Run (13 page)

“You think you’re real smart, don’t you?” he says. “Real tough.”

I keep my expression completely flat. “You don’t even know.”

He seems undeterred. “Well maybe I want to know,” he says.

Wrong response
. Right there behind the
new books
rack I kick him in the nuts so hard that he can’t yell out.

“Do not mess with me, perv,” I say.

He slumps to the floor. In my past life I’d tell Mom about my attempts to try on a new persona whenever we moved. I’ve never tried this one before. I’ve never been the tough-talking bitch.

Seems I am now. And I kind of like it.

ON MY WAY TO THE front door I glance over at the gasping kid and linger like I’m not afraid that he’ll tell on me by looking at the community bulletin board. That’s the place where people try to sell things, give away stuff nobody really wants, and promote local events that promise to fill an afternoon with fun, but seldom do. Sometimes I see flyers with missing kids’ pictures there, but not today.

Not mine or Hayden’s. At least not yet.

An idea comes to me. Somehow in the nightmare that my life has become, I manage a smile. I take a
lost cat
poster from the board. Seconds later, I turn the key on the ignition and pull out into the trickle of traffic.

I STOP IN AT THE local newspaper. I’d seen the sign on the drive in to the library. I remember almost everything. That’s one thing I know I’m good at. The
North Bend Courier
is in a nondescript strip mall. It smells of pizza—the restaurant next door has a powerful kitchen exhaust system.

“Is it free to put in a classified ad for a found cat?” I ask, my face melting into a look of worry, hope, and concern.

A girl looks up from a desk by the front door. She is in her twenties with a halo of black hair that I admire for its sheer mass, if nothing else. She sits in a cubicle by the door and if the space were any smaller I think she’d have to cut her hair. Or I could. I didn’t do that bad of a job of my own on that ferry boat ride.

“Yeah,” she says. “Tracy can help you.”

I go over to a desk in a deadly quiet newsroom. Tracy is her early twenties too. Her hair is long, black, and flows like a silky curtain. Her nameplate says she’s the assistant editor, but when I look around, I think that she’s probably the boss of the whole sad little office.

“I’ll take the info,” she says in a clipped and excited voice. I wonder what she’d be like on the scene of a homicide if she’s this thrilled about a found cat.

I give her bogus contact information, including Leanne’s name and a phone number culled from a boy offering home clean-up services. Then I provide the specifics of this phantom cat and for some reason I lay it on thick. Her unbridled appreciation for what I’m doing for the cat kind of makes me head in to the realm of over-the-top.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I kind of want to keep her. But my boyfriend’s allergic.”

“So unlucky,” she says.

“He’s kind of a creep lately. I actually caught him looking at disgusting porn. I’ll probably dump him, but the landlord says I can’t have a cat anyway.”

“That’s so wrong. Pets are people too.”

I wasn’t sure if she really said that or if I’m going crazy.

“Can you describe her?”

I nod wistfully.

“She’s kind of creamy and orange. Like a big orange sherbet float. I know I shouldn’t name her, but I’ve been calling her PC for Peaches and Cream.”

“That’s so sweet!”

“She’s cute. Cuddly and cute.” I’ve got what I wanted so I wrap it up. “I know someone is probably crying their eyes out right now.”

“We’ll find her family,” she says, her almond eyes telegraphing complete certainty.

If I actually had a lost cat, I’d take my information to Tracy, for sure.

A moment later, I’m out the door. My name, at least on my business card, is Tracy Lee. I’m not Asian. But Lee could be any kind of name. It’ll work for what I need it to do.

Chapter Ten

Cash: $226.50.

Food: Three granola bars.

Shelter: Car.

Weapons: Gun, scissors, ice pick.

Plan: Find out what happened to Leanne, Shannon and Megan.

THE HOUSE LOOKS JUST AS it did when it appeared in the papers online. It is a single-story rambler with white shutters and matching window boxes, though they are empty now. In front stands a monkey-puzzle tree that has grown nearly as tall as the roofline. That’s the only difference that I can really discern as I get out of my car. It is almost lunchtime and the sandwich made me sick. I had to stop at a McDonald’s in Burien to use the bathroom. It might have been the turkey and pesto. But it’s more likely nerves. Judging by their photo in the paper, Don and Debra Blume would be in their mid-sixties by now, which I hope means they are retired and at home. My hope is confirmed when I peer through the window of the garage and see two cars. One, surprisingly, is a Ford Focus. I’ll act as though I love my car or hate it. Depending on whatever they say about theirs. If that comes up. You know, while we’re chatting about their dead daughter.

Mrs. Blume answers the door with a wary but kind smile.

I tell her I’m with the
North Bend Courier
.

“You probably heard about our series on Marilee Watson? She was murdered last year. My publisher wanted me to do a new series about how people cope after a tragedy. Can I talk to you and Mr. Blume?”

“You
can’t
cope after a tragedy, miss  …  ?” she searches for my name. A pause hangs in the air.

“Tracy Lee.” I hand her my business card.

“That’s kind of the point of my article,” I say. “My Aunt Ginger was killed in a car wreck and I know it’s not the same as what happened to Shannon, but my mom has never gotten over it either. I’m including my thoughts about that in the article too. But it can’t be about me.”

She studies me with flinty eyes. I wonder if she’s reminded of her daughter. If she thinks I’m too young for the job. If she’s just having a bad day. Maybe every day after you lose a child to murder is a bad day.

“It was a long time ago,” she says, her eyes still on mine. “We really don’t like reliving it. I’m sure you can understand that.”

Of course I can. I hate that I’m opening some old, never-really-healed wounds, but I have no choice.

“Look, it isn’t my intent to hurt you again. I’m looking for understanding. I’m trying to tell a story that will bring awareness to community,” I say, my brain on overdrive trying to find a way to a yes. I’m not lying to Mrs. Blume. All of those things are true. Except the part about the article that I’m writing.

And the part about the real reason why I’m there.

Mrs. Blume takes a step back.

“Please,” I say, “I think it is really important that people learn the truth.”

Mrs. Blume reaches for the door handle, but hesitates.

“What truth?” she asks.

This is my opening. This is the only moment that I’ll have with her if I can’t win her over.

“That some hurts never go away,” I answer. “That others who have gone through what you have experienced aren’t alone and they don’t need to feel bad about the lingering pain.”

She nods. “All right, Tracy.”

I’ve won her over. I feel tremendous relief, but also a little sick for lying to someone about something so tragic, so important.

“I would have called,” I say, pulling myself together, “but with cellphones these days no one has a landline anymore.”

She waves me inside. The house is neat, clean, and frozen in time. The furnishings, the decor—even the air feels like it is old. The foyer is devoid of anything personal. A Boston Fern the size of a Mini Cooper fills most of the space.

Someone has a green thumb.

“I was making a frozen pizza,” she says, eyeing me with what are now very kind eyes. “Want to stay for lunch?”

Someone wants to barf.

“I’m starving,” I quickly say. “I haven’t eaten all day. Thank you.” I’ve been there two minutes and I’ve already lied to this nice woman five or six times. I have no choice, of course. If I told her the truth she’d probably laugh at me and call the police. That would ruin my plans and kill my mother.

Debra Blume is a beautiful woman. I can see, however, how the years and the loss of her daughter reveal the undying agony around her eyes. They are blue, but a weary shade of blue. The color of a pair of jeans that I once loved so much, but ruined when I stupidly put too much bleach in the washer. I wanted to speed up the fading process. Instead, I annihilated the hue.

Donald Blume comes out. He’s older than she is, but he has a nice smile and I like him right away.

“Doing a story about our little girl?” he says, sinking in to what I assume is “his” chair, a big old leather club chair.

I nod, but answer in the negative. “Not really. I mean, about her, but about how her loss impacted, you know, on you and your family.”

“It’ll be a short story,” he says.

Mrs. Blume disappears into the kitchen.

“How is that?” I ask. For the first time I spot Shannon’s shrine. There are nearly a dozen pictures of a girl my age lining the mantle and a large silver urn, which I can only assume holds her remains. I don’t know why people keep ashes. I don’t get that at all. The person was not the residue of their burned up flesh and pulverized bones. The person was the spirit and that left when she was brutally killed.

By my bio dad.

“It ruined us. Plain and simple. I took to drinking. Debra took to antidepressants until she had to go to treatment.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” he says. “But  …  ” His words trail off and behind his glasses I see the sheen of tears. “But the short story is that it ruined our lives. She was everything.”

I nod and Mrs. Blume returns with a slice of pizza. I almost hurl. It’s chicken and pesto.

“Looks wonderful,” I say, thinking of how I’m going to eat that slice. I thought of saying I was gluten-free, but I’m not. It always freaks me out when people announce that, like being gluten-free is a badge of honor. I need these people to like me. I need them to tell me what they know. I need to process all of it and somehow figure out where my mother is being held captive.

As we eat, the Blumes start at the beginning. They talk, they cry, they tell me about the kind of hurt that comes when forced to identify their daughter on a gurney through the thick glass of a morgue’s viewing room. They tell me that they regret they didn’t tell her they loved her as much as they should have. I watch as Mrs. Blume puts a trembling hand on her husband’s. She’s the stronger of the two. She knows that whatever regrets she has are smaller than the burden he carries. He asks her to get him a drink.

“And don’t be stingy on it, either,” he says.

I mutter something about being sorry and it’s the first time I’m not really lying to them. I am sorry. I feel sick, and it isn’t the pesto chicken pizza either.

“At least you got some justice,” I say. “At least the killer was caught and punished.”

She looks at me dead in the eyes. “That’s what they tell us,” she says.

The remark is odd.

She looks at her husband and he shrugs his shoulders as though it is all right for her to speak, though I doubt there was ever a time when he could stop her.

“Honestly, Tracy,” she begins, “we never really felt comfortable with the prosecution of Steve Jones, that homeless man, for the murder of our daughter. Don’t get me wrong.” She stops and catches her husband’s gaze. “Don’t get
us
wrong. We don’t doubt the prosecution did the best they could but, well, we sort of believed Mr. Jones’s alibi.”

“You did?” I fumble for the words. “I don’t remember what it was?”

“He said he’d been out drinking and had a blackout. A friend said he was picked up by the police. The next thing Jones knew was that he was in front of our dead daughter’s body. Sirens woke him up.”

“Who called it in?” I ask.

Mr. Blume cuts in. “Anonymous did. Whoever
that
was. The police tape was lost before trial. They could talk about what the caller said, but they couldn’t provide any evidence that the tape really existed.”

“Are you saying you thought he might have been set up?” I ask.

“That’s a stretch,” Mrs. Blume says as she clears the dishes. I look down and to my surprise, I’ve eaten the pizza. I’m going to pay for it later, I know. “We think someone tampered with the evidence. I don’t know why. Maybe to make sure they’d convict. I guess we should be happy about it—and at the time we were.”

“But not now?” I ask.

Mr. Blume answers. “No. We just don’t believe they ever answered how she got that tattoo and where she was the week she was gone. They made it sound like she’d been held captive somewhere by Jones—apparently he’d been staying in the basement of a church.”