Kill You Last (13 page)

WE WERE ON overload, being bombarded by too much all at once. Gabriel’s blackmail demands, the death of one girl while the other two were still missing, and all of Dad’s admissions about the things he’d done wrong, each worse than the last. Under those circumstances, could any family have banded together to face their common enemies?

Not ours.

I don’t know how I managed to sleep that night. The next morning before school, I checked the
Soundview Snoop
and found Whit’s story about Jane/Janet’s criminal history and the theft of her sister’s identity. Even though we still didn’t know if Dad had been aware of her past when he hired her, I was glad Whit had gone ahead with the story, if for no other reason than that it diverted some of the spotlight from my father.

The house was quiet when I left. I didn’t know where Mom or Dad were. Outside, the police officer assigned to the media horde cleared a path out of the driveway, and I went to school.

For the first few periods, it felt like a normal day at school. But then, in third period English, the boy who sat next to me tapped my shoulder and gestured toward the door. Roman was out in the hall, making an urgent “I have to talk to you
now
!” face.

I got a bathroom pass and went out. Roman started talking before I even closed the classroom door: “That woman who worked for your dad? Janet? The police have taken her into custody. They say she’s a person of interest, not a suspect, but who are they kidding?”

I felt a sad heaviness settle around my shoulders. It sounded like Whit’s theory had come true. Jane/Janet had probably killed the girls because they’d threatened to go to the police. “And listen to this,” Roman said, pulling her iPad out of her bag. “There’s a story in the
New York Times
about your friend.”

“What friend?” I had no idea who she was talking about.

“Lennie? From
Of Mice and Men?”

I reached for the iPad. The story was about the rise of hyper local Internet news sites like the
Snoop
, and it featured Whit’s story about Janet as an example of how the journalism on these sites was improving. They even had a photo of Whit.

“Pretty impressive,” Roman said.

“Know what’s amazing?” I said. “The first time I met him, he talked about how he hoped that covering this story would get him the recognition he needed to get a good job. Like he had it all planned.”

“What if
he’s
the killer?” Roman asked. “He commits the crime and then covers it as a reporter. And since he knows better than anyone else who did it, he can constantly scoop everyone. And that makes him look like a media star!”

I couldn’t help smiling. “Sounds like a great movie. And while you’re at it, why don’t you make him a vampire?”

“Be serious,” she scoffed. “That’s been totally overdone.”

Inside the girls’ room, I took out my phone.

“Texting someone?” Roman guessed.

“Uh-huh.”

“Even though he reminds you of Lennie?”

“Just congratulating him.” I pressed Send, then realized that Roman was giving me a funny look.

“What?” I asked.

“I just told you that the police took Janet into custody,” she said. “Which suggests that they no longer think your dad is a suspect, right? So why aren’t you acting like this is the best news since the invention of sliced bread?”

“Uh…If anything, what I’m feeling is huge relief,” I said, still upset by all the other things Dad had done that Roman didn’t know about.

“Did you ever think she was the culprit?”

I was about to answer when a text came back.

“That was fast,” Roman said with a smile.

Whit had texted:
C U after scl?

I felt a chilling jolt, and the breath rushed out of my lungs.

It was the exact same message Gabriel had sent the day before.

“WHOA, DID YOU just go white?” Roman asked. “What’s that about?”

“Nothing.” I started to breathe again. It had to be a coincidence…didn’t it?

“Nothing?” Roman repeated doubtfully. “For a second, I thought you were going to faint.”

I shook my head and focused on trying to relax.
Just a coincidence
, I told myself again.

“I wish I knew what was going on in your head,” Roman said.

“I think you’d be disappointed.”

“Why don’t I believe that?”

“Give me a moment.” I texted Whit:
W U sneak up in prkng lot?

Back came:
LOL. Meet @ reservoir?

That caught me by surprise. The reservoir was in a wooded area, and the only people who went there were dog walkers and kids who wanted to drink or get high. After what happened with Gabriel, I couldn’t help but feel wary:
Y thr?

I was waiting for a text back when the phone vibrated. Whit had decided to call rather than text. I held up my finger to Roman to let her know I needed a moment, then answered. “Hey.”

“Can you talk?” Whit asked.

“Barely.”

“I suggested the reservoir because it’s probably not a good idea for us to be seen together. Ever since the
Times
article this morning, everyone knows who I am, and obviously a lot of people around town know who you are.”

I didn’t get it. “We can’t be seen talking?”

“It would be better…if my competition didn’t know.”

It was a jarring reminder that, as far as he was concerned, I was still a source of information. “All right,” I said. “I’ll see you there.”

I hung up knowing Roman would give me the third degree.

“He wants to talk about what’s going on,” I said.

“In person?”

“Yeah. At the reservoir.”

Roman smiled. “Ooh la la. You’re going to meet him alone?”

I rolled my eyes and headed back to class.

The reservoir was in the woods with some hiking trails and a few private homes around it. When I got to the gravel parking lot, Whit’s car wasn’t there. I sat and waited, listening to my iPod and watching a few yellow and orange leaves flutter down from branches.

After a while, a car pulled into the lot, but it wasn’t Whit’s. A blonde woman got out with a chocolate Lab, which quickly bounded off into the woods. As the woman started to follow, she glanced in my direction, as if wondering why I was sitting there in my car.

When Whit was twenty minutes late, I took out my Black-Berry to text him, but before I could push Send, he texted me:
BRT

I closed my phone. Okay, he was coming.

Another ten minutes passed before he pulled into the lot. We both got out.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Not really. A lot’s going on.” He nodded at my car. “Sit in a car or take a walk?”

I couldn’t help hesitating a moment. Another walk with another guy? But it was Whit, and I had to believe he wasn’t carrying a knife. “It’s nice out,” I said. “Let’s walk.”

We started along the dirt path through trees with leaves beginning to turn orange and yellow.

“They found another body,” he said. “This one in some woods outside Hartford.”

“Peggy D’Angelo,” I said, and felt my heart grow heavy.

“They haven’t made a positive ID yet,” Whit said. “But her hands and feet were bound like the girl near Scranton, and her description matches Peggy D’Angelo’s. I guess now that they found Rebecca Parlin, they have a better idea of where to look.”

More terrible news…I’d always known that it was hopeless to believe that the other two missing girls might still be alive, but now it seemed certain not to be the case. It was horrible and awful, and I couldn’t help thinking of those girls’ parents and the agony they must have been in.

“I heard they’ve taken Janet into custody,” I said. “Was that why you were late?”

Whit shook his head. “There’s something else. That other woman, Mercedes? Her family’s reported her missing.”

I stopped and stared at him.

“They just reported it an hour ago,” he said.

I felt sick. Not Mercedes, too. Then I realized something. “If it happened an hour ago, Janet couldn’t have anything to do with it. Didn’t they take her into custody this morning after your story came out?”

“The family only
reported
her missing an hour ago. She could have been gone longer than that. You don’t know how long they waited before calling the police.”

It was too much. Tears came to my eyes. All Mercedes cared about was her little boy, Pedro. She’d never meant any harm to anyone. And yet, in an awful way, it made sense. Jane/Janet would have known that Dad and Gabriel would never go to the police because they were as guilty of the scam as she was. But she might have become concerned that if the police questioned Mercedes, she’d talk.

I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and sniffed.

Whit stared at the ground. “Hard to believe stuff like this really happens.”

We went for a while without speaking. The path wound through the trees and close to the water. A few surprised mallards quacked and swam away from shore, leaving small wakes in the dark green water. I kept thinking about Mercedes. And that made me think of the girls whose bodies had been discovered. “Have they said how Rebecca Parlin died?”

“Compressive asphyxia. In the crime world, it’s called burking. They pin you to the ground on your back and press their knees down on your chest, which keeps you from breathing.”

The thought of it made me wince. “Why would anyone kill someone that way?”

“Here are some guesses,” Whit said. “First, there’s no murder weapon involved. In any murder trial, connecting the weapon to the killer is a key piece of evidence. So the person who’s doing this is making it harder for the police to connect them to the murders. Second, there are no obvious wounds, so it’s conceivable that whoever’s doing this could claim the deaths were accidental.”

We climbed up to an old wooden bench in a small clearing and sat. I waited for him to continue, and when he didn’t, I said, “Any other thoughts?”

“Well …” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“It’s a pretty sadistic way to kill someone. You get to be there, watching this person slowly die.”

“You think the killer is a sadist?”

“Maybe someone who’s either really, really angry or really, really sick. Which is why I …” He didn’t finish.

“Why you?”

He sighed. “You know this woman, Janet?”

“A little.”

“Really sick or really angry?”

I understood what he was implying. Strangely, it was a vaguely uncomfortable feeling I’d had as well. “Neither. Just flaky and disorganized and overwhelmed. Almost like the kind of person who might turn to crime simply because she couldn’t function well enough to survive otherwise.”

Whit nodded. We sat quietly. The mallards were now bobbing peacefully in the water.

“You’ve thought a lot about this,” I said.

“I’ve tried. One thing this situation has taught me is how careful you have to be about what you think and write. Everyone’s chomping at the bit to say Janet’s the killer. I’ve even heard some of the media say it should be called a serial-killing spree. But so far only two bodies have been found. It’s true they were both murdered and there seems to be a connection through your father. But I’m not sure that means Janet’s the one, and even more doubtful that she fits the profile of a serial killer.”

“And you think the media keeps hinting at it because it’ll sell more news,” I said. “Everybody’s in it for their own gain.”

Whit nodded. “Kind of depressing.”

There was something about the way he said it that made me wonder. Like maybe some of the things he was learning about journalism weren’t what he’d expected. We sat for a while longer, looking at the water and the mallards. Then Whit suggested we walk again.

“So how’s it going at home?” he asked as we followed the path through the trees.

“Off the record?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Not good. My parents weren’t exactly getting along to begin with. And my father can’t work, so I think money’s a problem.” I knew better than to say anything about Gabriel and the blackmail. Or regarding Dad’s admission about what he did with those girls.

But then Whit asked a question I didn’t expect. “What about Mr. Kissy Face?”

Was he asking because he was curious about whether I was having a relationship with Gabriel? Strangely, I discovered I liked the idea that Whit might be interested. But then I remembered telling him about how uncomfortable I was about the oddly unempathetic way Gabriel sometimes acted. That was probably what he was referring to.

“Haven’t heard from him lately. I have to assume he has his own problems.”

We stopped on a wooden footbridge over a small stream. Yellow and red leaves floated on the dark water under us.

“Any job offers yet?” I asked.

He shrugged. “You mean, after being written up in the
Times
? Actually, it’s been pretty quiet. And you? Any thoughts about Sarah Lawrence?”

“Haven’t had time to think about it. I mean, I guess I want to go to a bigger school than that. I only went to the interview because my mom wanted me to. I don’t see how we could afford it now anyway.” Whit gazed away. I couldn’t see his expression. “What about you?” I asked. “The last we talked about it, you weren’t so gung ho about the school, either.”

He looked at me with those pale green eyes. Were they merely pensive, or also a little sad?

“I think I’m going to stay there. The classes are small and the professors are great, and they do offer a pretty wide range of courses.”

“But you said not that many in journalism …”

“No, not that many,” he repeated, almost wistfully.

Did that mean he wasn’t as excited about the profession as he’d been only a few days before? A light breeze blew through the trees around us, rattling the leaves. A few fell gently.

Then he said, “You might want to give Sarah Lawrence more serious consideration. Even though it’s small and close by, it could be a really good place for you.”

I wondered why he’d said that. We hardly even knew each other. How could he know what school would be good for me?

“You think?” I asked.

The slightest smile appeared on his lips. “Yeah, I do.” He pushed himself away from the railing, and we started back toward the parking lot.

And that’s when it occurred to me that maybe part of the reason he’d wanted to meet had nothing at all to do with Janet, Gabriel, Dad, or the murdered girls.