out-of-the-blue trips. She’d lied that she was going to Atlanta for a few days, not wanting to invite any additional questions. The less said, the better. She’d quickly made reservations using her deep stash of points and miles and hopped on a plane yesterday morning, smacking into a dense, impenetrable wall of heat and humidity when she stepped out of the airport, even in April.
After checking into her hotel, she’d beelined for the public library until it closed, holing up in various research rooms, on the hunt for articles she’d been unable to access online, poring over decades-old microfiche, yellowing newspapers, and ancient magazines, her unease swelling with each new uncovered article or tidbit. Unable to tamp down the growing horror that a killer was in their midst.
The clock on the dash ticked nine-fifteen. Now or never.
Ava gathered up her purse and large leather tote bulging with her research and headed inside. The whir of machines grinding beans and whipping up coffee drinks rammed into her ears as she walked inside, her eyes scanning the room for Patricia, seeing only an old man leafing through his newspaper and young woman hunched over a laptop, both with steaming cups of coffee on the tables in front of them, even in the stifling heat. The café featured an odd tropical theme with fish stenciled onto the water-blue walls and affixed to the beige floor tiles. Ava looked at her watch and wondered if she should chance an iced coffee. She was already so wired, the caffeine might shoot her through the roof like a rocket.
She chose a secluded table in the back and took the chair facing the door. She folded her hands in front of her and waited, her nerves twitching like they did before a big presentation, particularly when she knew she would eventually have all the mansplainers in the room cowering on their knees. The moment when everything would turn on a dime.
It was coming. She could feel it.
The tinkle of the bell over the door pulled her gaze up. Her breath quickened at the sight of the woman walking through the door, scanning the room in search of a stranger.
Erica.
Or more precisely, her sister.
Ava’s mouth dropped open into a dumbfounded ‘o’ as Patricia spotted her and smiled. She strode over and held her hand out, the bright purple acrylics of her fingernails catching the morning sunlight.
“You must be Ava,” she said, her throaty, Texas drawl snapping Ava out of her malaise and forcing her to her feet.
“I—yes, I am. I mean…” Ava stuttered as she took Patricia’s hand, giving what she knew was a far cry from her typically vigorous handshake. Pull your shit together. She squared her shoulders. “Ava Ewing.”
Patricia looked down at Ava still furiously pumping her hand. “Everything all right, Sweets? This heat scrambling your brain?”
Ava forced herself to let go of Patricia’s hand, though she couldn’t stop staring. The differences and similarities were jarring and expected all at once. Patricia was thin, like her sister—though more fit than skeletal—her orange print leggings stopping at her knees and orange tank top hugging an ample chest. Her thick black hair was pulled back into a high, tight ponytail, accentuating her round face and dark, wide-set eyes, the lids of which were rimmed in thick wedges of eyeliner. A spray of tiny black moles peppered one cheek, her pink frosted lips spitting out a husky Texas twang that rolled off her tongue with ease. How long had it taken Erica to erase her y’all’s and fixin’ to’s? Patricia’s wide-open warmth and direct demeanor stood in sharp contrast to Erica’s cold, condescending manner and reinforced Ava’s long-held belief that growing up in the same house was no guarantee of duplicate outcomes.
“What, uh … what can I get you to drink?” Ava asked, still mesmerized.
“Oh, Sweets, I got it,” Patricia said as she headed toward the counter. “You just get yourself together.”
Ava sank into her chair, her heart racing, all the questions she’d planned to ask now a hopeless word jumble in her brain. She could only sit and wait for Patricia to join her, still unsure of what she was going to say.
“Now.” Patricia slid into the chair across from her, a sweaty plastic cup of iced tea in her hand. She fanned herself with the batch of napkins in her other hand before she flashed Ava another smile. “You get your brain working?”
Ava shook her head as though she was casting off cobwebs. “As my daughter would say, you’ve got me shook.”
“Why’s that, Sweets? Am I uglier in person?” Patricia winked, a husky laugh escaping her lips.
“Oh, no, it’s—it’s not that.” Ava sighed, squirming under the woman’s friendly, questioning gaze. “Patricia, I have to confess. I got you here under false pretenses.”
“My favorite kind,” Patricia said, taking a healthy slug of tea as she looked Ava up and down. “Don’t look like you’re gonna shoot me, not with that Tory Burch hanging off the back of your chair. Of course, maybe that’s how you got it.”
Ava laughed nervously. “No, nothing like that.”
“All right, so what’d you get me out here for?”
“I—” Ava picked up her phone, scrolling through her surreptitious pictures of Erica before holding it out to Patricia. “Is this your sister?”
Patricia took the phone, squinting as she studied the shots of Erica, a small, wry smile tugging at her lips before she looked up and let out a long, genial laugh, drawing a look of irritation from the old man before he resumed reading his paper. “Sweets, now you know good and well by looking at the two of us that we couldn’t be anything but related.”
“So you do recognize her?”
“Do I recognize—of course I recognize her. That’s Ruthie.” Patricia looked down at the phone again, shaking her head before bursting into laughter once more. “Though, as Mr. Davis would say, got-dang she’s had a lot of work done.” She passed the phone back to Ava. “Now, what’s she calling herself these days, ’cause I know it’s not Ruthie.”
“She goes by the name of Erica Mitchell.”
Patricia took a gulp of tea. “Erica, huh?”
“Do you know Melody Gonzalez?”
“I mean, I knew of Melody, but I didn’t know her. What, she saying I stole her boyfriend back in the day or something?”
“Melody’s engaged to my brother and we ran into Erica one day over the holidays and she recognized her. Told me about Ruthie. And Shannon.”
Patricia frowned. “Wait, so you said you ran into Ruthie—Erica—whatever she’s calling herself—does that mean you know her, like you’re friends with her?”
“I wouldn’t say we’re friends. Social acquaintances, really, but yes, I have known her, gosh, twelve, thirteen years,” Ava said. “Our daughters used to take dance class together, went to the same schools.”
Patricia let out a low chuckle. “Well, got-dang. Things I didn’t have on my bingo card sure is filling up fast sitting here talking to you.”
Ava inhaled. There was no use in beating around the bush with Patricia. Spit it out.
“Listen, the reason why I wanted to talk to you is that there was a murder in our community and there’s a connection to Erica. Ruthie.”
Patricia let out a slow hiss of air. She closed her eyes for several moments, clicking her tongue against her teeth, nodding. Seeming to understand. She finally leveled her gaze at Ava. “A connection.” The two words weren’t a question, but rather, said flatly, matter-of-factly. Undisputed truth. “What’s the connection? Exactly?”
“Erica’s daughter, Jordan, was best friends with the girl who was murdered—Whitney. Whitney Dean. Right before Whitney’s murder, the two got into a huge fight. A week later, Whitney was dead.”
“How?”
“Multiple stab wounds.”
“Lord, Jesus. Just like Shannon.” She tilted her head staring at Ava for several moments. “And you think it was Ruthie’s daughter—my—” The woman stopped, her gaze traveling up to the ceiling. “My niece?”
Ava hesitated. “There are a lot of similarities between the two murders, between Shannon and Whitney, and I think it warrants a closer look,” she finally said.
“I’ll ask you again. You’re saying you think my sister’s daughter murdered this girl. Just like Ruthie murdered Shannon when she was sixteen?”
“I’m just following the evidence.”
“And what’s the evidence tell you?”
Ava looked down at her purse, the corner of the birthday party invitation peeking at her. She plucked the invitation from her purse, holding it to her chest. “Was Ruthie homecoming queen at her high school?”
