CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

BECCA

After listening to the smartpen recording several times, I begin looking through the papers I found in Jenn’s locker. First, I scan them to get an idea of what the papers contain. Jenn starred and highlighted some sections and wrote in the margins of others. Seeing her handwriting again makes me smile.

As I flip through the pages, a few photographs catch my attention. I stop and flip back a bit to find what caught my eye. There it is—a black-and-white photo of a young boy covers most of the page. It’s pixelated, likely magnified. Nothing about the boy stands out to me; it looks like a regular school picture of a typical white kid. His hair and t-shirt don’t tell me much; it could have been taken any time in the last couple of decades or so. Jenn wrote the boy’s name under it: Ryan Brockbank.

That was the name Rick admitted was his original one, right? The longer I look at the photo, the more it looks like a young Rick. His hair is darker now, and the boyhood roundness is gone, but the eyes are his, and that’s a young version of his adult nose.

The paper has a paperclip in the upper left corner, so I reach up and remove it, along with the small stack of other papers it’s attached to, and flip through them. I find another photograph, one of a family—father, mother, son. The boy is the same kid as in the school photo; I’m sure of it. The headline above the photo and its accompanying article reads Boy Orphaned As Parents Drown in Overnight Tragedy.

My eyes dart to the caption: Russell, Janet, and Ryan Brockbank, in happier times. Photo courtesy Wolf Photography. Rick looks about a year younger in the family picture than in the school photo. The mother wears a plaid blazer and matching skirt that looks straight out of Alicia Silverstone’s Clueless closet, and her hair is only slightly smaller than an 80s poof. The father wears a slightly baggy button-down shirt with large stripes. If all of that weren’t enough to tell me that the photo was taken in the 90s, the parachute pants on Rick—known as Ryan back then—are a dead giveaway.

The article is about a boating accident, reported by a boy who called for help on the radio when he woke up and his parents weren’t anywhere to be found. The bodies were found a day later, washed up on the shore. I knew Rick didn’t have family, but I had no idea how he’d lost them. I feel sympathy for the boy who was, but I have too many questions to trust the man who is. I don’t really know Rick and never did.

Neither did Jenn.

I go through the papers, not noticing or caring about the time. Jenn did so much research. She made lists of things to look up, each crossed off as she finished digging into them, and notes upon notes about what she’d found. She’d looked up all kinds of drowning stories, medical articles about drowning, and even common ways of murder that appear to be accidental. Drowning was high on the list, along with car crashes and skiing accidents. She looked into other legal cases where someone—usually the man, but not always—was charged with the death of their partners.

Sleepiness was starting to creep up on me, so I decided to make some coffee so I could get through everything. As I set the papers aside and moved to get off the bed, I noticed Jenn’s writing in red at the top of the next page. Two sentences in red ink were starred and circled for good measure.

Many murders and suspected murders are disguised as drownings.

Proving drowning to be murder is very difficult.

A chill goes through me. I actually shudder. And now, without a drop of coffee, I’m wide awake.

I gather up the papers and head to the kitchen anyway, where I can eat and have that coffee without the siren call of my pillow. I haven’t pulled a true all-nighter since college, but this night might turn into one.

I dig some ice cream out of the freezer and pull two mugs out of the cupboard. I fill one with hot coffee and the other with mint chocolate chip. Then I return to Jenn’s research. How did she manage to get all of this information? I mean, I know that librarians are good at this stuff, but this is investigative journalism level.

First, I learn more about Chloe’s death. I never knew how she died. I assumed cancer or something similar.

But no. Chloe Brockbank—not Banks—drowned in the bathtub. Goosebumps race up my arms.

The autopsy found hard drugs in her system—cocaine, meth, and a high dose of prescription anti-anxiety medication. She died late at night after an argument with her husband. He claimed to have gone out for a drive to cool off, only to return and find his wife dead in the tub.

When I turn the page, it only gets worse. Jenn learned of another woman who’d been married to Rick after Chloe.

Her name was Natalie Banks. The groom in the wedding photo is definitely Rick, but the wedding announcement from a small-town newspaper calls him Christopher Banks.

He must have changed his name more than once. I try to keep it all straight: he was born Ryan Christopher Brockbank. That’s the person Chloe married.

By the time he married Natalie, he’d begun using his middle name, Christopher, and he’d also lopped off part of his last name, becoming Christopher Banks. But by the time he married Jenn, he’d become Rick Banks. Why did he change his name—twice?

My mind starts to spin as I try to keep it all straight. I decide that caffeine and sugar were good choices; they’ll keep me going even if they make me jittery. I swallow some of each and turn the page.

I quickly pass over articles about other cases and printouts from medical sites, preferring to read Jenn’s highlights and notes. I want to read it all but can’t while I’m still processing the fact that Rick had a wife sandwiched between Chloe and Jenn.

How did his marriage to Natalie end? I flip through the pages quickly, scanning for a clue.

Jenn, tell me you found more about that.

And there it is. Not a divorce decree, medical file, an accident report, or anything else I expected to find. It’s an obituary. Natalie Banks died shortly after their first anniversary. I hold my breath and look at the ceiling fan. I don’t want to read on but know I can’t avoid it. I force myself to lower my gaze and keep reading.

She drowned. I feel sick to my stomach, and it’s not from the ice cream.

Behind the obituary is a 911 transcript of the call Rick made after finding Natalie’s body. I drop the papers on the table as if they’re hot coals. Reading the first few lines of the transcript is too much; it brings me right back to the call I made after finding Jenn.

This is all spooky and wrong.

Did Rick kill his parents too? Was that the only real accident, the thing that gave him the idea of drowning others? Or has he been a killer since the age of ten?

Either way, my best friend married a sociopathic serial killer.

I find a note Jenn wrote to herself: Figure out how he forged his diplomas, licenses, etc. They’re all fake. How did he get them?

That’s the last page in the stapled section, so I set it aside, face down. Several handwritten lines on the next page catch my eye. A couple of spots look like they’ve gotten wet and dried, smudging the ink a bit. Tears, maybe. I pick up the papers again and read her even, slanted writing:

I have to keep smiling. Have to pretend that everything is great and that I don’t know the truth. I can’t let him suspect anything. Who knows what he’ll do to me? I can do this. I can smile and act normal as if my life depends on it. Because it does. At least until I can figure out what to do and how to get both myself and Ivy out of this.

Tears build in my eyes and fall, grief over losing Jenn combined with the horrors I had no idea she’d uncovered. Rick is responsible for her death. Did she suffer? Did she see his eyes through the water as he held her under?

A strangled whimper escapes me as my tears increase. I wish she’d told me, but I don’t know if I could have helped her without tipping him off. Could I have acted normally around Rick, knowing he’s a killer? Could I have protected her from a man who’s gotten away with killing several times before? Could the police have? I’ll never know. I’ll always wonder. The what-ifs will keep me up at night.

Ivy is safe with me for now. There’s that, at least. I’ll do everything in my power to keep her that way.