Medford’s Goodwill smells the same as any Goodwill—like dust, old shoes, musty books, and disinfectant. Still, the cool interior is a welcome relief. I grab a cart and start pushing it down the graying linoleum. One wheel squeaks.
Last night I ate from the McDonald’s dollar menu, then slept on a bare mattress with only my arms for a pillow. My goal is to get the minimum and hope it comes to less than forty bucks. I need a set of sheets, a towel, and one each of the most basic kitchen things. Or maybe two, because I want to have Nora over, make her some of the foods she no longer can cook. I think of Duncan, of how I’ll never be able to invite him over, and push the thought away. Chuck asked me to start work tomorrow, so I also need a white shirt to wear with my black pants, and maybe a few more summer clothes. Medford seems to run at least ten degrees hotter than Portland.
For the queen-size bed, I find sheets with different patterns and a pillowcase that doesn’t match either sheet. It takes a little longer to find a pillow that’s unstained. I don’t mind used, but I do have my standards.
The kitchen stuff is easier. There’s a better selection, and some of the items, like two tumblers and a coffee cup, look brand-new.
I’m in the clothing section, holding a white peasant blouse against me to see if it fits, when someone says, “That’s cute. You should get it.”
It’s the girl with the purple hair from the funeral. Lauren. My cousin, even though she doesn’t know it. The girl Duncan said I was hurting by not telling the truth. Today she still has the rings in her nose and ear, but the silver chain connecting them is gone. Despite what she claimed during the argument with her mom, maybe the chain’s purpose was to bug people.
“Thanks.” The blouse is $2.99. After a second, I put it in the cart.
“We talked at the funeral,” she says. “My name’s Lauren.”
“I’m Olivia.” I pick up a pair of cutoffs, not meeting her eyes. What if she recognizes me, the way Duncan did? I’m careful to keep my fingers curled over my scar.
“How did you know my uncle?”
“I didn’t. I just moved in next door to Nora Murdoch. She asked me to drive her because she wasn’t feeling well.”
“I know that house. It’s cute. That’s where my uncle’s girlfriend grew up.” She pulls a red sleeveless shirt over the black tank top she’s wearing.
Medford’s small enough that everyone knows everything, I guess. Except who killed my parents. I realize I should say something.
“I’m, uh, sorry for your loss.”
Her brows draw together for a second. “What? Oh, my uncle? I only remember him and his girlfriend a little bit.” So much for her suffering, the way Duncan said. “My family spent years not talking about Uncle Terry because most of them secretly thought he was a killer.” She takes off the shirt and puts it in her shopping basket. “My mom used to wonder if the cops were monitoring our mail or phone calls. Sometimes she even thought Terry did it.”
“So was her brother, like, abusive to his girlfriend?” I hold my breath. I don’t want to know, but I need to.
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.” Her bangs fall back into their perfect straight line above her eyes. “Maybe my mom just figured you can never really know what someone is capable of.”
“So now who does she think did it?”
“I think she’s hoping it was a stranger. Some drifter who was just passing through, left my uncle’s car in Portland and kept on going. Maybe went on to the next town or the next state and found some more people to kill.”
“Why is she hoping that?”
“If it was someone here who did it, it would probably be a person she knew. Maybe even a friend.”
A lot of people in this town probably feel the same. Maybe they think what happened was long ago, that it’s time to forget and move on. Especially if the truth is going to add more pain, rip open the old wound and make it even deeper.
“I heard that guy Jason used to have a crush on Naomi,” I say.
Her eyes open wider. “Who told you that?”
“Someone was talking at the funeral.”
Lauren thinks about this. “He’s kind of a weird dude. Everything about him is loud—how he talks, those Hawaiian shirts. And he always thinks there’s some conspiracy or something. He used to be married to Heather, who was Naomi’s best friend. My mom says it’s not easy being married to a trucker, because they’re gone all the time.” She shrugs. “Still, even if he had a crush on Naomi, why would he kill her, too?”
I don’t have a good answer for that.
We’re at the registers now. Lauren falls in behind me. “So you’re living on your own?” she asks, eyeing my cart.
“Yeah. I’m saving for college, and the cost of living is cheaper here.”
“I’m going to U of O, but it’s impossible to find a job in Eugene over the summer, so I had to come home. You know what they say: Home’s the place where when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”
My total comes to $22.35. When we go outside, it’s so hot it doesn’t feel quite real.
“Want to go to Grocery Outlet?” Lauren points at the store across the parking lot.
“I’ve never been in one,” I say, then wonder if there are any in Seattle, my supposed hometown. I’ve heard the food at Grocery Outlet is really cheap. When you work at Freddy’s, there’s an unspoken rule you will never be caught by a customer, even in your off-hours, in Safeway, Albertsons, or another competitor. But while I’m still anonymous, I’m free to shop where I want.
“It’s, like, the cheapest store in the world.” She laughs. “My dad calls it the Island of Misfit Food.”
As we go up and down the aisles, Lauren’s dad’s comment starts to make sense. I see crackers that look like Wheat Thins but with Spanish labels. Flavors and colors of Gatorade I’ve never seen before. The cheese selection in the cold case is kind of random, but there’s some good stuff here, like Brie, aged Cheddar, and goat cheese, all going for about half of what Fred Meyer charges.
Grocery Outlet also seems to be where food flops go to die, and we take turns pointing them out. Pork Helper instead of Hamburger Helper. Canned egg salad. Shelf-stable salmon pie. It’s like an alternate reality. As if aliens made a grocery store to fool us, only they didn’t get the details right. The thought makes me stop in my tracks.
Lauren bumps into me. “Olivia?”
I don’t answer. Whoever killed my parents must have tried to tell a story with what they left behind. Maybe they hid my dad’s body so he would be blamed. And then left his car at the airport so it looked like he took off. But that story was a lie. The cops were too focused on my dad to ask why he had bothered to wipe his prints off his own truck. There must be other ways the killer slipped up, made a mistake, screwed up the details.
Maybe I can figure out where they went wrong.