Whisper to Me(16)

“He killed me and you did nothing.”

The voice’s voice was laced with venom. The voice of a snake, almost, all whisper and serious hatred. And this is how stupid I was: I took that “you” as collective, like an indictment of the whole town, the police, the justice system, whatever.

It didn’t occur to me the voice was talking to me. Singular. Saying that I had done nothing. Like I said, I was stupid. You’ll see.

Back then I just said: “Someone killed you. Is that right? And now you’re just … a voice. Like a kind of ghost, but one that only speaks.”

Silence.

“You want me to find out who did this to you? You want revenge?”

Silence.

“I think I’ll just turn the TV on, watch a movie.” I held my breath. Usually if I said something like this, the voice would tell me to slap myself or walk into a wall. I had done that a few times, walked into the wall, for considering anything that might be construed as entertainment.

Silence, still.

I sat there in wonder. The voice was a ghost, murdered by the Houdini Killer, and she wanted me to make it right. That was why she appeared after the foot, that was why she was so angry, that was why she’d picked me. Hell, I guessed it was probably her foot.

I knew what I had to do now.

I had to find the Houdini Killer. If the police couldn’t do it, maybe I could. People who hurt other people always get away with it, don’t they? That was what I’d wanted to tell Mr. Nakomoto.

Well.

Maybe not.





IMPORTANT CAPS-LOCK SPOILER:



I was not right thinking that the voice was a ghost.



I was very, very wrong.





I’d already read a lot about the Houdini Killer and what it amounted to was:





0.


Absolutely nothing.

No one knew anything because there were no bodies, only a foot—thanks to me—and nothing to link the girls, except their work.

Since the foot, of course, there were some more conjectures: most of the stuff online—the voice was cool with me researching online as long as I didn’t go on Facebook or whatever—agreed that the killer must have dumped the bodies at sea, and that was how come the foot ended up on the beach. Just like Dad said.

So they cross-referenced the dead women’s client lists and the membership lists of the strip clubs, where they could, with people who owned boats. But they didn’t find anything.

I know this because:

I was in the kitchen with Dad one morning, and I asked him, as casual as I could, if his buddies at the police station knew anything about the foot and the whole maritime-burial theory.

“You want to know what the cops are doing about finding this guy?”

“Uh … yeah.”

He looked at me with uncharacteristic concern. “You afraid?”

“Of the killer?”

“Yes.”

“I guess,” I said.

He nodded. “Thing like that, finding a foot. That’ll screw you up. Make you … struggle.”

NOTICE THE CODE WORD? The one people use about people with mental problems, as previously discussed? I didn’t, at the time. I wish I had. It meant that he had spotted that something was up with me. It should have been blinking with red lights, that word, flashing.

“Hmm,” I said, instead of noticing.

“I’ll ask at the restaurant,” he said. “See what the latest is.”

“Oh, okay, thanks, Dad,” I said.

“Don’t let it get to you so much, Cass,” he said.

ANOTHER WARNING SIGN I MISSED. People were already talking.

“I won’t, Dad.”

“Just, you know, keep safe,” he said. “Keep sensible. Don’t go out after dark. Keep dressing sensibly.”

“Dressing sensibly?” I asked.

“Yeah. You know. Like, not provocative.”

“Provocative?” I probably shouldn’t have been getting into an argument, but I couldn’t help it.

He blinked. “You see the photo in the paper of the last girl who went missing? See what she was wearing in that photo, taken just before she left the club? Looking like that, I’m not surprised that—”

“That someone decided to kill her?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m—”

“Dad,” I said. “This is called victim blaming. Girls don’t ask to be attacked. Everyone should be able to wear what they want without creepy guys going after them.”

“I know that, but—”

“And men are not animals. I mean, shouldn’t we expect them to control themselves if they see a girl in a short skirt?”

“Yes, Cassie,” he said with a sigh. “You’re right. But I’m not victim blaming. I’m protecting my daughter.”

“Really?” I said. “Because mostly I thought you just played with bugs.”

Silence.

A long silence.

But he didn’t leave. Just stood there outside the door, on the top step, the garage below us, a motion-activated light above us that gave harsh halogen light and always came on automatically. Moths circling. The sound of a distant car engine, and way under it, ever present, the hushing noise of the sea.