Girl of Lies (33 page)

Adelina’s voice was broken as she said, “I’d never hate you.”

“Mom, I’m a lesbian. And I fell in love. And she died.”

For just a second Adelina felt shock. Her daughter was gay? Reflexively, she fell back for an instant to her upbringing, and she wanted to correct her daughter and tell her that no, she was not a lesbian, and no, she had
not
been in love with a woman.

But then she thought about how alone Jessica must have been.
Alone
.

She pictured her daughter. All alone, her twin injured in the accident. Everyone she could lean on was gone. Her mother gone.

“You… fell in love? And she died?” Adelina’s eyes watered, and her breath began to move in and out quickly. “Oh, God, and you had no one to turn to. Baby, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

Jessica was shaking now, her eyes wide, her face twisted in fear. “Mama, you’re not mad?”

Adelina reached out and took her daughter’s hands. “Come here,” she said. Then she sobbed. “I’m so sorry I haven’t been the mother you needed. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

Jessica collapsed into her arms, and Adelina pulled her close. “Baby, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She thought about all the times she’d failed her children. But she wasn’t failing this time. She wasn’t losing
this
daughter. She pulled Jessica tighter and whispered, “I’m here, baby girl.”

In halting steps—a few words at a time, and punctuated by many tears—Jessica began to tell her mother the story of how she fell in alive with, and lost, Chrysanthemum Allen. They cried together, and finally Jessica fell asleep in her mother’s arms, as Adelina slowly brushed her daughter’s hair.

Adelina whispered, “I wish we could stay here longer.”

“I know,” Kiara said. “But she has you. And you’re a good mother.”

Adelina closed her eyes, trying to hold back a sob. “I wish that was true. I’d give anything for it to be true.”

T
HE RICHMOND DISTRICT of San Francisco was blanketed with fog when Crank pulled the rental car to a stop in front of the house on Cabrillo Street. After the morning flight, it had taken nearly ninety minutes for them to get their car arranged, and then drive into the city.

As he parallel parked the car, the three of them stopped talking. Julia leaned forward, resting her hand on the dashboard and looking up at the house. It looked the same as always. Four stories, light blue brick with white ornamentation, it was one of the most striking houses on the block.

“I don’t know why,” Julia said, “but I’m actually nervous about this.”

Crank looked over at her. It was out of character for Julia to ever admit weakness on any topic. “We’d better head in, then?”

She looked back, meeting his eyes. “Right.” Her eyes darted to Anthony, in the back seat. “Tell me again why you’re along for this?”

Anthony smiled. “I’m here to help you.”

She shook her head then opened the door of the rental car. “Let’s go.”

Crank opened the driver’s side door and stepped out, walking up to the door beside his wife.

After twelve years together, he knew her moods well. But this was unusual. She was pensive and withdrawn in a way he’d rarely seen.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quiet. He touched her arm and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m okay,” she said.

“You sure?”

She nodded, brushing him off, and rang the doorbell to the house. Crank knew she had a key. But Julia had never actually
lived
in this house, so whenever they visited, she was scrupulous about knocking.

Today, however, there was no answer. They waited, and she rang the bell again. And again.

Crank coughed. “You’ve got your key on you?”

“Yes,” Julia said. She sighed. “I don’t like using it.” She opened her purse and rooted around in it for a minute. Then she fitted a key to the deadbolt and carefully turned it. Crank heard the lock slide, then click, and she opened the door.

“Well, then,” she said, her voice low. She paused for a moment more. Then she pushed the door open. It was immediately apparent no one had been home in some days. The mudroom at the foot of the stairs was cluttered with junk mail. Magazines and catalogues, bills and other mail had grown into a small pile behind the door. A rank smell radiated from somewhere inside—spoiled milk or worse.

Julia looked at the pile of mail, then at Crank.

“She’s fine,” he said. “Just out of town or something. She told your dad she was going to some retreat center.”

“For how long?” she said. “I spoke with her on Friday, and this is a lot more mail than that. And that smell…”

She started up the stairs. Crank followed, leaving a bewildered Anthony Walker behind.

The house was quiet, empty. Eerily so. As they looked around the ground floor, with all the lights out and not a soul in the house, Crank realized that he had never once been in this house by himself. It was dark inside, and the quiet was eerie and uncomfortable. It was almost as if the fog outside had seeped into the house, rendering it cold and dark.

Crank thought back. The last time he’d been here was the fall of 2012—Thanksgiving night. Andrea had been in Spain, but the rest of the Thompson clan was on hand, and that night, at least, they were full of drama. Jessica and Sarah were fighting. Alexandra had revealed her sexual assault at school and then Dylan Paris showed up on the doorstep after a cross-country flight. An altogether satisfying night.

The house was very different now.

Cold.

Crank followed Julia into the kitchen. She froze at the door to the kitchen.

“What is it?” he asked, coming up behind her. Then he saw and heard it.

The floor on the far side of the kitchen table was covered in… vomit? Days old. Maybe weeks. Dried out, but crawling with ants and flies. This was the source of the smell. Julia stared for one minute, and then her shoulders shook. Once, twice, then she ran, covering her mouth, for the bathroom.

Anthony came up behind Crank.

“I don’t get it,” Anthony said.

“I don’t either. Adelina would
never
leave her house in this condition unless it were a real emergency.”

Crank met Anthony’s eyes. Then he said, “I don’t know what’s going on here. And I don’t know why Julia’s trusting you. But you better not screw her over.”

Anthony said, “That’s not how I do business.”

“I’m cleaning this shit up,” Crank replied.

“Don’t. In case—in case the police need to get involved.”

Crank sucked in a breath. Anthony was right, of course. You didn’t fuck with the scene of a crime, if that’s what this was. He’d absorbed that much and more from his father, a retired Boston cop, over the years.

With that in mind, Crank tiptoed around the kitchen. More signs of an abrupt departure. The coffee pot was full, but cold, and it had a spot of mold floating on top of the liquid. Two glasses, dirty, in the sink. On the kitchen floor, near the vomit, a half-gallon of milk in its plastic container, laying on it’s side and bloated from expanding glasses. That wasn’t going to smell good.

Crank didn’t touch anything. “Let’s go,” he said. “We leave everything as it is. Whatever the fuck happened, Adelina and Jessica left in a hurry.”

As they stepped out of the kitchen, they found Julia sitting at the dining table. She had her hands on her laps, her posture straight, staring straight ahead at the wall.

“Julia?” Crank asked.

She looked up at him. “They’ve been gone a week. At least. How the hell didn’t we know? What kind of family are we? My mother and one of my sisters has been missing for
a week
and no one even knew?”

Crank put a hand on her shoulder. “You talked on the phone with her on Friday.”

“She sure as hell wasn’t here.”

“So, maybe she’s at that retreat your Dad talked about?”

“Why wouldn’t she say anything? Why leave the place such a disaster?”

Crank sighed. “I don’t know. I… I don’t know. My suggestion… let’s take a look around. If we don’t see anything, we call the cops.”

She swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. All right. Check her bedroom and bathroom. Maybe there’s some clue there.”

She stood and led the way, down the hall, past the closed door to Richard Thompson’s office, and up the stairs. The second floor had two bedrooms, Adelina and Richard’s.

“Mother’s first,” Julia said.

“Wait,” Crank said. “They have separate rooms?”

“Well—yeah.”

“Weird.”

Julia nodded. “I guess. It’s been that way a long time.”

She turned the doorknob.

The room was spare. A queen sized bed, a small bookshelf, a bureau and a desk/vanity combo. Adelina had a large walk-in closet, hung with dresses on both sides.

“She didn’t pack much stuff,” Julia said, looking in the closet. The desk and vanity told the same story. Adelina’s laptop was still on the desk, along with a charger cable for an iPhone. Did Adelina have another charger? Impossible to know. Julia walked to the desk and tentatively pressed the power button. The computer, a relatively new MacBook, began to boot up.

“Who leaves for a trip without their laptop?” Anthony asked.

“And without cleaning the kitchen floor?” Julia asked.

They watched the computer boot up, and Crank felt a sick fascination. What would they see when the screen finally appeared? Possibly nothing. Possibly, Adelina’s computer would be password protected. Or infected by viruses. Or wired to a bomb which would explode when they finished inspecting it. Who knew?

The computer finally booted to a password prompt.

“Damn,” Julia muttered. She slid into the chair, chewing on her lower lip. She reached out and attempted a password. No good. Then she tried another. Nothing. “I could do this all day,” Julia said. She tried three more passwords in quick succession. Nothing.

“What have you tried so far?”

“Variations on my Dad’s name and birthdate. Her birthday. Her hometown.”

Crank’s eyes darted across the hall to Richard’s bedroom. “Somehow I don’t think she’s going to use anything of his as a password.”

Julia frowned. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Your parents aren’t close?” Anthony asked.

“They’re WASP iceboxes,” Crank said.

“Not my mother,” Julia said. “She’s no WASP.”

“Fair,” Crank replied. She tried another password. Crank wandered across the room. He opened the top drawer of the bureau.

Crank frowned. Half a dozen prescription bottles. Buspirone. Three times a day for anxiety. Amitriptyline for panic disorder. Risperdal for bipolar symptoms.

Crank said. “Your mom is on some serious meds. Take a look at this?”

Julia stood and walked over. Her eyebrows scrunched together. ““Panic disorder? Bipolar?” Her eyes darted to Crank’s. Then she pulled the drawer out further.

A battered and frayed Bible. Notes were stuffed in the Bible, her mother’s dense handwriting on them. She opened the Bible up to one of the well-worn notes.

A verse had been underlined several times and circled in pencil.

Zephaniah 1:9:

On that day I will punish

all who leap over the threshold,

who fill their master’s house

with violence and fraud.

Julia frowned, confused, and flipped through the Bible again. Another heavily underscored verse.

Psalm 37:

For the wicked shall be cut off,

but those who wait for the Lord shall inherit the land.

“My Mom was always devout. But this is… I don’t know.”

Julia lay the Bible down.

“Wait—” she said. She bent down a little, peering in the top drawer. At the very back, another book. She pulled it out.

It was a journal. Her eyes went to Crank’s. “I don’t know if I…”

“She’s missing,” he said.

“Right.” She took a deep breath then opened it up.

It was in Spanish. Densely written in barely legible handwriting that covered every square inch of the journal’s pages. No margins. No paragraph marks. A solid block of text.

On every single page.

“Oh, my God,” Julia said. “I feel like I don’t even know who she is.”

“Can you read it?” Crank asked.

“I hardly know any Spanish,” she said. She flipped through. “Some of it I recognize, or… maybe.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “This can’t be right.”

“What is it?” Crank moved closer to her.

“I swear it says,
He raped me again today.
Or violated? I’m not sure, I don’t really know Spanish!
”
Julia swallowed and looked up to Crank. “I’m reading this wrong. It can’t be.”

“Bring that with you,” Crank said.

She began to pace back and forth. Finally, she marched across the hall, shoving open the door to her father’s bedroom.

The room was spare. Clothing hung in the closet. Julia began to pull open drawers. Clothing. Another one. Then another. The fourth drawer, she pulled open and dumped out, tossing clothing across the bed. Her face was oddly frozen, confused. She pulled open another drawer.

“Nothing,” she said. Then she looked up at Crank. “The office.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Your Dad’s office?”

Julia nodded. She turned and walked out, then down the stairs.