Cold Woods Page 16

  “This is it,” Carlyn said. “My crib.”

  Trisha walked around, ran her fingertips across the marble countertops. She moved into the small living room, where a flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall in front of the softest leather couch Trisha had ever felt. The hardwood floors looked to be the original, creaking when she stepped on them the way old floors do. However, they had been refinished recently, the scuff marks buffed out, shiny new stain on top. The home might be old on the outside, but Carlyn had updated every inch of the inside. Shrinks must make decent money.

  “The boxes are upstairs in the bedroom,” Carlyn said.

  Trisha took her coat off, sat on the couch. “How about a drink first before you show me your room?”

  “That’s not what . . .” She broke off, gave a nervous laugh. “All I have is wine.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Carlyn disappeared into the kitchen. “Red or white?” she called.

  “Whatever.”

  She came back with two glasses of red, handed one to Trisha. “It’s homemade. I made it right here in my basement.” She sat at the opposite end of the couch.

  “That explains the pergola.” She took a sip. “It’s good.”

  “Thank you.”

  Neither seemed to know what to say next.

  Trisha swallowed more wine. “If you’re hoping I’m going to talk to fill the silence, you’re wrong. I’m not falling for any of your shrink tricks.”

  “I work with children, not adults,” Carlyn said. “Besides, that’s not what I’m doing. To be honest, I don’t know what to say to you.”

  “Oh, I think you know exactly what you want to say to me.”

  “Maybe I do,” Carlyn said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to.”

  Trisha laughed. “Do you see patients here?”

  “Sometimes, yes. I remodeled the garage we passed and turned it into an office. I do see a lot of patients in their homes, too—whatever fits their needs.”

  “You always were good with kids. Me, I can’t stand them.” She drank some more wine. “I was pregnant once, though. It didn’t work out.”

  “What happened?” Carlyn asked.

  “Sid didn’t want kids.” She hadn’t thought about her baby girl in years, but now she’d gone and opened the door, allowed her grief to walk in. Sometimes that was all it took: for her to make a stupid comment without thinking what it would cost her. She’d spent a lifetime shutting down, disconnecting. Then one remark had the power to bring back memories that made her vulnerable, human, her mind and body thirsty for thoughts and feelings after a long drought. She’d never told anyone how she used to touch her belly, felt the tiny fluttering underneath her palm, the joy it had brought to her hard days. She’d fallen in love, head over heels, with her baby. It had been the first time she’d ever felt an overwhelming, crushing love for another human being.

  It had also been the last.

  She’d been young, twenty-five years old, drinking more than her share by then. She’d forgotten to take her pill, hadn’t noticed she’d skipped her period for three months. She’d told Sid. She’d been so young and naive, believing he’d be happy, but of course he hadn’t been. He’d become increasingly disgusted by her growing belly, calling her fat, lazy. Ugly. She’d been hurt, back in the days when she’d cared about what he’d thought, when she’d have done whatever he’d asked to please him. As the weeks passed, she’d cared less about him and more about the life growing inside her. She’d stopped smoking, had tried her hardest to give up drinking, but that demon had been too hard to kill. Still, she’d hoped to make it to term, to change her habits. But Sid had had his own agenda. He’d come home from a late night, cross after a particularly long losing streak. He’d found her in the bathroom, peeing. The baby had been pressing on her bladder by then. She’d had to get up every three hours to use the bathroom. He’d grabbed her by the hair, pulled her off the toilet, pee dribbling down her leg and onto the floor. It hadn’t been an ordinary rage, where he’d hit with abandon. His fists had purpose, the heel of his foot on her abdomen, intent. Afterward, she’d lain on the cold tile floor, unmoving, bleeding out.

  Now, she rested her hand on her stomach, the scar so much deeper than the one from the hysterectomy.

  Carlyn leaned forward, cradled the wine with both hands between her legs. “What did he do to you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.”

  “Why do you stay with him?”

  “Why indeed.”

  Carlyn waited her out, wanted something more from her. A better explanation perhaps.

  “I told you it doesn’t matter,” Trisha said.

  “Your mom told my mom she saw bruises on your ribs.”

  Trisha looked away, couldn’t stand seeing the sympathy on Carlyn’s face.

  “You don’t deserve to be punished,” Carlyn said. “You’re not to blame.”

  Trisha crossed her legs, folded her arms, wagged her foot back and forth. “I stay for the same reasons every woman stays.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Money. And I don’t have anywhere else to go.” She uncrossed her leg and stood. Wine splashed on her wrist. She downed what was left in the glass. “Where are those boxes anyway? Dannie’s waiting.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  DECEMBER 1986

  Trisha was lying on the mattress in her bedroom. She was curled on her side, knees tucked under her chin. Carlyn was lying next to her, wrapped around her. The sun was up, melting the icicles hanging off the slate roof outside the window, the water dripping onto the sill. Drip. Drip. Drip.

  Downstairs, Trisha’s mother paced, the cheap linoleum floor creaking under her weight. The refrigerator door opened and closed. Next came the pop and spritz of a tab being pulled off a beer can.

  Trisha counted six cans that had been opened in the last two hours since she’d been awake. She’d been hiding in her room ever since she’d left the woods yesterday, lying on her filthy mattress, where Carlyn had found her early this morning.

  “Why weren’t you in school yesterday?” Carlyn had asked. “Where did you go?”

  Trisha had told her everything, the words tumbling out in a monotone voice as though she were reading a phone book. Her tone had been unapologetic, but she hadn’t been able to stop from shaking. Carlyn had held her, was still holding her.

  Trisha’s palm throbbed where the glass shard from the broken whiskey bottle had cut through her skin. She’d covered it with a bandage to stop the bleeding sometime last night—she didn’t remember when—to prevent the blood from staining her sheets.

  Her mother had come home late, close to three a.m., after her shift at the bar had ended. She’d stomped around the house, talking to herself, mumbling about what a crappy husband she was stuck with, and where was he, anyway?

  A million plus one reasons why Lester hadn’t come home raced through Trisha’s mind, but only the last one screeched and clawed at her conscience. She could do nothing but cradle her head in her hands and wait for the thrashing to stop.

  When she couldn’t stand to think about it any longer, she ripped the big white bandage off her hand and threw back the covers. She couldn’t hide the bandage, but she could conceal the cut in her fist.

  Carlyn untangled herself from Trisha. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I have to know,” she said. “Wait here.” She crept down the hall, poked her head into her mother’s bedroom. She had to check, make sure Lester wasn’t here. The bed looked slept in, but it was empty now. The sheets were twisted, her mother’s pillow indented. Lester’s pillow was plumped, untouched.

  Trisha tiptoed downstairs. Her mother was standing in the middle of the kitchen with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, her bleached hair teased and piled high on her head. She was wearing her work clothes: the tight black skirt and top. She must’ve slept in them.

  “Everything okay, Mom?” She took a tentative step toward her. Up close, her
mother looked haggard and worn, a woman too young to look the way she did, possibly from stress, but more likely from working late nights, drinking, and smoking.

  “Your dad didn’t come home last night,” her mother said and put the cigarette to her lips.

  “He’s not my dad.” How dare her mother say he was? Lester was a monster. He was no father to her.

  “You’re right. He’s not. Stepfather.” She wiped her eye with the back of her hand, careful of the cigarette between her fingers.

  “He’s done this before, off on a bender,” Trisha said, steadying her voice. “He’ll be back once he sleeps it off or runs out of money.” The lie came easily. How many more would she have to tell?

  Her mother drank from the can, followed by a drag of the cigarette. “Did he say where he was going last night?”

  “No. How would I know?”

  “I don’t know. It was a stupid question.” Her mother turned away, stared at nothing. She brought the cigarette to her lips. Her nails were painted fire red, her fingers stained yellow with nicotine.

  Trisha’s stomach burned, the old familiar anger searing inside. “You’re worrying for nothing,” she said, trying to sound calm, even reasonable.

  When it was apparent her mother wasn’t going to respond, Trisha scurried out of the kitchen and climbed the stairs back to her bedroom. She closed the door, the one that didn’t lock.

  “Well?” Carlyn asked. Her hair was stuck flat to her head. She rubbed her arms. The house was cold, the heat turned down low even though the weather outside was close to freezing.

  “She doesn’t know where he is.”

  “You don’t think you . . .” Carlyn stopped.

  “I don’t know. But I have to go back. I have to be sure.” Trisha put her arms around Carlyn, rested her head on Carlyn’s shoulder. Fresh blood dripped from Trisha’s palm. She was scared. She wanted her friend by her side. She couldn’t do this alone. She clung to Carlyn, nuzzled her neck. “You’ll help me, won’t you, Car?”

  Carlyn pulled in a breath. “What do you need me to do?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Parker typed a text message to Becca. I’m sorry about last night. He hesitated before hitting send. Becca must think he was a first-class jerk, which of course he was. What had he been thinking? The throbbing behind his eye subsided after three aspirins, which was probably one too many, but whatever worked. He deleted the text before hitting send. Maybe this was something he should apologize for in person. He struggled navigating the whole social/technology thing, what you should or shouldn’t text when you were in a relationship. He leaned against Geena’s desk, considered asking her for advice. But was that crossing a line? He didn’t know, said nothing.

  “Don’t get comfortable,” Geena said and stood. “We’re going door-to-door, seeing if anybody knows anything about this guy.” She held up a mug shot for Parker to see. The guy’s head was shaved. Tattoos climbed up his neck. He had a large scar under his right eye. “Goes by the nickname Boonie. He’s the possible doer in Angel’s case.”

  “Angel?” Parker followed Geena outside to the car.

  “The girl this guy allegedly burned and left on the side of the road. It’s the case everyone’s working, including us, apparently. Sayres wants us to sweep her neighborhood for any witnesses, for the third time. Yeah, you heard me: two other teams already worked it. He told me you’d know why we got this detail.”

  They stopped by the car, talked over the roof.

  “This have anything to do with your last case?” Geena asked.

  Parker ran his hand across his brow. “Yeah, that would be my guess.”

  “What exactly did you do to get on his shit list?” She looked up, peered at the sky, the thick gray clouds.

  “I got involved with a witness.”

  “Involved how?” Geena asked as they climbed into the car.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Shoot, Parker.” Geena looked at him. “I’m assuming this witness is the same girl from last night? What was her name? Becca?”

  “It is.”

  “Please tell me she’s worth it so this sucky assignment in the freezing-cold rain will actually be worth our time.”

  “She’s worth it.”

  “Okay, then,” Geena said. “You look like crap, by the way.”

  “I feel like crap.”

  Geena pulled onto Route 191, heading in the direction of Allentown. “So how did it go with her last night, anyway?” she asked.

  “With who? Becca? Not so good.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” Geena said. “I hope I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Are you sure? I’m not blind or deaf to what goes on. I know some of the guys’ wives complain about me working with their husbands.”

  “It’s not that,” Parker said and made up his mind: he didn’t want to talk about it. He felt bad enough about his behavior last night. He pulled up the image of the softball bat on his phone, held it up for her to see. “Check this out,” he said.

  Geena looked at the photo, taking her eyes off the highway for a brief moment. Parker zoomed in on the spot where the initials S. S. had been engraved.

  “There isn’t anyone in the file that matches the initials,” Geena said.

  “You’re sure?” Parker asked. He hadn’t had a chance to look.

  “I’m sure,” she said.

  “Okay, well, we still have two people we haven’t talked to who gave statements back then. A Danielle Teagan. She lived across the street from Lester. Her mother passed about a week ago. I left a message for her to contact me.”

  “You mean Danielle Torino,” Geena said. “Carlyn Walsh said Danielle changed her name when she got married.”

  “Right.” He’d forgotten that detail. “The other one is Scott Best. Turns out he’s the same cop we saw at the hotel.” Parker had searched for him online, found a picture of him in uniform.

  Sleet pelted the windshield. Geena pressed on the gas. “We better get moving. I don’t want to be traipsing around in the freezing rain all day.”

  Parker and Geena returned to the station after walking up and down Fourth Street in Allentown, knocking on doors, searching for witnesses in the Angel case for the last three hours. No one was willing to come forward, although Parker bet every single one of the neighbors they’d spoken to had known something about the man in the photo. Geena called Sayres, told him they hadn’t found anyone who’d been willing to talk.

  Parker threw his rain-soaked jacket onto the chair. His fingers were white, numb. He blew on them. Most of the patrol was out dealing with the icy roads, auto accidents. “Did you ever get the list of names of Lester’s coworkers from Cal’s son?” he asked.

  “He finally emailed it late last night. I made a couple calls, but so far nothing.” Geena sat at her desk, checked her messages. “Hold on. One of them got back to me,” she said. “Says he has some information about Cal that we might find interesting.”

  “Let’s check it out,” Parker said.

  Parker and Geena sat across the table from Ron Schneider at a diner off Route 191 in Nazareth. Ron was a thin man in his seventies. He had a long face and bulbous nose that was covered in pockmarks and veins. He sat in front of a plate with a half-eaten open-faced hot turkey-and-gravy sandwich.

  “I didn’t know Lester that well,” Ron said, talking while he chewed. “He worked in the back, in the warehouse. I was in the front of the store with Cal when I wasn’t out on sales appointments.”

  “You mentioned something in your message about Cal and Lester’s wife, Sharon,” Geena said.

  “That’s right,” he said, stabbed a piece of turkey with his fork, ran it through the gravy before shoveling it into his mouth. “I’d sometimes see them together in the store. But I think Cal used to visit her at her house, if you catch my drift.”

  “You think Cal and Sharon were having an affair?” Parker asked.

  “I can’t say for
sure, but I had my suspicions.”

  “Did Lester know?” Parker asked.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know. Like I said, he worked in the back. I didn’t have much opportunity to talk to him.”

  “Why did you think they were having an affair?” Parker asked.

  “A married man doesn’t go to another married man’s house when he isn’t home. Not unless something’s going on with the wife.”

  He had a point.

  “Okay,” Parker said. “Thank you for your time. If we have any further questions, we’ll be in touch.” He picked up the check, paid for the man’s lunch.

  Back in the car, Parker said, “Sharon has another motive for wanting her husband dead.”

  “Yeah, and maybe so does Cal,” Geena added.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  DECEMBER 1986

  Trisha and Carlyn slipped into their winter parkas and pulled on their boots. A foot of snow had fallen overnight. School was canceled. The weatherman forecast another few inches coming their way before nightfall.

  “We have to do this quick,” Trisha said, shoving her hands into her gloves. If she thought about it for too long, she’d lose her nerve.

  Carlyn pulled her knit hat on. She’d been awfully quiet in the last ten minutes since leaving Trisha’s bedroom.

  “Mom,” Trisha called. Her mother was still in the kitchen, pacing, drinking. “We’re going sledding. Be back soon.” She turned to Carlyn, looked in her eyes, searched for courage.

  Carlyn nodded.

  Trisha opened the door and stepped onto the porch. Most of the neighbors on the street were already busy at work, wielding shovels, digging out cars, clearing the snow from the steps and sidewalks. Some of the snow was still fresh, the white so bright it stung her eyes. Other piles were covered in a dirty grit kicked up from the plows and slate mines.

  Across the street, Dannie was shoveling a section of sidewalk in front of her house. She stopped, stared at them. There was something sad about her expression, a kind of puppy-face look.