Somebody I Used to Know (18 page)

“I’m going to have to get my number taken out of there,” she said.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that what happens on the Internet stays on the Internet.

“I was hoping I could ask you something, Margie,” I said.

“I guess so.”

“When we were at the cemetery you told me that Emily was adopted by her parents when she was an infant.”

A long pause. “Okay.”

“Do you happen to know the name of the adoption agency they found Emily through?”

Another long pause. “Why do you want to know about this?”

I decided honesty was the best policy. “This might sound kind of crazy, but I’m trying to find out if Emily had any connection to a family I once knew. It’s a long shot, I know, but I pretty much only have long shots left. Have you ever felt that way?”

“Sure. I think I know what you mean.” She made a slurping noise like she was taking a drink. “But I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it.”

I let out a little sigh of disappointment. But what did I expect? Still, I asked. “Was Emily adopted through Catholic Charities?”

“I don’t know,” Margie said. “Could be. Her parents are pretty devout about their faith, as am I. All I remember is that the mother who gave Emily up was young, a college student, I think. And it was a closed adoption, completely closed. The mother gave up the baby and turned away. All adoptions used to be like that, of course, back in my day. But now things tend more toward the open. But not this one. It was free and clear. Emily’s parents liked it that way, I think.”

My heart jumped. “A college student? Do you know where she lived?”

“They adopted the baby in Tennessee, I think. They used to live there. They moved around a lot. Maybe it wasn’t Tennessee. But it wasn’t in Kentucky. I know that.”

“Ohio?”

“What?”

“Did they adopt her in Ohio?” I asked.

“No, not Ohio,” Margie said.

“How about Colorado?” I asked.

“Are you going to go through all fifty states?”

“No. Colorado is the last one,” I said.

“They never lived in Colorado. Mostly in the Southeast. Look, I don’t really feel comfortable talking about their business this way. This young girl’s dead, remember? A family is grieving.”

I felt appropriately chastened. And Margie was right. What did I expect to learn from chasing down cold trails?

“Thanks, Margie,” I said. “You’re right.”

“They’re a good family. A loving family.”

“That’s good,” I said. “I’m sure they loved Emily a lot.”

“They did,” she said. “I’m sure somebody loves you a lot too.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You know . . .”

“What?”

“Those charities . . . from what I know, you don’t have to adopt a kid from the area you’re living in. I mean, you could get a baby from anywhere in the country, I suppose.”

My heart lifted. “Yeah, you’re probably right. And you say this girl was in college when she gave the baby up?”

“I think so. A college girl. Supposed to be smart, well-balanced, and from a good family. Maybe they tell everybody that. Anyway, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“I hope so too.”

I figured there was only one place to hope to find it.

*   *   *

I called Laurel when I was off the phone with Margie. When she answered I cut right to the chase.

“I’ve been asking way too much of you,” I said, “and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“You don’t have to help me anymore. This is my mess, and I’ll figure it out. Okay?”

“Nick—”

“But, look, I’m going to Hanfort. I have to. It’s the only way to get a little closer to the heart of things. I can’t take a trip to Colorado, but Marissa’s hometown is right up the road. That charity, they handle adoptions as well. And Emily was adopted and she looks just like Marissa. I’ll let you know when I get back—”

“Nick?”

“What?”

“I was just about to call you. I talked to Tony. I cleared my schedule. I can go up there with you if you want.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I can spare a day, maybe two.”

“Thanks, Laurel.”

“There’s a catch, though.”

“What’s the catch?” I asked.

“It’s pretty bad.”

“How bad could it be?” I asked.

“Sally has to write a report on
The Canterbury Tales
, and I’ve got news for you—neither her dad nor I is going to wade through that shit with her. Guess who’s elected?”

“Uncle Nick?” I said. “I’m there.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I
lay in bed late that night, reading and trying to make myself tired. I could only think about the next day and our trip. I felt like a little kid before the class visit to the zoo. I’d packed, and I’d taken Laurel up on her offer to let her kids watch Riley.

Heather had texted me an hour earlier, asking what I was doing and did I want to come over? I wrote back and said I was busy. Maybe another time. She didn’t respond. I didn’t regret sleeping with her. I tried to remember the last time I’d spent the night with someone, and I had a hard time figuring it out. Riley was a great companion, but there was something to be said for having a woman in my bed, someone warm and soft and whose breath didn’t make my eyes water. Heather and I had a long history. It wasn’t exactly easy, but we knew each other well.

My phone rang. I expected it to be Laurel. Or a mistake. Apparently my number used to belong to a guy named Lonnie who had a lot of friends. They liked to call Lonnie late, and they never believed me when I told them he wasn’t there.

But this was a call from Gina.

I straightened up against my pillows when I saw her name on the caller ID.

“Hey,” I said.

“Am I calling too late?” she asked, her voice low and cautious.

“Not at all. Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. We’re both fine.”

“That’s good,” I said. I laid my book aside. It wasn’t grabbing my interest anyway. There was a long pause, so I filled the gap. “I want to thank you for arranging my conversation with Dale. I know it was tough, but I appreciate it.”

“I hope it helped,” she said.

“It did.” Long pause. “He seemed like a nice guy.”

“He is,” she said, and chose not to offer any more details. I really didn’t care if she dated someone else—we were long past the point of worrying about those things. We’d both moved on from our marriage, except for the everyday business of just trying to get along as human beings. That had its ups and downs.

“Well . . .” I said.

“I saw that stuff on the news,” she said, “the stuff about you being some kind of suspect in this murder.”

“Oh, crap. Did Andrew see it?”

Gina took her time answering. “He saw it.”

“Shit. I knew it.”

“But he doesn’t fully understand it,” she said. “And I explained to him that you didn’t do anything wrong. I told him you’d never hurt anybody. He knows that. You don’t have to worry about him. He adores you.”

Sentimental fool that I was, my eyes filled a little. I reached up and brushed at them with my free hand. “Thanks. I didn’t doubt that. Even after the police came to your house to haul me away, I knew you would stick up for me.”

Gina laughed, a low, throaty sound. “You put on quite a show.”

“I try.”

“Really I’m just calling to make sure you’re doing okay.” She laughed again, a comment on the absurdity of my troubles. “I know you have a lot going on, and this stuff in the news just made me worry about you. Our last conversation didn’t end well, and I said some things.”

“It’s fine.” My hand rested on the book I’d laid aside. I riffled the pages, fanning them like I was shuffling a deck of cards. “You were right the other night, the things you said about Marissa. And our marriage. I wasn’t aware of it at the time, not consciously anyway. But she was always there, somewhere. It wasn’t fair to you.”

“I survived. I’m a big girl.” I heard her take a sip of something. Wine? Was that the truth serum that made her call? “You know, for a while I thought you were hung up on her just because she died young. When people die young they get kind of frozen in time. Never aging. Never fading. It’s weird. There was this guy who disappeared from my dorm when I was in college. My first year at Ohio State. I didn’t know him, but I remember seeing the flyers with his picture all over the place. No one knew what happened to him, at least not back then. Maybe he just ran away. Or maybe he’s long dead.” I thought I heard her shudder through the phone. “But I can still see that picture, that face. He’s always going to be that for me. He’s frozen.”

“But you said that’s not the case with Marissa and me?” I asked.

“No,” she said, pausing, gathering her thoughts to say more. “I used to think that, but I know it’s really different now. I think you really were in love with her. I can still hear it in your voice.” A rustling sound came from her end of the line, as though she were shifting her weight or sitting up. “What I’m saying is, what I think I’m trying to say is that I’m happy for you. I’m happy that you knew that at one time, even if it’s in the past. That’s not a small thing to have experienced.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

I felt obligated to say something back, something more intelligent and supportive. “So, you and Dale?”

“Oh, please.” She made a raspberry noise into the phone. “We’re friends who . . . you know. Mostly friends.”

“I see. But you have Andrew in your life. That’s pretty good unconditional love. Both ways.”

“Yes, you’re right.” She yawned. “I need to go,” she said. “It’s late, and I might start to get more sentimental or weirder than I ever intended.”

“Okay. Thanks for calling.”

“Nick? Good luck with all of it. Really. I hope you find what you want.”

And then she was off the phone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I
did fall asleep and slept well. The alarm woke me forty-five minutes before Laurel was due to pick me up. I showered and shaved, then rushed around the apartment, throwing a few more last-minute items in an overnight bag. Laurel had thought it best if we planned to stay the night. If we ran out of leads early, we could always cancel the room and drive back.

I picked up the watch from Marissa and thought about wearing it, but that didn’t seem right. I hadn’t worn it since her death, so I put it back in the box in my closet.

I was just about ready to go when the phone rang. It was Mick Brosius calling. Did anyone really like to get a call from an attorney?

“Nick?”

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“Not at all,” he said. His voice sounded deeper, more adult than ever before. “I’m calling about the Emily Russell case.”

“What about it?” I asked.

“I just got off the phone with Detective Reece. The DNA results are back.”

I knew I hadn’t been in that room. I knew I hadn’t touched the girl.

But still . . . police made mistakes. Innocent people were accused and convicted.

“It’s all clear for you,” he said, his voice casual. “No trace of your DNA in that room or on that girl.”

I didn’t know what I expected to feel. Not relief. Relief implied that something was in doubt, and it really wasn’t in my mind. I knew what I had—or had not—done. And I didn’t feel like there was anything to celebrate. A young girl was dead. Murdered. Just because I wasn’t involved didn’t mean the police were any closer to understanding what had really happened.

I felt . . . disappointed in the whole thing.

“Nick? Are you there?”

“I am. Thanks.”

“You understand this doesn’t mean you’re entirely out of the woods,” he said. “After all, you had contact with the girl right before she died. And no one, including you, can explain the address in her pocket. But it’s going to be a lot harder for them to pin anything on you if they can’t even place you at the scene. No eyewitnesses saw you there, and now there’s no forensic evidence.”

“Do they know what happened yet? Are there suspects? Anything else?”

Brosius said, “They’re not going to tell me anything like that, of course, but from what I’ve seen I don’t think they’re any closer to figuring this out than they were the day Ms. Russell died. To be honest, they were probably hoping they would find your DNA there. It would have helped them say they were closer to solving the case. No one wants the murder of a young girl on their books. No one.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint them,” I said.

“No, you’re not—oh, I see. You’re being sarcastic. Well, I’ll let you get on with your day. Just wanted to share the good news.”

He sounded almost giddy.

“Right,” I said. “Good news.”

*   *   *

I hadn’t been to Hanfort since a year after Marissa’s funeral. Just before the one-year anniversary of her death, I skipped my afternoon classes at Eastland and made the hour-long drive. At that point, I knew Marissa’s family was gone, so there had been no one for me to see there. But I had still headed to the cemetery and paid a visit to Marissa’s grave.

I don’t know what I expected to get out of the visit. Marissa’s essence had burned up in the fire. But it felt like something I had to do, something that, I hoped, would complete a circle or close a door. I’d attended Emily’s funeral for the same reason, to seek the elusive sense of closure that Laurel said was overrated.

Visiting Marissa’s grave back then did nothing for me.

So I had found myself sitting in an empty cemetery, the falling leaves drifting to the dying grass while I stared at a slab of granite with Marissa’s name, birth date, and death date etched on it. The sight of the grave hadn’t summoned any new emotions within me. Whatever emotions I’d felt the previous year were already as raw as could be and didn’t need any prompting. And once I was there I felt even lonelier, more useless. I realized after I’d arrived that I’d even forgotten to bring flowers.

Laurel’s voice snapped me out of my memories.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

I was staring out the passenger-side window, watching the empty fields and miles stream by. Since Laurel was a good friend who didn’t mind giving me space, we hadn’t spoken for twenty minutes.