Dead Letters(50)

“Did she give you any other messages for me?” I ask Jason in desperate confusion.

“Nope. She could be one mysterious girl.”

“You were sleeping with her, right?” Wyatt growls. He sounds just a bit too protective and pissed off to suit me.

“So what if I was? She wasn’t married,” Jason says, his dander clearly up. I smell a fistfight.

“Can you tell me why you were at the barn the night it burned down?” I ask shrilly, trying to defuse the pissing contest I can see unfolding.

“She texted me. Said she had a little surprise for me, if I brought some of the new stuff.”

“Heroin,” I clarify.

He gives me an entertained look. “Yes, sweetheart. But she didn’t use it that often. Or if she did, she had another hookup. I barely ever sold it to her. She wanted benzos,” he says with a shrug. I frown. “Texted me on the burner phones she bought a few months back. Said if we were going to be involved”—he coughs delicately and meets Wyatt’s eyes defiantly, double-daring him—“she wanted to be sure there was no record of it on her real phone. I thought it was kind of sexy,” he concludes with a fond smile. “Figured there must be a boyfriend or something.” Another malicious grin in Wyatt’s direction.

“So you went over to the barn that night?” I ask.

But Jason doesn’t get a chance to answer. The front door slams open, and two angry-looking cops storm in. I recognize the young one, Trent, from the police station, and he looks furious. The small handful of customers sit up straighter in their seats, and Jason leaps for the dressing room door in a nimble, instinctive movement. But his burly muscles slow him down. Trent manages to grab him and slam him against the wall.

“Are you Jason Reynolds?” he growls.

“Maybe,” Jason answers.

“I’m taking you in for questioning for the murder of Zelda Antipova,” Trent tells him, not letting go of his shirt. Nat King Cole has begun to sing again, accidentally cued up in the hullabaloo. “V is very, very, extra-ordinary…” And as I watch Trent manhandle Jason toward the parking lot, I suddenly realize what my sister is up to.





13


Mingling with the smallish crowd of gawkers that has gathered in the parking lot of Kuma Charmers, I glance around nervously before yanking Zelda’s cellphone out of my bag. I scan through the emails she’s sent me, scrutinizing each one. I nod my head as I go, convinced that my theory is right. That clever fucking bitch. I knew it. Knew she was fucking with me. Wyatt looks at my shaking head and tense shoulders questioningly, but I wave off his curiosity and launch myself into the truck’s cab.

“Let’s go home,” I say, realizing it sounds like an order. Wyatt doesn’t seem to notice. Still holding Zelda’s phone, I go back to the first email she sent me after the fire. Her nudge at the bottom…which, combined with the Facebook picture I saw, led me to the Bartolettis’, where I found out about Zelda’s loan. Then I had gone to the bank, where I found out about Zelda’s insane debt….I look at her second email, with its too-cute alliteration, then the next one, where she talks about her eulogy….I scan through most of the communication we’ve had since the barn, and I start chuckling to myself as I put more and more pieces together. Finally, I open a new pane to compose a message and type out a quick email:


June 24, 2016 @ 10:37 PM

Narcissistic, Nasty, Nuts, Necrotic Sister Mine,

Now, now, now, Zelda. I’ve figured out your little game. Should have seen it coming, but forgive me, I was too preoccupied dealing with your aftermath to really focus on such diverting distractions. Dial M, right? I applaud your creativity, dear sister. You fucking psycho.


Love,

Not-so-nice, nearsighted, na?ve Ava



By the time I’m done writing, we’re close to home.

“Did you know she was doing this, Wyatt?” I ask, pocketing the phone.

“What?” he asks, startled. He has been quietly driving while I retraced my steps during the last few days.

“Her little game. Did you know?” I look over at him, but he seems genuinely baffled. “No. Of course not. This is just for me,” I muse. “It would have to be.”

“What are you talking about, Ava?” Wyatt has slowed the truck down, and he peers at me with concern. “What’s going on?”

“Zelda’s not dead.”

“What do you mean?” He looks at me with genuine alarm. “Ava, I know grief…er, one of the stages…”

“I’m not in denial. She’s not dead. She’s been sending me emails since I got home.”

“I know how hard this has to be for you—”

“Damnit, Wy, I’m not crazy. She’s been toying with me this whole time. Look.” I show him the date and time of Zelda’s last email. He glances at it, swerves onto the shoulder, and throws the truck into park.

“Jesus.” He breathes out in a huff and gets back onto the road. “Jesus Christ.”

Soon he pulls into my driveway. I can see that his hands are shaking as he turns the wheel. “I mean, I know Zelda can be twisted. But this…” The truck crunches down the hill of the drive. He turns the ignition off and stares blankly through the windshield. I know it’s not funny, but I can’t help smiling at his distress. I do know how he feels.