Fixing Perfect (14 page)

“Grams?” Robin's throat tightened, and she could barely say the name.

“Honey, I hate to tell you this, but Sam called, too. He wanted to—he said he wanted you to hear it from me. And you needed to know right away. They're charging Sam.”

The world ended. Disappeared. All that was left was a void that had swallowed her whole, without warning. “What?”

“I called a lawyer for him. Poor Sam, he sounds like he's already convicted and headed for the chair. Sure didn't sound very hopeful. Apparently, he knew about some bit of evidence that he shouldn't have.”

Robin tried to swallow. She couldn't. “Why would that make them—”

Grams overrode her protests. “Robin, I hate to say this, but from the things he said, it sounds like that Macias man thinks it's been Sam all along.”

 

 

 

 

11

 

It was
not
Sam.

Everything Robin knew, everything she believed, everything she loved, the very core of her being knew that to be true. It wasn't Sam.

But if they'd arrested him, that meant they weren't looking for anyone else, and that meant the island citizens were at risk. All they had to do, she thought with bitter irony, was to wait for another kidnapping, or another twisted, dressed-up body to turn up. That'd show ‘em. Robin shook her head. She wanted Sam proved innocent but not at the expense of yet another life. They'd lost too many already. Now she was holed up in her room, just like she'd wanted to be, and she didn't like it.

But there had been reporters outside the house when she'd come home, already, and they made it clear they weren't going to leave her alone.

So far, she hadn't talked to any of them. What could she say? That she believed Sam innocent, so they, and the police, could start looking at her for complicity? After all, these grisly murders didn't have to be a threat to her at all.

Maybe that Detective Macias had already come to the same conclusion—decided that Robin was in on it all with Sam, that the two of them had made a pact to decorate the island with scenes from some morbid fantasy they'd cooked up together. Maybe the cops were just waiting for her to make the wrong move and prove them right.

And how could she save Sam when she was so scared?

She had to make some sort of statement. She had to put together the words that would do the most good, help the police to find the killer—the real killer. But how could she know what those words were when she didn't know who they would be directed toward? If she knew who the killer was, she might have a better idea of how to lure him into the open.

She bent over her clasped hands for a few moments, speechless, so conflicted that her thoughts trembled and crashed against each other and made no sense. She struggled to bring some sort of order to her prayer.

God, I need help. I don't want to blame someone who might be innocent, but the police have already done that, and I need to help Sam. I need him! Give me the right words, please. Help me to help Sam. And to help the ones who are still missing. Especially Becca and Jake. Those two are only children. Oh, God!

There it was, a prayer full of need. Begging for favors. No praise, no thanksgiving, nothing but need. Thank God, He understood.

Anguish held her motionless for what seemed like hours, and when she finally shifted, her back and legs had become so stiff it hurt to move.

She scooted her desk chair closer to her computer and tapped the keys for a few minutes. Pretty soon she'd open that front door, face the reporters, and give her statement.

“I'm appalled. You can't imagine the depth of my feelings. The island has been struggling with the death of its citizens for weeks, and now that they have Sam behind bars—”

She paused, reread the paragraph and shook her head. Erased “Sam behind bars.” Added, “…now they have arrested Sam, I'm sure things will change.”

She read it over again and again. She needed to memorize it, and she wanted it to be as ambiguous as possible, without sounding as though she'd intended that. People hearing or reading it would think, of course, that she believed Sam guilty. She would know she didn't. If Sam heard about her statement, she hoped he'd know what she really meant, too.

Because as soon as her words went live, she'd do what she'd been thinking of for the last few days. Put herself out there. Give the killer a chance at her. Maybe he didn't want it, but she wouldn't know until she tried, would she?

She didn't have any other choice.

 



 

Ever since Mr. Bird yelled at them, and Jake started crying about his friend, even though Mr. Bird promised his friend was OK, Becca knew she was in trouble. And it wasn't because of the hole in the wall.

It was because Jake was right. He'd been right the whole time, ever since Mr. Bird shoved him in the room from behind. He was right about Mr. Bird. Mr. Bird wasn't as nice as he'd pretended. Jake said Mr. Bird lied. He lied sometimes about bringing them food, or taking out the trash, or cleaning the toilet in the bathroom. So he probably lied about Jake's friend, too.

Mr. Bird wasn't nice at all.

And that meant her mommy and daddy didn't know where she was. If they did, they would have come to get her. They wouldn't like Mr. Bird to keep her away from them.

Mr. Bird lied and Becca didn't like him anymore.

Jake, face down on the other mattress, sniffed. “My scout leader was the best guy in the world. He taught me how to start a fire, and when my dad got sick, he let me hang around all the time. Like a brother or something. Now I'm never gonna see him again.”

Becca crawled next to Jake. She put her hand on his back, and he didn't push her away. She rubbed his shoulder, and he let her.

“If we pray, God will take care of us.”

Jake sat up. He rubbed a fist over one eye. “I hate him.”

“Who? God?” Becca nearly fell backward off the mattress.

“No. That Mr. Bird. I hate him. I hope God kills him right now. If I had a gun I'd shoot him.”

“That's bad.” Becca tried not to sound like a baby, but she probably did anyway. “God doesn't want anyone to kill anyone else.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Bird sure doesn't listen.”

Becca chewed on her lip for a minute. “Sometimes,
I
don't listen.”

Jake snorted and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “What? You go around killing people?”

“No. But sometimes I'm bad.” She peered up from under her lashes. “Real bad.”

Jake shrugged and lay down again. “So what? It's not like anyone cares.”

“God cares.” Becca kneeled on the cement floor. “I promised I'd be good, and I wasn't. I been real bad. I made a hole in the wall.”

“What?” Jake rolled back again. “Here? You made a hole in the wall
here
?”

Becca nodded. “Next to my mattress.”

“OK, this I gotta see.” Jake crawled to her side of the room. “Show it to me.”

At least, he'd stopped crying.

She kneeled next to her mattress and shoved the pillow away from the wall. Jake pulled at the edge of the mattress, and when that didn't show him everything, he tugged the other side until he could see all the way down to the floor. But his excitement disappeared like a popped balloon. “That's not a hole. It doesn't even go all the way through.”

“But I dug it, and it was bad.”

Jake poked at it. “How'd you do it?”

“With my nails. ‘Member how Mr. Bird always complains ‘cuz my nails look bad? It's ‘cuz I dig.” She hung her head. “I can't help it. I ask God to make me behave, but He doesn't. I just keep digging.”

Jake glanced over his shoulder at the door and lay on her mattress with his face close to the hole. “Was there anything there when you first got here? I mean, did you dig this whole thing yourself?” He looked back at her. “There wasn't already a little hole in the paint or something?”

“No. I did it.” Becca stuck her thumb in her mouth even though Jake didn't act mad.

“We could make it bigger,” he said. He sat up and frowned. “But we need something stronger than just fingernails.”

“Why?”

He looked at her, still frowning. “To make it bigger.”

“Uhn-uh! If it gets any bigger, Mr. Bird will see it.”

“No, that's OK. We'll crumple up the sheets over it, and keep your pillow folded over it, too. I'll help.” He turned and grabbed Becca's shoulders. “We can't let him see it, but we gotta make it bigger. Maybe we can make it go all the way outside, and we can crawl through. Or we can yell and someone will hear us and come get us.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really. I just don't know what we can use.”

Becca looked around. The only toys were a couple of stuffed animals, a bear and a bunny. The bunny scared her, because it had a creepy, way-too-big smile sewn across its face. But even a creepy stuffed toy wouldn't be any good for digging. “Can you dig with books?” She got one of the picture books Mr. Bird had left.

Jake grimaced. “I dunno. We can try.” He tried to use the corner of the book, but it just bent the cardboard back. After a few minutes he threw it down. “That's not gonna work.”

He got up and looked around the room. “There's nothing else here. Not even curtains or curtain rods.” He put his hands on his hips and turned in a slow circle. “Hey, are there any little metal cars?”

“My brother has lots, but Mr. Bird doesn't have any.” Nothing but a couple mattresses, some pillows, some sheets, the nasty yellow light way up out of their reach, the two toys and some books.

And two kids.

“This is what we're gonna do. We're gonna take turns. If we work all the time, instead of only when you're supposed to be going to sleep, it'll get bigger a lot faster.”

“I don't know if we should.” Becca hunched her shoulders, thinking of how Mr. Bird would yell if he found that hole. Yell, and maybe do something worse.

“No, it'll be OK. I'll take a turn right now. You sit near the door, and if you hear Mr. Bird coming, you tell me, and I'll get up and put everything in front of it, to hide it, real quick, then run. He might check to see what I'm doing if he sees me on your bed. And when I get tired, you can dig. And we'll just keep digging as long as we can.”

Becca wrapped shaky arms around her middle. “But it's bad!”

“No, it isn't.” Jake squatted in front of her. “It's not bad, Becca. It's OK. I promise. At home, it'd be bad, but here, it's good. Cuz we need to get out.” He stood and lay back down on her mattress. “Go listen, OK? And Becca?”

Becca sat next to the door, her heart hammering. “What?”

“I think God didn't make you stop because He
wanted
you to make a hole in the wall.”

 



 

They wouldn't let Robin see Sam or talk to him.
Conflict of interest
, Detective Macias kept saying, but she had no idea how that would work. Sam was her friend and accused of murder, and she wanted to see him and didn't plan to break Sam out with smuggled nail files.

No, she'd get him out by finding the real killer. Because who had the killer proved he was after with every crime scene he laid out for them to find?

Robin.

Bait. She'd be bait.

She wasn't about to share that with Detective Macias, though. Nasty man. She glared at his face on the TV as he talked about how they planned to come up with more substantial evidence by the time Sam went to trial. They wouldn't. How could they? Evidence against an innocent man?

No. Long before that, they'd have the real killer handed to them. By Robin. By limpy, gimpy little Robin. Because really, that kiss hadn't been long enough, and she needed to get Sam out and kissing her again so she could make sure he really meant what she thought he meant. What she hoped he meant.

Her cell rang, and she answered without checking the number sure it would be Sam, sure he'd been released, cleared. She heard Detective Macias's voice, and her heart sank.

“Albrecht ever make you feel threatened?”

“No, of course not.”

“Uneasy? The way he looks at you? Touches you? Talks to you?”

“No.” She felt her defenses rise up against this officer who wanted to frame the man she loved. He made her feel childish and anxious at the same time.

“That day on the beach, when he used you as an alibi—”

“He was there. I told you that.”

“I understand.” He didn't say he believed either one of them. “Anything he did that day that made you feel uncomfortable?”

“He didn't, no.”

Detective Macias went on. “The kids on your team. I know he's close to some of them. That doesn't bother you?”

“No, and it doesn't bother them, either. It shouldn't. He's fine. He loves them. He'd die to protect them.” Only when she took a breath did she realize she'd echoed Danny's claim.

“How about the way he talks about the victims?”

“He's angry. Sad. All the normal feelings any human would have in this situation.”

“I see.” She heard papers rustle before he said, “How about when he talks about other people? He got any suspicions?”

“He says the person who's doing this is nuts.”

Macias's tone strengthened. “Look, Robin, I know you're not happy, but you've got to tell me anything that will help. You don't want anything to happen to the two kids who are still missing, do you?”

As if it would be her fault if she didn't offer up a suspect. Should she tell him her idea? See what he thought of using her as bait?

“Why are you asking me? I don't
know
who this is. Do you think I'm protecting someone?”