The Third Twin (9 page)

By the time I pull into the parking lot, I can tell that the church is totally packed. I manage to find a space in the very back, and as I lock the car, I notice two cops in a police car sitting a few rows away. I wonder what they’re doing here—expecting trouble at a funeral? Probably just paying their respects. Casey’s death seems to have hit everyone hard.

I take my place in the line of people still waiting to get in, behind a soccer team in full uniform. I knew Casey for only one night, but it’s hard to reconcile the sneering guy I met with the compassionate, handsome boy in the picture that’s propped up on an easel in the lobby. An older couple is stationed by the main double doors, the woman with her face red from crying and the man with his back ramrod straight as he greets the newcomers. Must be his parents. I turn and am heading for a side door to avoid them, when a woman with long, graying hair grabs my hands.

“Alicia!” she says with a sad smile. “I’m so glad you came.” She glances toward the older couple. “Such a sad, sad day for all of us.”

I’m so surprised, I can’t think of anything to say at first. Ava said she’d gone out with Casey only a couple of times. She didn’t say anything about meeting his family. “Right,” I finally manage, hoping that the sadness on my face mirrors hers. “It’s just awful.”

“Did you come with anyone, dear?” she asks.

“No,” I say quickly. “I’m here by myself.”

“Then you have to come up and sit with us,” she says, and before I can reply, she takes my arm in hers and leads me through the main doors and up the aisle to a pew in the front that still has some space in it. “Settle in here,” she says, guiding me to a spot next to a woman in her twenties. “I’m going to go help in the lobby, but I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks,” I say, feeling trapped. If I get up now, everyone’s going to notice. I look around the church at all the people crammed into pews and lining every wall, in some places two people deep. There are people my age and people who look like friends of his parents. As I turn back toward the front, I’m startled to realize that the coffin is set on a pedestal only a few yards from where I’m sitting. Shiny dark wood draped with flowers, it has another picture of Casey on a smaller easel perched on top. Thank God the coffin is closed—but if he got his throat cut, it probably had to be.

“Just tragic, isn’t it?” the woman next to me asks, dabbing her nose with a tissue.

“It is,” I agree, nodding slowly. I wonder if Alicia knows her too.

“He was just the best,” she says, shaking her head sadly. “And I can’t believe he’s gone.”

She slides toward me a couple of inches. “You know,” she says quietly, looking around to see if anyone else is listening, “they’re saying it wasn’t random.”

Now I look up at her. Her eyes are dry, but her face is still red and a little blotchy. “What do you mean?” I look around too. “Like he was targeted?”

She nods slowly, sitting back against the pew. “Nothing
was taken. His wallet was in his pocket when they found him. But I can’t imagine why anyone would target him.” She sniffs. “Casey was an angel. An absolute angel. I can’t imagine who would want him dead.”

I can’t exactly contradict her out loud, so I just smile weakly and hope I look like I agree.

“At least he didn’t suffer,” she says, blotting at her eyes.

I think of the pool of blood by the driver-side door. It must have taken a while for him to die. “How do you know that?” I move closer so nobody can hear. “I thought he was … you know.” I can’t bring myself to say the words out loud, so I make a small slashing gesture at my throat.

“That’s just what the police told the media,” she says knowingly. She puts one hand on the back of my neck in the little divot where my skull meets my vertebrae, her touch so light, it makes the hairs on my head stand up. “Whoever killed him knew what they were doing. They plunged a knife into this soft spot right here. Cut his spinal cord clean in half. He died almost instantly.”

My mind forms a picture from her graphic description, which is worse than what I imagined just a few seconds ago.

“The cops have been spending a ton of time at the house,” she says. Her eyes dart to a couple of men in dark gray suits that are standing on the left-hand side of the church. “And I think those guys are plainclothes officers. I’ve been watching
CSI
from the beginning—Vegas, not Miami—and the killer almost always shows up at the funeral.”

I remember the cop car in the parking lot. “Why would
anyone want to kill Casey?” I ask. I can actually think of a couple of reasons, but I wisely keep them to myself.

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” she responds.

My mind is reeling when the organ music kicks into high gear, and we all rise to our feet as the family starts walking slowly down the aisle to their seats.

The hearse is still in front of the church as I pull out onto the street. I barely remember anything about the funeral—one teary relative after another trying to make a sad joke or tell a funny story—because all I could think about was Casey’s last moments. I’d been with him only the day before. The thought makes me sick.

When I get to the main intersection, I quickly flip on my signal and turn right instead of left and head toward the freeway. I just need to see it.

I can tell which parking space was his before I even turn into the Cheesecake Factory parking lot. The bright yellow police tape is gone, but there’s a small shrine of plastic-wrapped flowers, soggy teddy bears, and burned-out candles leaning against the light pole where Casey’s car was parked. This shrine is like a wave of memories and emotions cascading into the empty parking space—memories and emotions that have absolutely nothing to do with who he actually was. Casey might have been someone’s son and someone’s brother, but he was also a wannabe rapist and a creep.

I let the car idle, and I look around, the images of that night flooding my brain—the misty orange glow from the streetlights; the anger on his face as he pounded on my window; the shadowy silhouette of him leaning on his car as I drove away. I look around the parking lot at the few cars that fill the spaces that were empty that night. Could someone have been hiding in the bushes over to the left? There’s still a faint rust-colored stain on the cracked asphalt, and I wonder what would have happened if the murder had been the night before. Would there be two shrines instead of just the one?

At the front of the lot, there’s a brown four-door backed into one of the parking spaces, and I see two figures in the front seats that make me uneasy, so I put the car in gear again. I can’t see their faces, but I can feel them watching me as I drive past their car and turn right onto the main street. I glance back as I pull away, but neither of them seems to move.

Suddenly I need to feel the mist on my face and hear the roar of the ocean in my ears. I hit the gas, and in half an hour, I’m pulling onto Eighteenth Street and into a parking space on the side of the street right before the sand starts. In summer, you have to drive miles for any kind of parking spot, but on a damp, foggy day at the beginning of April, I’ve got the place practically to myself. The cold, wet air creeps down the back of my neck as I walk toward the water, my feet digging into the narrow strip of sand between the two-story houses that stare blankly at the ocean. Just past the concrete retaining wall, the beach opens up in front of me, and it feels like
I’m all alone out here. I slip off my shoes, the sand cold at first but then warmer beneath the top layer as I walk toward the ocean. I sit down at the edge of the dry sand, where it slopes down slightly to the constant pulsing of the water crashing in wavelets on the shore before slipping and bubbling back into itself. I can feel the cold and damp seep through my dress, but I don’t care as I stretch my legs out toward the waves. Out past the break there are half a dozen surfers in the lineup, all alike in their slick black wet suits. They sit on top of their boards as the waves bob underneath them, lifting them up and then setting them gently back down on the flat surface of the water. I wonder who’s out there on such a cold day, but I can’t see anyone well enough to tell. Locals, I’m sure of it. Nobody else comes to surf off Eighteenth Street. All the tourists go farther north to Breakers or Moonlight, and that’s just fine with us.

I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my chin there. The houses that line the beach are lit up inside against the dark day, and that makes it seem even colder and more deserted out here. The faint smell of smoke rides on the damp air, and it reminds me of Christmas, only a few months ago, when everything still seemed possible. Now I’m just empty, like all my emotions are floating on the surface, waiting to be swept out to sea by the next big wave, leaving me blank and undone.

“Are you coming out too?”

I whirl around to see Zane with one arm over his shoulder zipping up his wet suit in the back.

He doesn’t seem to notice that I’m not exactly dressed for the beach. I stand up next to him. “No. Just watching. Isn’t it cold out there?”

Zane squints at the surfers in the distance. “You get a little brain freeze the first few minutes. Then you forget all about it.” He picks up his board. “You should come out sometime.”

Slater Connelly walks over with his board under his arm. “Way to go, bro! I heard the awesome news!” Slater is the definition of a surfer dude. If the turtle in
Finding Nemo
were human, he would be Slater.

Zane seems suddenly pleased and self-conscious at the same time. “Thanks,” he says quietly, looking down so that the curls in front hide his eyes.

“You’re getting on the ASP tour for sure!” Slater says, the look on his face showing his genuine happiness. “And winning that fifteen K.”

“I hope so,” Zane says. He glances around to see if anyone else is close enough to overhear.

“What news?” I ask.

“Aw, my bad,” Slater says, grinning at me, his white teeth flashing in contrast to his deep tan. “I was totally interrupting here. Adios, bra!” He gives Zane a complicated handshake and then runs toward the breaking white waves, puffs of sand following his footsteps.

Zane turns back to me. “So, what are you—”

“What news?” I insist again.

He shrugs. “I got invited to an Association of Surfing Professionals junior tour event in Tahiti.”

“Oh my God, that’s awesome!” I say, punching him in the arm. “When?”

“In two weeks,” he says, a grin creeping onto his face. I can see how happy he is about it even though he doesn’t want to show it. “Dad’s pissed about me missing school, but I can’t let this opportunity get by me.”

“The ASP is huge,” I say, using up my knowledge of surfing in one sentence. “This could be your big break.”

“Maybe.” He nods slowly. “As long as I don’t screw it up.”

“You won’t.” Zane’s always been the most focused person I know. I can’t stop smiling at him. At least someone’s dreams are coming true.

Zane looks out toward the surf and then back at me. “Are you going to be here for a while?”

“No. I have to get going.”

“Okay.” He seems suddenly slightly awkward. “Well, I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah,” I call as he runs toward the surf. I watch as he leaps into the water and onto his board, his arms making long strokes in the waves so he can catch up with everyone else.

I sit for a while and watch the surfboards cut through the walls of water as the waves crest back toward shore. The wind is picking up a little, and the waves have a bigger head of white foam as they crash into the sand. Zane and Slater paddle furiously out in the dark water, then pull themselves up to ride the swell for a few feet before dropping off the backside. It must be nice to have nothing to worry about except catching the next big wave.

I take out my phone and stare at the email. Every time I see the subject line, I think back to the moment before Zane read it to me, back when everything was still happening. I’ve tried not to look at it, but I can’t stay away; I already have most of it memorized.
We were humbled by your talents and achievements and by the commitment you demonstrated in all of your academic and extracurricular endeavors.
Right. I can picture the look on Dad’s face when he gets home. The furrow between his eyes will be deeper and their usual light brown will be duller whenever he looks at me. I always loved the pride that was written all over him whenever grades came home. Twice a year we drive all the way up to Stanford to go to football games, each of us covered in Stanford Cardinal red. I’ve never disappointed him this badly.

Before I have time to think about it, I click on
FORWARD
, choose Dad’s name, and then hit
SEND
. Then I press
DELETE
. Now Dad can have the joy of reading the nicely worded letter with the Stanford crest that tells everyone once and for all that I’m not good enough. Because suddenly all of this seems much less important than it used to.