Blood will tell, p.15
Blood Will Tell, page 15
I ignored the mess and hurried to the sink. Turned on the tap. Stuck my arm under the faucet. Pulled the hem of my shirt into the water too. I waited for relief to come, but my skin felt as if it were in the pan, sizzling. I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes.
When I opened them, I found that Julian had padded into the kitchen. Holding Mr. Carrots by his ears, he rubbed his eyes with his fists.
“I’m hungry,” he said.
And it all became too much. Izzy. Marina. Rachel. My throbbing wrist and a blooming headache.
“There’s cereal,” I snapped, using a towel to pick up the pan and throw it in the sink.
It landed harder than I’d intended, and Julian’s eyes widened. I suddenly felt like crap. I was always so careful with him, but now he looked scared. Because of me.
Tears pricked my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said. But even that had an edge to it. I was failing him, just as I was my sister.
He stood there, unmoving, eyes still wide. When I shifted to more directly face him, my arm scraped the faucet. I winced and bit my lip to keep from swearing again.
“Why don’t you go get dressed and I’ll pour you some Cheerios?” My voice still didn’t sound quite right. I couldn’t lose it. Not here, with Julian watching me.
He hesitated. “With sliced bananas?” he asked tentatively.
I forced a smile. “With sliced bananas.”
After Julian left, I found a couple of ibuprofen tablets and went to my own room to change my now-sodden shirt. Passing the mirror above my dresser, I caught a glimpse of my face: jaw clenched, eyes shadowed. That wasn’t me. That wasn’t the face I wanted Julian to see staring back at him.
Get it together, Frankie.
I inhaled until air filled my lungs. Then I plucked a dry T-shirt from my laundry basket and headed back to the kitchen to slice bananas for Julian’s cereal.
After breakfast, teeth-brushing, and a quick combing of Julian’s sleep-mussed hair, I walked Julian to preschool, trying to ignore the throbbing in my wrist.
Back home, I took a couple more ibuprofen and applied antibiotic ointment to the burn. Then I retreated into the backyard to sit on the covered swing there, my legs crossed under me. Later the heat would likely make my skin sticky, but unbearable afternoons often made for beautiful mornings. I tried to forget how I’d snapped at Julian. But there was no forgetting that look on his face.
Inhaling deeply, I caught the sudden scent of damp earth. Sprinklers, I guessed. Someone watering their lawn.
My throat closed, and my head throbbed at a memory.
A month after Rachel had gone missing, a summer storm hit Cloverdale. The air had thickened with the heat and unexpected rain. At that point a missing persons report had been filed, but the police hadn’t found evidence to suggest Rachel might be at risk. In the days before she went missing, she’d talked about moving out. Getting her own place. And she was an adult. Add to that Piper’s account of how, a week after the disappearance, she’d seen Rachel drive by in a blue sedan—even if Piper hadn’t gotten a license plate, and she didn’t know Rachel enough to be sure it was her.
Now that I knew Izzy had shared her secret with Piper, I suspected the story was misdirection. But then? I thought only Izzy and I knew the truth of that night. I wanted to believe Piper, despite the hairs I’d found in the headlight.
The day of the summer storm, though, the rain had triggered an image of Rachel, alone out there in the shadow of the Mayacamas, unable to shield herself from the rain. That was the day I acknowledged, to myself at least, that Rachel would never come home. While Rachel’s family continued their futile hoping, I’d crawled into bed with a migraine. A well-deserved punishment, I’d thought at the time. Now, as I smelled wet earth again, my head ached with phantom pain.
After rubbing my temples for a moment, I punched in the number for the Allentown pharmacy where Chuck Romero worked. The man who answered the phone put me on hold. A minute of canned music later, another man’s voice greeted me with a robust, “Hello. This is Chuck Romero. How can I help you?”
Though I had planned what I would say, I felt unexpectedly anxious. I introduced myself, adding that I was Izzy’s sister.
“Hold on,” he said abruptly, before returning me to an instrumental version of a ballad I couldn’t quite name. Midway through the bridge, the line clicked open again. “Sorry about that. Thought I should take this in the back. Izzy okay?”
There was a time when my answered phone calls always started the same way—Is Izzy okay?—but hearing the words from a stranger jarred me. I responded on autopilot. “She’s fine.” But of course she wasn’t. If my sister really had been okay, I wouldn’t be calling this stranger in the middle of his workday.
“It hasn’t made the news here yet, so I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but Rachel Stroud’s body was recently found off Geysers Road.”
He gasped. “No, I hadn’t. Tobin and I are still in touch, but just birthday texts and the like.” He paused to consider what I’d just told him. “That’s horrible.”
I agreed that it was. “The reason I’m calling is because Izzy doesn’t remember a lot about the night Rachel died, and I’m helping her fill in those blanks. And since you were there . . .”
“Not sure how much help I can be. I left early.” Chuck sounded more guarded than he had a moment earlier. Had I been wrong to believe this would be an easy call?
“Izzy told me. But anything you can remember would be helpful.”
“How do they know Rachel died the night of the party?”
Not the response I’d been expecting. “What do you mean?”
“If Rachel’s been dead for five years, and I’m guessing she has been since she’s been missing for that long, how can the police pinpoint it to an exact time frame? Any evidence has to have deteriorated long ago.”
My practiced script went out the window. Certainly it was okay to tell Chuck, since Izzy had already told the sheriff’s office? “Because Izzy remembers hitting Rachel with her car.”
“Holy crap.”
Holy crap indeed. “So if there’s anything you can remember, even if it seems insignificant, it would really help Izzy.”
I wasn’t sure my appeal would work. As Tobin’s friend, his allegiance was probably to the Strouds. As Izzy told it, she’d met Chuck for the first time that night. Why would he want to help a young woman he’d met once five years before?
“Izzy was kind to me that night. I would’ve liked to know her better.”
Chuck’s characterization of Izzy made me emotional. Not enough people recognized that about her. They often saw the drinking, the recklessness, the temper, and then they could see nothing else. Hadn’t I been guilty of that on occasion too?
“How about Rachel?” I asked. “As Tobin’s roommate, you must’ve known her.”
He was slow to answer. “I knew her, but mainly through Tobin.” I heard a rustling of what sounded like paper. “Look, I wish I could help, but I was only there for the first hour or so, and I really should get back to work.”
I thought of Izzy, depending on me. “Please, Chuck.”
“I’m sorry.”
I sensed he was close to hanging up, and the next time, he would be less likely to take my call. “If you don’t talk to me now, I’ll get on a plane to Pennsylvania this afternoon. And when I get there, I’ll be cranky, because last-minute airfare is terribly expensive. You’ll have to get a restraining order to keep me away from your work and off your doorstep.”
I hoped he didn’t question me on that, because having Julian meant I couldn’t really jump on a plane on a whim.
After a moment he said, “Why would you come, when I’ve told you I don’t know anything?”
“For Izzy.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You have people you love there in Pennsylvania?”
Chuck hesitated. “I got married last year, actually. She’s pregnant.” Despite the conversation we were having, I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Congratulations. If your pregnant wife was in trouble, would you fly to California if someone had information that might help her?”
“I told you—”
I interrupted. “Would you?”
No hesitation this time. “Yes. But I don’t know anything useful. I swear.”
“Have you ever heard of that guy, John something, arrested in Florida somewhere for killing his neighbor?”
I was being deliberately vague because John something didn’t exist. The story was a fabrication.
He hesitated. “I think I might’ve heard something about it. He had a machete or something, right?”
Sure, let’s go with that. “I think so. The police weren’t even looking at anyone else, because they had the weapon, and the two men had often argued about a bush that might’ve been planted on the wrong side of the property line.”
“Yes,” he said emphatically. “I remember this story now. It was in Pensacola.”
I was glad he couldn’t see the look on my face. Really? “So this neighbor was arrested—”
He interrupted. “But it was really the wife who killed him.”
Had I somehow made up a story that had really happened? While Chuck continued talking—adding details about the wife—I pulled my phone away from my ear and put Chuck on speaker as I did a quick Google search. No machete-wielding murderers in Pensacola, though I did get quite a few hits in Miami.
“Then you must remember how the police figured that out.”
He was silent, then, “Another witness came forward?”
The lie was pretty much telling itself at that point. “Exactly. But this witness didn’t even realize she had useful information. She just happened to overhear the wife’s phone conversation in a grocery store where she asked someone if it had been taken care of, then a few days later this shopper saw the wife on the news crying about her husband.”
“It wasn’t a grocery store,” Chuck corrected. “It was a coffee shop.”
“Of course,” I said. “The woman wasn’t even sure that what she’d overheard was significant, but she came forward, and the police traced that call to the person the wife had hired to kill her husband.”
“Still, I don’t know anything that can help you.”
I groaned. “Come on, Chuck. You’ve spent more time avoiding my question than it would’ve taken to answer it.”
I could almost feel Chuck thinking. “Okay. But I’ve got to get back to work. I take lunch in half an hour. Can I call you back then?”
I stifled another groan and told him I would be anxiously awaiting his call.
I had laundry to do, the bathroom needed cleaning, and the breakfast dishes still needed washing. I ignored all that, holding my burned arm in the swing and remembering the last time I had shared the swing with Julian. After he’d fallen on the patio, it was here I had dabbed antibiotic ointment on his abraded skin. The same tube I’d just used on my wrist. I thought of all the scraped limbs I had bandaged in the past few years. As soon as he could crawl, Julian had been drawn to sharp corners and rough surfaces. He was clumsy and curious, born to poke things that didn’t want to be poked, and each time his curiosity got him hurt, his mouth would wobble in surprise and the tears would come. And then the next day he would do it again.
As a small child, Izzy had been the same. I wished our current problems could be solved as easily, with a smear of ointment and a bandage.
My phone buzzed. It was Chuck. I had half expected him to blow me off, but here he was, calling exactly thirty minutes after he’d disconnected.
“Thanks for calling me back,” I said, swinging gently. The movement soothed me. Almost made me forget the burn and the look on Julian’s face when I’d snapped at him.
“Like I told Izzy back then, I can’t really remember much.”
I planted my feet on the ground to stop the gentle motion. “Izzy?”
“She called me about seven months after that night. I’d just started dating Angela—that’s my wife—and I was about to start pharmacy school in Pittsburgh. Then Izzy called, and I was back in that clearing, drinking warm vodka and being bullied by Ben. It was not a place I wanted to be.”
“Izzy never mentioned that.”
“It was a short conversation. She asked what I remembered from that night, trying to fill in the holes in her memory like you’re doing now, but there wasn’t much to say.”
“Tell me what you told her.”
“It was a long time ago.”
I could feel him slipping away, eager to leave the memories behind. “Start with Rachel,” I prodded. “What was she like?”
“Quiet, I guess. Nice.”
When he didn’t offer anything more, I prompted. “Tell it like a story. So you and Tobin arrive at the party . . .”
He sighed. “We didn’t arrive together. Tobin and I took separate cars, but we got there at the same time. Ben brought Rachel, and Izzy brought Piper. I’m pretty sure Ben took Piper home, though. That’s what I heard the next day anyway. Not sure what happened to Rachel.” He paused. “Well, I guess I do know what happened to Rachel now, don’t I? But as I said, I left early.”
“Izzy mentioned you were the first to leave.”
He scoffed. “I should’ve left as soon as Ben suggested that ridiculous game. I had a test the next day, but honestly? I stayed as long as I did because I thought Izzy was cute, and like I said, she was kind to me. Talked to me. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but I wasn’t usually the guy women talked to at parties. Which is why, for the most part, I didn’t go to them.” The statement was devoid of self-pity. Delivered matter-of-factly, the way he might describe rain being wet or the sun being hot. “I never expected I’d have a shot with Izzy, but she intrigued me, and so I stayed. Until Ben started playing his own game, trying to get me drunk. No point in sticking around for that.”
“What about Rachel and Izzy? Did they get along?”
“Well enough, I guess.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Ben’s a bastard, but he’s a good-looking bastard.”
“Okay.”
“I mean, I don’t understand the charm myself. Being a bastard would be a deal-breaker for me if I were a woman. But a lot of women seemed to like him. When we were roommates, Tobin would tell me stories, and I would cringe. Anyway, that night it seemed like Rachel and Ben were a thing, but he was also flirting with Izzy. So Rachel and Izzy were never going to be friends.”
“What about Tobin? He left early too?”
“Yeah, he got back to the apartment shortly after me.”
“You stay in touch with anyone else from that night besides Tobin?”
“Just that one call from Izzy. And like I said, Tobin and I aren’t close like we used to be.”
“You must’ve talked about that night.”
“Not really. He left early, too, so at first, what was there to talk about? That stupid game?” he asked. “And by the time we knew Rachel wouldn’t be coming home—that she wasn’t just staying with a friend somewhere—I’d already moved out.” He paused, and for a moment I thought the call had dropped. “Besides, Tobin didn’t like to talk about it. Not that I blame him. Can you imagine what it was like for him, losing his sister like that?” I thought of Izzy and shivered.
On the other end of the line, I heard a knock. “Look, I have to go,” he said brusquely.
He hung up before I could ask anything else.
24
Tobin Stroud held an entry-level job on the digital delivery team of a San Rafael software company. Even after speaking to a representative in the department, I didn’t fully understand what that meant, but I did know he would be working a half day. Off at noon. I was told the rest of his afternoon would be spent planning Rachel’s memorial service. Though the family had been grieving for years, they only now had a body to bury.
“It will be nice for the family to finally have closure,” the assistant overshared.
Nothing about the family’s situation could be called nice, but I thanked the assistant for the information.
Before I headed to San Rafael, I called Julian’s preschool and asked if there was room in the after-school program. There was, so I signed him up. If I hurried, I would probably be only a few minutes late, but traffic on U.S. 101 could back up midday. Better to be safe.
The international company’s local headquarters looked about as I had expected. A long three-story building with nearly as much window as wall. Newer trees in front with thick foliage. Carefully tended flowers, mostly red but with an occasional burst of pink or white. The asphalt and sidewalks looked as if they had been scrubbed clean. Maybe they had been.
Outside the main entrance, on a small patch of lawn the shade of a putting green, I sat on a bench and waited. To blend with the office workers, I wore a pair of cropped slacks, a cap-sleeved blouse, and sandals. The bench was positioned in direct sun, so that even in the lightweight cotton I quickly grew uncomfortable. Perhaps the company preferred that visitors didn’t linger. At least the ibuprofen had dulled the pain in my wrist.
By the time I spotted Tobin leaving the building, the base of my ponytail was damp and sweat streaked my temples. In contrast, Tobin’s ruddy face was clean-shaven, and his dress shirt still held its crease. He wore his hair expertly styled but short, which called attention to ears that seemed almost elfin. I rose from the bench and approached.
When Tobin saw me, he stopped, but his gaze was wary. Izzy had described his eyes as smart, but there was something lost about them now. The whites were cast with pink, and the ruddiness I’d seen from a distance seemed to be due to barely repressed emotion. Anger or grief, I couldn’t yet tell.
“Tobin Stroud?” I asked, though I knew from the photos I’d found online that it was him. When he nodded, his brow furrowed. “I’m Frankie Barrera. Izzy’s sister.”
The lines on his forehead deepened. “Has she heard from Marina?” There was a hint of anger in his voice. His question made clear he knew about Izzy’s involvement in Marina’s disappearance. Did he also know about her role in Rachel’s death? I didn’t think so, since it was still so early in the investigation. I was grateful for that at least. Tobin already seemed irritated by me.
