Sidetracked-Kobo (5 page)

“Why would he want to talk to me?” Billy’s voice sharpened.

I shrugged. “He’ll probably want to talk to half the town. That’s how investigations are done. In case someone saw something.”

Billy looked back to the sidewalk. A car came down the street, slowing down as it passed us. I didn’t bother to give it a glance.

“I should have brought her flowers.” Billy gestured with his chin toward the blooms on the ground. “Need to go get some.”

“I’m sure she would like that.”

Billy’s eyes probed my face. “Think so?”

“She was your friend, Billy.”

He lowered his eyes, raw emotion creasing his forehead. “She was gonna be more than that. Susan told me.”

Susan? “Who’s that?” Someone who clearly had a mean enough streak to mislead Billy.

He lifted a shoulder. “A lady with blonde hair. She told me not to tell anyone. But now it doesn’t matter. Everything’s
too late
.” A sob wrenched from him.

Billy’s pain knifed me. I stood with him a few minutes longer, trying to think of something more to say. But nothing could stop his grief. Finally I took my leave, feeling so very helpless. As I walked away, my heart aching for him, he remained standing there, staring at The Spot.

I slid into the driver’s seat of my car and lowered my head to the steering wheel. I prayed God would watch over our town. Protect Billy. Protect me. And see that justice for Clara came swiftly.

As I drove home I thought of my
“full truth”
words of caution to Billy. As if I had room to talk. And just now I’d had the audacity to pray. My conscience screamed at me, as it had done so many times since I came to Redbud. How could I ask God for anything? How could I claim to be a Christian when my very life was wrapped in deceit?

No answer for that, except to insist to myself I’d done what had to be done. Now it was far too late to unravel the lies. I’d trapped myself, no going back. The more I gained in this life I’d created, the more I stood to lose.

For the hundredth time I wondered: what would have happened if I hadn’t chosen this road? If I’d simply trusted God to take care of me?

I turned onto my street, my beloved house coming into view. The very sight of it brought tears to my eyes. I loved my home and the people in it. I loved Redbud. I loved Andy and wanted to be his wife.

Yet I shivered to think of the even deeper deceit that would cost me.

I turned into my driveway, trying to pull my thoughts back to the present. I couldn’t stay home long. I needed to gather my strength and visit Clara’s parents. They needed my support.

It struck me then—this was April. How ironic. It had been April then too, those eighteen years ago when my world spun out of control. In my other life.

The life I’d vowed would never collide with this one …

April 1995

Laura Denton jumped off the bus at the end of her street in San Mateo, California, feeling the warmth of the sun on her shoulders. Her long-sleeved light blue T-shirt had felt good in the morning. Now the day was too warm for it. Her backpack was heavy with textbooks. She had two tests the next day, history and biology. And an English paper due the day after that, although the paper would be a cinch to write—they always were. Laura “had a way with words,” as her teacher said. Still, really, what did school expect of a sixteen-year-old? There were so many other important things going on in her life. Like Matt Newton, the guy who sat in front of her in French class, and whether or not he’d ask her to the prom. He’d been hinting at it like only shy Matt could. Why didn’t he just come out and say the words? Couldn’t he tell she was
waiting?

Only thing was, Dad would have to let
Laura go to the prom. He’d said she couldn’t date until she was sixteen-and-a-half. Crazy bit of math, if you asked her. Besides, that was a
world
away. She’d only had her birthday a month ago in March. (And gotten her drivers license a week later—yay!) Dad just didn’t understand about dating. He was all wrapped up in his work at the mortgage company. Mom would give in since it was the prom, and she’d once been prom queen in high school and totally got it. Besides, she’d known Matt’s mom for years.

Laura took off down the sidewalk, squinting in the sun. Her house was at the other end of the block, a beautiful home her parents had bought with cash last fall, after the inheritance from her grandmother came through. Her mom’s parents had been worth a lot of money. Exactly how much Laura didn’t know. Her grandfather had died three years ago. When her grandmother suffered a fatal heart attack, all the money came to Laura’s mother, their only child. At that point Laura’s parents sold their old house and moved into this one. Laura’s dad bought a new red Porsche. Her mom bought a Mercedes. Laura was promised a new car this coming summer. Other than that, life had gone on as usual, both her parents working hard. And Laura still attended public school, where all her friends were. As for the rest of the money, it had been “socked away for early retirement,” as her mother put it.

Laura’s mom would be home by now, just off her six-to-two nursing shift. They had a ritual, she and Laura. That is, unless they were fighting. When Laura first came home from school they’d sit down over cookies or some snack and talk about each other’s day. Kind of old fashioned, Laura thought, but she liked it okay. Some of her friends at school were actually jealous of her relationship with her mom. They hardly talked to theirs. Still, sometimes the “chats” felt more like her mother trying to get inside her head—know everything about her life. And that just wasn’t going to happen. Some things you didn’t talk about with your mom. If she pushed too hard, Laura might just storm off to her room. Then Dad would have to play peacemaker when he got home.

Laura and her mom had a fight like that just two days ago. Laura had been furious all the next school day. “You think my mom’s so perfect,” she’d told more than one friend, “you can have her.” But by last night they’d made up. Laura had said she was sorry. Wouldn’t do to have her mom all ticked off at her if she needed help to go to the prom.

Laura reached the short front sidewalk and went up the two stairs to their front porch. If Matt would just get with it and call her today, she and her mom could talk to Dad about the prom tonight. She even had her dress picked out.

Impulsively Laura slid out of her backpack and opened a zippered pouch. She drew out a couple of dog-eared, folded catalogs of dresses she and her best friend, Kylie, had been looking at for days. Leaning against one of the porch pillars, Laura flipped through the pages now. Dreaming about the green dress, then the blue. No, maybe the pink. That color always looked great with her blonde hair.

Laura shut her eyes, imagining slow-dancing with Matt. How would it feel to be that close to him? Would he step on her toes?

Better than her stepping on his.

Oh, please, Matt, call!
If he didn’t ask her, if she had to stay home on prom night, she’d just
die.

With a sigh, Laura slipped the catalogs into her backpack and turned toward the front door—

It stood open a couple of inches. Laura stared at it. Weird. How had she not noticed that? She reached out and touched the brass latch. Pushed the door open all the way and walked inside.

Silence.

“Mom?” Laura closed the door. She looked around, seeing the one step down into the living area on the right. Everything in place as usual. On her left was the kitchen, Mom’s purse sitting on the long counter separating it from the entryway.

“Mom, I’m home!” Laura thumped her backpack onto the tile floor.

No answer.

Out of nowhere a chill blew over Laura. The house wasn’t just still. It was … thick. She took a deep breath. Blew it out.

Well, this was dumb. Mom was probably in the bathroom.

Laura headed upstairs.

At the second floor she started to turn left toward her parents’ room, but something on the beige carpet caught her eye. Her gaze swept downward. Footprints, leading from her Mom’s bedroom into her own. In red.

Panic exploded in Laura’s stomach and bubbled up her throat. Even before her mind could register what that red might be, on some unconscious level she
knew
.

No. No way.

She veered right toward her room, following the prints. Had her mom spilled something, stepped in it? But she was so careful about her house, her carpets—

Laura ran into her room. “Mom?” No one. The footprints abruptly stopped.

She whirled and sprinted back out of the room, across the wide hall and into her parents’. Her wild eyes looked left, right.

She saw a foot on the floor, sticking out from the side of the bed.

“Mom!” Laura launched herself toward it, heart clattering. She rounded the bed—and spied her mother. Lying on her side, one leg up, the other extended. Arms curled toward her chest, hair over her face. Wet. Red. Blood. Splattered. Carpet-puddled. Still. Everything so
still.

Laura’s throat fisted shut. She launched herself on her knees before her mom, reaching for a shoulder. Reaching, pulling back, reaching, pulling back. Unable to touch. Afraid to
see.
Something outside herself clamped those hands on her mother, turned her over on her back. “Mm-mmo—” Hair fell away from her mother’s face.

But not a face at all. Blood and tissue and gristle. All so red. Where was the nose? The eyes?

A raw scream writhed low in Laura’s chest, got tangled in her ribs. Her mouth opened, jaw bulging, but only choking sounds came out. She ran shaking hands down to her mother’s warm throat, seeking a pulse, finding none. More noises spilled from her. The sight before her glassed over, the blood and mess prism-cutting into a Picasso nightmare.

Laura pushed back on her heels. Brought her palms up. They were covered in blood. More blood on her sleeves. For a moment she stepped outside herself, looking dully at her red hands, turning them over, seeing the red in her nails, in the creases between her fingers.

An unseen hand shoved Laura to her feet. She stumbled, fell. Her right shoulder knocked into her mother, smearing red on her upper sleeve. With a grunt, she forced herself upright again. Her legs were mush.

The phone. Where was the phone?

She staggered around the bed and grabbed for the telephone, knocking it to the floor between the nightstand and bed. Leaning over, eyes closed, she groped for it. Scrabbling fingers, spine at an odd angle, mind begging for this to not be
true.
She was some other place, some other girl, and any minute now she’d wake up, wake up,
wake up!

Laura felt the hard plastic of the phone. Wrenched it up before her face. She stabbed in the fatal numbers.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

The scream that wouldn’t come now whipped itself from Laura’s ribs and seared up her throat.

In the moments after finding her mom dead, Laura’s world cracked open, like baked ground in an earthquake. Laura fell down a chasm and couldn’t climb out.

So many sirens. People were all over the house—
her
house—in no time. Police in countless cars, and the ambulance. Uniformed men and women she didn’t know, questioning her, dragging her away from her mother’s body. Outside on the lawn she shrieked at the sight of her own hands, red with her mother’s blood. More blood on her light blue sleeves and on the front of her shirt. She dropped to her knees and tried to wipe the blood on the grass, but it was already drying. A female cop helped her up and tried to talk to her, but Laura didn’t hear her words,
couldn’t
hear. She saw neighbors slamming out of their houses, gathering on the sidewalk, whispering about what might be happening. Sirens wailed, and feet stomped, and yellow crime scene tape—what you’re only supposed to see on TV and never, ever on your own house—was unrolled around the yard. Then two plainclothes men came, ducking under the tape and going inside.

“Where’s my dad, where’s my dad?” Laura cried, and finally he came, his new Porsche gouging out a parking place at the crowded curb. He flew from the car and sprinted toward her. Laura collapsed in his arms, taking in the warmth of him, his voice. But he smelled different, a smell of sweaty fear. “I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it,” was all Laura could sob. Until just last night she’d been fighting with her mom, and now her mom was
dead
. How could Laura have been so uncaring? Now she could hardly remember what she’d been mad about. And her mom was gone forever.

“I’m sorry, so sorry.” Her dad gripped the back of Laura’s head. His hand shook, and his chest heaved, and once he even staggered while trying to hold her up.

He wanted to get into the house to see his wife. They wouldn’t let him. Laura stood back, cringing, watching her father yell at the police, but they would not budge. For that she was glad. If he only knew, he wouldn’t
want
to see her. Laura would spend the rest of her life trying to get that sight out of her mind.

Then a detective—one of the men in plainclothes—was taking them down to the station so they could “talk.” He led them into a little depressing room with a wooden table and four chairs. A camera up in the corner. Only later would Laura learn he wanted to take her in there alone, but her dad insisted on being with her. The detective’s name was Lester Standish, but Laura’s fried brain stuck on the name Miles Standish because she’d just studied about him in history class. Detective Standish looked around her father’s age, mid-forties. He had thinning dark hair and black eyes that looked right through her. One of those men whose beards you saw growing back by the end of the day. He was dressed in a gray suit and white shirt and really ugly black and gray tie. Like some funeral director. Like he somehow knew her mother would be dead today and had dressed the part. And for some reason that dumb thought made Laura so
mad
that she trembled and cried and told him to leave her alone, she didn’t want to talk. Then her dad had to calm her down, and the detective went to get her a Coke. As if that would make it any better.