Page 19 of The Drowned Woman
“When I met you this morning,” Risa continued, “it felt like… finally someone who could help. An objective second opinion—and, if you think my stalker is actually killing people, maybe you could talk to the police? Help make them believe.”
Leah stood, her decision made. “Send me everything you have. I’ll take a look, pass it on to Luka Jericho.” She nodded to the thumb drive Jack had given her. “I’d also like to help you with your diagnosis, if that’s okay.” Reviewing Risa’s medical records would give her some idea as to any underlying delusions or mental health issues that might be at play. Because something about this whole situation felt off. Maybe it was just that Leah didn’t want to admit that Risa’s stalker was smart enough to outwit Ian—she wasn’t sure. Either way she was going to find out who Risa spoke with at the police department and find a way to make sure they learned to take victims’ complaints more seriously. Maybe have them spend a few days observing the victims that came through the CIC. Might make for a good way to get the police on board with the new pilot program as well.
Risa sank back in her chair, obviously exhausted. “Thank you. I’d love any opinions or ideas you have.” She hesitated, glancing toward the wall of photos depicting her former life. “You or Detective Jericho. I just can’t—I can’t live like this. Not anymore.”
Eleven
The little boy’s shriek startled Emily. She froze; the parachute’s silken hem jerked from her numb fingers. She wanted to run and hide, but there was nowhere to go in the wide-open gymnasium filled with kids. The boy’s noise turned to laughter as he dashed under the colorful parachute the other children raised. Emily’s section of parachute fluttered at her feet, just like her ballerina sheets had after she’d crawled under her bed that night last month. Suddenly the taste of blood filled her mouth.
Someone else yelled and Emily blinked back tears, clutching her stomach, not sure if she wanted to cry or throw up or run. Mostly, she wanted to curl up in a ball and crawl into the dark. She couldn’t live like this anymore. She was scared. All the time. Even when she was sleeping. That’s when the bad people like the bad man who killed Daddy came.
Be brave and strong, Daddy always said when he wanted Emily to do something Emily was scared of doing, like her first time on the teeter-totter or when he took her training wheels off her bike. She remembered Daddy’s long fingers, the way they danced over the keyboard of his laptop like he was playing piano. And the way he smelled—a lot like the trees in the back of their new house where it was just Mommy and Emily and Miss Ruby—who was Mommy’s mommy, but no one ever called her Mom and especially not Grandma.
Daddy wasn’t here anymore. They’d locked him away in a box, dug a hole, and threw dirt on him. He was gone forever and ever, amen. The first few nights after they put his box in the ground, she had nightmares about him waking up in the dark, buried alive. Mommy told her it wasn’t really Daddy in the box, that Daddy would forever live in Emily’s heart, except she sometimes felt like he was slipping away, leaving her heart as cold and empty as the hole they’d buried him in.
She couldn’t tell Mommy how she felt, not when Mommy was so sad all the time. And Emily wasn’t sure if she could trust Miss Ruby. Mommy definitely didn’t trust Ruby; it was like they were always fighting without ever saying any words out loud.
Mostly Emily whispered her fears to JoJo, the puppy in Dr. Hailey’s office. JoJo was the only person she could tell her biggest secret: it was her fault Daddy was dead. She hadn’t been brave and strong that night.
A girl jostled Emily out of the way to take over Emily’s spot around the rim of the parachute. The rain had kept all the kids trapped inside for recess for the entire week and no one was happy about playing the same games over and over. Emily didn’t really care—it was the way the gymnasium made every noise echo and bounce back at her that she hated. She couldn’t tell where the noise was coming from, couldn’t find a safe place to guard against any bad people, leaving her vulnerable and alone despite the crowd of kids and the teachers sitting on the bleachers.
She thought coming back to school would be different, especially now that she had Nate as a friend. He was her first real friend, not just someone who would let her sit at their table during lunch but never talk to her. Where was Nate? Her moment of panic had left her disoriented and she’d lost track of him. Right now, she needed to keep track of everyone she loved, making sure they were safe. Couldn’t let anything happen to them. Not like what happened to Daddy.
Because of her. Because she hid. Because she wasn’t strong and brave.
She whirled around, searching for Nate. There he was, over in the far corner with a bunch of boys playing dodgeball. The boys had Nate backed up against the wall. None of the teachers noticed; they were too busy checking their phones and talking to each other up on the bleachers. Nate didn’t look upset—instead his face was blank, the way it got when he talked about his mom or what happened at the foster homes he used to live in.
Emily didn’t trust that look. She headed toward the boys, flinched when they threw their balls at Nate, every bounce and thud reverberating through her. Then she heard someone whispering a very bad name.
“Hey!” she called out to the boys, all of them much taller than she was. The Homan twins were the ones whispering the very bad word, and throwing the balls hard enough to hurt Nate, their elbows arcing back, entire bodies winding up with the effort.
“Stop it!” She grabbed the closest Homan boy’s elbow as he prepared to throw another ball. She twisted her own body, keeping her feet planted, and he tottered off balance, tumbling to the floor. The other boys laughed.
Ruby said the Homan brothers were stupid—which was another bad word Emily wasn’t allowed to use, but Ruby was a grownup and grownups never followed their own rules. The Homans’ farm was just through the woods and over the hill from Nellie’s house and sometimes they came over on their four-wheelers, tore up Nellie’s flower fields and gardens. Nellie was dead, but even though Emily couldn’t remember her great-great-aunt, she still felt protective of Nellie’s farm. Which meant she already didn’t like the Homans, even before they decided to pick on Nate.
Then the boys turned and suddenly she was surrounded, on the other side of a semi-circle, her and Nate against five boys. Nate stepped between her and the two Homans, using his body as a shield.
“Get out of here, Em,” he told her in a low voice. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah,” the standing Homan, Billy, said as his brother, Jimmy, scrambled to his feet. “He’s fine. We’re just playing.”
“What’cha gonna do about it, anyway?” Jimmy said, grabbing a ball and taking aim, the other boys doing the same.
Be brave and strong, Daddy whispered. Emily stood tall despite the butterflies that filled her stomach trying to fly away and hide, wanting to take her with them.
Instead of retreating, Emily stepped forward, standing beside Nate, facing the boys. She’d let Daddy down and now he was gone forever. She wasn’t about to let her friend down. No matter what.
Twelve
As Luka drove from the Falconer to police headquarters, he tried unsuccessfully to stifle the feelings of frustration and irritation that Trudy Orly’s death had instilled in him. This wasn’t like him, not at all. Usually he enjoyed the start of a case, that sense of anticipation, where everyone’s story was important and anything was possible.
It was better than closing a case. Unlike in the movies or on TV, there was frequently a let-down when a case was solved. Either the solution was too easy—especially now that it was almost impossible to avoid some kind of video catching people in the act—or, all too often, they knew who the perpetrator was, but they didn’t have enough evidence to take it to trial.
He loved the feeling of calmness he felt when he entered the chaos of a fresh crime scene. He’d once dated a yoga instructor who’d told him that the Sanskrit word for that feeling wasprasantacarinor “walking tranquility.” The ability to control your emotions to better observe the world around you. Like all his relationships since Cherise, theirs hadn’t lasted very long. But what she’d said had reminded him of college: when he’d be working on a poem, that feeling that the rest of the universe flowed around him, leaving him untouched as he searched for the right words, completely at peace. Of course, those days were long gone. After Cherise, he had changed career paths, leaving poetry far behind.
Why did Trudy Orly’s death nag at him? Was it the thought that her husband might have killed her? Or the fact that Walt’s health condition might prevent him from being convicted? No, he’d arrived at the scene already frazzled. He never should have gone to the river…
Maybe it was the echoes from Cherise’s death that had created this sense of unease. He remembered that night. He’d been home, waiting for her to return from her study group. Washing dishes, staring out the kitchen window, watching the rain duel with the darkness, so lost in thought he’d let a coffee mug slip through his fingers, had cut himself. Blood swirling through the sudsy water… and then the doorbell rang. The police. Cherise, gone.
