7:15 p.m.
I am still holding my breath when the sandwich I forgot I ordered arrives.
Hailey touches my shoulder, and I jerk. “Oh, sorry!” she says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Shaking my head, I attempt a laugh; it comes out as a sad choke. “No, it’s not you. I’m still processing something my mother said five hours ago. I haven’t been able to talk to my therapist about it.”
“Wanna talk to someone else about it?”
“Unless you want to dig into who my mother was sleeping with when I was a child, I doubt we should.” Damnit, Ada. Shut your mouth. I’m far too candid.
She winces. “I’ll be right back.”
“Sure,” I say, nodding. I understand; I wouldn’t want to talk to Hailey about her parent’s infidelity.
I pick up the… ham and cheese, apparently, and bite into it. Processed cheese that still tastes like its plastic film wrapper fills my mouth. Yum. I am pretty sure even the meat came from the sandwich section of the grocery store. The french fries are delicious, at least. Fresh frozen, perhaps. They are likely 50% potato, 50% words I can’t pronounce, which is why they’re so tasty. I shove three fries drenched in ketchup in my mouth just as Hailey sidles up across from me at the square four-top table.
“I’m taking my break,” she announces to no one in particular and pulls her apron over her head; her bangs muss. “Now, spill.” It’s as if we are best friends, or at least old friends. Rather, I have been wondering if she is to blame for my trauma. Before I say as such, I remember that she is older than me. Maybe she heard gossip back then; maybe she knows about my mother.
Guarded, I say, “My mother told me my father left, because she cheated. Then, I think—I think—”
Hailey doesn’t try to hide her shock. “So it’s true? She slept with him?”
Goosebumps erupt on my arms, and my heart speeds up. “You know who it was?” I almost scream at her and demand answers. But I’m an adult, and adults do not throw tantrums in public.
“Well, I heard rumors. I was just a teenager then, remember. I heard rumors all the time. Dina was sleeping with our English teacher; my boyfriend had herpes. The mailman dealt coke to the football players, and our neighbor had a secret family in another town. I heard all sorts of things, Adel—Ada. Most of them weren’t true.”
“But this one was,” I say in one breath.
“But maybe not with who I thought.” She gathers her apron. “I don’t know what I saw—I mean heard. On second thought, it can’t be true. I’ve got to get back to work.”
With semi-checked emotions, I whisper, “You saw something? What did you see, Hailey?”
“Nothing, really. I was a kid too, remember? I’m so sorry you got sent away, ‘cause she did the wrong thing. It’s not fair that adult’s decisions affect children as much as they do.” I never told her that’s why my mother sent me away. I revisit the tantrum idea. “But since they do,” she continues, “and since you still want answers, maybe ask Polly. She and your mother seemed to be good friends back in the day. I have a feeling she wouldn’t have just rumors. I’ll be back with some more water and an ice cream sundae on me.”
“Hailey, what did you see?” I ask again.
She’s gone back to scooping up dirty plates from the table beside me. She knows; but yet again, I am a child in the dark. Anger bubbles in my gut and curse words threaten to spill out of my mouth. I came to Silynn to face demons, to sleep better at night, and focus on rebuilding myself without a shadowy past. What do I get?
Before I can answer myself, the two unremarkable police officers burst in the door. “Adelynn Bailey! We need to talk to you.”
Hailey disappears into the back room, and I cannot help but hate her for a moment.
I should be worried or scared as the two cops storm my way, their eyes hard and lips pursed. Indignation hits me first. Well, this is unprofessional. I stay seated and wait for them to come to my table. The packed soda shop buzzes; this is the equivalent to the stars of a box office movie waltzing in for dinner where I live.
“Adelynn Bailey, where were you last night?” the cop with the mole asks.
His raised voice solidifies my curiosity. He definitely shoved me off of the swing once. I had a scab for a week. I couldn’t stop picking at it to watch the unreal red ooze down my pale skin. His name was Logan in my mind. I would have to look at his card to see if that was right, but all bullies have been named Logan at some point. He could have been the one who triggered that.
“Well?” his partner prompted.
“At the rental I told you about. Why?”
“And all by yourself, I assume? That’s nice and tidy.”
I pick up my drying bread and slimier ham sandwich and take a bite. “Yeah. I came alone; you know that,” I mumble over the gummy globs of food. “Why do you ask?”
“Ada! Is that you?” I hear over the silence of the cops’ lack of response. Am I in a dream?
Freesia clomps over in six-inch lucite heels. Wild curls bounce almost as much as her barely covered breasts. The thong and thigh-high socks left 2% to the imagination.
“On your way home?” I ask, ignoring the police who have been nothing but a disruption.
“Work, actually. I came to get a slice of cake.” She leans in and whispers, “She likes to watch me sit on it.”
“To each their own,” I chuckle and pick up my soda, which leaves a ring of condensation on the table. With my chewed straw, I stir melting ice cubes; they rattle against the glass.
“What’s going on here?” Freesia asks the mute officers who should be scolding us for telling secrets like children in school. Instead, they are drinking her in. When polished nails drum curvy hips, their eyes move with them. If I walked out the front door right now, would they notice?
My voice is loud and clear. “I have no idea. They charge in here and start questioning me like I’ve done something wrong. You walked in at just the point where they were definitely going to tell me what this is all about.” They had only asked me one question, sure, but it was clearly accusatory.
“If you have any more questions for Ada, you can ask them with her lawyer present.” I snort as Freesia says, “Did I forget to mention my husband is a lawyer?” What? “Well, we aren’t that close yet, so that makes sense.”
She can tell me about the Robert who wanted to fuck her feet but not that she’s married to a lawyer? Silynn is an alternate universe, and Freesia is my guardian angel—both statements I would not have believed five minutes ago.
The boring cop’s voice wavers a little. “Miss Miller, we were just asking Ada about her whereabouts last night. There was a Jane Doe found by Lynn Pond. As Ada has a history with the area, we just wanted to cover our bases.”
A Jane Doe found by Lynn Pond. There must be details he is leaving out—like that she’s a child with red hair. How else would finding a body in the same place where I found Laura nearly thirty years ago mean anything now? Questions swirl in my head: who is she; how was she found; what happened to her; when did she die? I assume they thought I did it.
The mole above Logan’s mouth wiggles as he speaks. “Maybe we should take this to the station. You go ahead and call your husband.” He turns back to me as if only just remembering that I’m here. “We have a few more questions for you.”
And I have some—no, a lot—for them. “Am I a suspect?” I ask before Freesia can say anything else.
They both clear their throat.
“Well, am I? I don’t see why I need to go to the station if I’m not. And shouldn’t you be arresting me if—”
Freesia shoots me a look, and I go silent. “Let her pay the check, then we’ll follow you. I’ve got two calls to make while she does that.”
Logan nods and mumbles an irritated, “Fine.”
I finally take a second to look at the boring cop’s name tag: “Officer Frueller”. He crouches a little; it’s his first attempt at privacy. “You come back to town and—” He hesitates. “It’s her location, Adelynn. It’s not too far from where you found Laura Hurst. Just doesn’t look good. We can’t not question you, understand?”
“Sure, yeah.” No. Substandard food curdles in my stomach. “Feel free to have a seat while I pay. No need to stand.”
“We’ll be by the door,” Logan murmurs.
With each step the cops take towards the exit, the chatter around us swells. Snippets of conversations rise clear above the buzz. Those are the women and men horrified that I am not in cuffs. I’ve killed another girl, and the police haven’t taken me straight to jail. “Everything is wrong with this picture,” they’re saying. Already low spirits sink to the core of the earth. The townsfolk think I killed Laura? I was a child.
Freesia spins towards me, frowning, and sits. “Okay, what’s going on?”
“No clue. Apparently, I’m a murderer. I came here to have a sandwich and clear my head. A few hours ago, I found out that my dad left because my mother was a cheater. And it seems my old babysitter knew about it. Now, this! You know, I’m so normal in Bloomington. No messy family, no cops, no stalker, no Jane Doe, just a successful coffee shop, a nice apartment, friends that like me, and a bunch of issues I can keep mostly in check because of Rachael.” I’m cracking.
“Breathe.” When Freesia leans towards me, her nipples show a little. I pantomime breasts spilling out, but she’s already reaching for the phone in her purse. “I’ve got this.” Does she? Can she?
7:48 p.m.
Instead of driving to Polly’s Boutique, practicing what I would say and how I would politely demand answers as to who my mother was having an affair with, I’m headed to the police station and picturing Jane Does. They are all dead Laura Hursts, screaming and frozen in fear. Some of the Janes are hidden beneath the lake, shadows just as I remember. Others I can make out eyes, lips, hair; they are clawing their way out of the water. Women lie limp, half-nude, littering the snowy banks of Lynn Pond.
I rip at my eyelashes when a girl who looks like me when I was a child screams that I shouldn’t have come home. Some daydream—more like an eveningmare.
When Freesia pulls into the parking lot, I slide up beside her. She hops out before I turn the car off. Somehow, during our short drive, Freesia managed to change clothes. Her sleek jeans and sweater make her look more put-together than me; I fluff my flat hair out of insecurity. As I scooch my sleeves down my arm, I curse the thick scar tissue that reminds me of the moment I found Laura. The police don’t need any more physical connections; it’s the reason I’m here, as it is.
A man in a suit is waiting by the steps of the unassuming gray building I must have blocked from my childhood. He looks tired, yet alert as he waves.
“Honey!” Freesia shouts.
He rushes over to her. “Everything okay? Is this Ada?”
“Hi.” The car door slams, and I jump. “Nice to meet you...”
“Timothy. But you should call me Tim. Nice to meet you too. Sorry it’s under these circumstances. It sounds like you two have a habit of this.” He knows about Luke? I wonder what else he knows. “Speaking of, Freesia, were you able to visit Mrs. Ore?”
“Nope.” She looks disappointed. Pointing in her car, she says, “But I’ve got the cake already.”
Question mentally asked, and verbally answered. Wind bites through the sweatshirt that I feel frumpy in now. I have a lot of things I want to ask Tim, but I would rather be inside with the cops. It can’t be as cold—even being questioned about a murder—as it is out here.
Tim turns back to me. “I believe there are people inside who want to talk to you?”
“So I hear.”
“Well, let’s face the music. Maybe we can get a late night breakfast after all this is done. Freesia can join us after she visits Mrs. Ore. I think we’ll have plenty to talk about.” He is so casual about it all that I bet he’s not from here either.
I’m curious to know how he pronounces Silynn. I’m afraid to say it first in case he parrots me.
Our footsteps are loud on the cracked cement parking lot. The officers are waiting inside the double doors.
“Wondering if you weren’t gonna show up. We had plans for a manhunt, in case.” I’m a woman, though. Curiosity finally gets the best of me, and I read my bully’s brass tag: “Officer Curt”. Curt seems fitting. Logan Curt. That sounds about right. If it isn’t his given name, I have given it to him all the same.
Freesia’s hand flies to her hip before I can formulate a response. “You saw us follow you.” Her voice is indignant and annoyed enough for both us of, so I say nothing.
Tim turns to her. “You know. It might be better for Ada if you head out now.”
For a moment, she looks hurt. “If it’s better for her, then okay.” Glancing around at the dirty walls and scuffed linoleum, she sighs. “It’s sad here, anyhow.”
We both get a quick hug before she leaves.
“Hello, Mr. Miller. You and Ada come on back to my office,” Officer Frueller says.
The building is shared. Other businesses reside in this space, though I cannot tell what kind. I assume that’s on purpose. We stroll past empty cubicles devoid of personalization save a vacation photo here or inspirational calendar there. It reeks of toner and lost dreams.
“Here we are.” Body odor wafts with his overextended wave towards his office. His pride stinks of days without a shower. “Have a seat. We have a few questions.”
“Alright,” I say. “Shoot.” Poor choice of words, Ada. Did you forget you were in a police station about to discuss a dead person? And when did I start using phrases like that again, anyhow?
Frueller’s frown reads his displeasure with my word choice too. “Okay. So we established you were at the rental off of—” He grabs a notepad and flips a few pages back. “—Highway 43. Address: 3258 Hwy 43. Correct? About what time did you get there?”
“What’s this about?” Tim interrupts my prepared response.
“Last night, a woman was murdered out at Bar,” Logan Curt snaps.
Tim puts his hands out—quick and tense—like he’s telling the officers to “stop” with both hands. “Why are you questioning Ada about a woman at Bar? You said this was about Lynn Pond. Did you check the security footage at Bar? We agreed last time there was an incident there that they would have to get four security cameras. Was she on the tapes?” Last time?
Both cops shrink at his scolding.
“It appears as though she was moved. As for the cameras, they were out. CK is looking into it. Until then, we’ve interviewed everyone already, and we only have the words of folks we know.”
“And a bunch of drunks’ words are enough?” Tim challenges. Though his posture is rigid, his face stays impassive, smooth—calm, even.
Frueller shakes his head. “He wasn’t drunk. He said she must have come back for revenge.” Blood running cold, I wait for his name. “Luke’s been trustworthy up until a few nights ago.”
Without missing a beat, Tim counters. “When he attacked my client.” My fancy-pants lawyer knew a lot about me. I’m glad Freesia’s a talker. “She comes to town and decides to go on a harmless date. Then, she nearly gets assaulted by a man shouting about how he’s known her since she was little—which, if you consider their age difference is mighty disturbing. Does that sound like a man we should call trustworthy?”
Officer Curt throws a slew of images on the desk in front of us. One of them slides off and lands by Tim’s polished shoes. It’s the yet-to-be-named woman. The top image is of dark walnut hair matted with strawberry jam-like gore. Her head has been bashed in and is covered with a dusting of snow. A zoomed-in shot of her feet shows a low black heel on her left foot and a bare right one. Seven deep stab wounds shred the sheer shirt she wore over her tank top; bits of fabric are stuck into her back like a jammed slot machine, yet there is little blood under her. Her skirt’s ripped a little at the right seam but is otherwise intact. Several images underneath are from Bar. One is the handle of a bloodied beer tap. Another is the wooden leg of a chair, the bottom of which is now burgundy.
I blanch. “You think I did that? You think a woman did? How the hell could I have moved her?”
They both mutter over each other for a moment. Frueller comes out ahead. “We see a possibility. You show up, and this happens.”
Anger at what Silynn has represented for me leaks out. “A plus B equals C, is that it? Really? What possible reason would I have to do this?”
“Ada,” Tim’s voice warns.
To calm myself, I focus on the three silver-framed photos on Frueller’s desk; the glass on each of them is smudged. None of them have him in them, and everyone is smiling just right. I’m familiar with that trick; they are the stock photos that came with the frames—nothing like an imaginary happy family to brighten an otherwise shitty life.
“We’re just looking into all possibilities.” Frueller sounds less cocksure now.
Tim grabs the photos and flips through them. When he gets to a close-up of her face, he stops. We both gasp at her round eyes and pouty lips, soft chin and sharp cheekbones, fivehead instead of a forehead.
“What?” Worthless-Curt asks.
“Does this woman resemble anyone?” Tim sounds astonished that he has to ask.
“A pretty brunette?”
“And if it was dark?” Tim leads the horses to water as he picks up the photograph on the floor. It’s a full shot of her under the Lynn Pond bridge at an angle at which you can see up her skirt. Her underwear is on and un-torn. Thank god.
Their eyes get big; they see it.
Curt speaks first, “Um, it could be a lot of women.”
“Sure,” Tim says, as he collects all of the crime scene photos and taps them together on the desk. Once in a neat pile, he places them face down in front of Frueller.
Frueller gets back to business. “So, when did you get to the rental and how long were you there?”
This is all for pretenses now. No one in this room thinks I killed her anymore. Still, I answer like it is a serious question. “I had a late breakfast with Freesia, dropped her off around 1:30, stopped by the old rental to get my things. After that, I went to the new rental. I called you as soon as my bags hit the floor. Got settled and read for the rest of the evening. I didn’t leave until almost ten this morning when I got groceries.” I assume from the television I’ve watched, that’s what they care about. “Feel free to check in with Dave—I think he said his name was. He and Freesia know each other,” I couldn’t help but add.
Both cops shift uncomfortably.
Officer Curt moves the conversation along. “Have you been to Bar?”
“I have. That’s where I met Luke. But you already knew that. How did you figure out that’s where she was murdered?” I counter.
“Okay, then. I think we’re done for tonight; we got what we need. Thanks for coming in, Ada. Don’t you leave town, now. We’ll be in contact,” Officer Frueller says.
“Sure.” I wonder if their contact will be to arrest me. “I haven’t done what I need to here anyhow.” Still, going home is a better idea than staying for mental health reasons. With my safety at risk, Rachael would understand. But then I’d look guilty.
As Tim and I leave, I am a droopy wet paper bag.
Tim strides tall and proud. His client isn’t guilty! Well, she’s at least walking free for the night.
I forgot my jacket in the car, so I’m back to the bitter cold. It matches my mood, so sure, why not?
“You ready to get something to eat? We’ll get coffee and warm up.”
When will Freesia meet us at the diner smelling of vanilla cake and strawberry icing? Though breakfast with a progressive husband and wife sounds exhausting, Tim and I do need to have a chat.
What I want to say is, “I’ll come by your office tomorrow morning. We can talk more; you know, just in case the police somehow connect me to a murder I didn’t commit. We’ll work out the billing then too. Night.” What I do say is, “Sure, I’ll follow you there.”
His smile must be one of the reasons he’s married. It was one of the reasons I married Derek. He had pearly whites—like Tim—which he flashed at everyone—like Tim. In moments like this, I actually miss him. Derek and I started like most couples: sweet dates, sexy nights, wild adventures, talks about our future until three in the morning. The lustful teenage version of us was perfect. He is still the only person I allowed to really see me. When we had to grow up together, I found I should have stayed in hiding. To date, it is my only real regret. I wish I could say I regret chasing after a shadow under ice twenty-nine years ago, but I was a child. I cannot blame myself for curiosity any more than I can blame a wasp for stinging a person who smashes its nest.
“Good.” Tim interrupts my rabbit trail. He runs the back of his hand across a fake sweaty forehead. “That was a close one. Figured you’d want to go home after that. Heidi always says food’s good for the soul.”
“Heidi?”
“Oh! Freesia. She changes her name with every move. But she’ll always be Heidi to me. Five names ago, I met her in high sch—you’re shivering. Let’s get to the restaurant before I start reminiscing.”
My teeth chatter as I decide to go with my first instinct. “Wait, you know what? Could we meet tomorrow for breakfast at the diner? I really need to go home, take a long hot bath, and get some sleep.”
Tim puts on a smile. “Of course. That does mean you’ll have to listen to more stories. You won’t be able to claim sleep as a reason to bail.” He hugs me and opens my rental car door. “I’ll tell Freesia what happened. We’ll see you tomorrow. 9:00 a.m. too early?”
“9:30?” I counter.
“Perfect. Night, Ada.”
It isn’t until I am near the cabin that I remember tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I wonder if Tim forgot about that or if he and Freesia are like some of my friends who choose not to recognize the blood-soaked holiday. Either way, I’ll show up. I’ve got nothing else going on.
10:58 p.m.
Slinking into the clawfoot tub that takes up as much space as the kitchen is a sigh escaping tight lungs. I have bird-bathed for two days, and it’s catching up to me. There is something about a tub that makes me want to cry, call someone important, or have an orgasm. I choose cry today, because I can’t call Rachael, and I need a release. “An orgasm would be unhealthy and avoidant,” Rachael would say.
I take a sip of the full coffee mug of red wine before sobs wrack my body. My spine hits porcelain, and it’s sobering—in that, I don’t want to be sober. Chugging cheap, dry Merlot should make me gag, but I haven’t stopped crying. Salt drips into my glass; I barely notice the taste. After my third cup—which is the whole bottle—I pull the plug to empty the water that’s run cold and turn on the hot water nozzle again.
Another bout of crying threatens me as my skin tingles with warmth. Lamplight breaks through the bubble of tears hovering on the few lashes I have left. The moment I blink the watery blur away, I see myself with a clarity I hadn’t before. I’m crying for me. Knowing that, a relief rushes through my veins, followed by a heavy dose of guilt and fear that have me feeling dizzier than the wine. I should cry for the woman who probably lost her life because I rebuffed a crazy man. But that’s not what I am focused on. Laura deserves my tears too. Oh god. What if they were murdered by the same man? Luke.
When the same eerie branch hits the window and scares me out of my pity party and spiral, I check the watch next to the empty bottle and mug. 11:47 p.m. Holy hell. Without drying off, I wobble out of the tub and slip my way to my wrinkled sheets. They smell of slobber and sadness.
Body odor resembling Officer Frueller’s hits me when I cover my shivering nakedness. I forgot to wash. In the end, my soak left me more depressed and aware of my stink. I grab the pen and paper by the bed and jot down feelings. I wish I could call Rachael instead.
My handwriting is wonky, and the drunken sentences aren’t as coherent as I’d like. It also turns out that my spelling is atrocious, but it’s something.
Dear Diary/Rachael,
It’s 11:46 pm and I smell bad. I tried to cry my damages away. Didn’t work. the dead woman that looked just like me, didn’t she? My mother’s faults. I didn’t want to think about them. But I’m am. That catostrophic thinking that makes me feel like I’ve experienced it all over again. I’m doing it. I’m reliving being kicked me out. I’m experscing a trauma I can’t explain, too. Luke’s fault! He murderered my lookalike. Whered she come from? Silly to write in a journal. I should be running, calling the cops At home, they’d care.. But here, they don’t. Maybe Logan wants me dead. Should learn his name for real. Lukes gunna kill me. Just like he did Laura. I think he did at least. Pretty sure he did. And my mother will never love me the right way even after i’m dead. Where’s Pete? I’m tired. Okay, that’s it for today. Fear and exhastion are the words of the day if I had a calender for that sorta things. I think I’m bad at spelling.
Night.
Me, Ada.