Nice Girls(44)

But not me. I only crawled into bed, angry and exhausted.



Dad woke me up early on Sunday morning. He turned on the lights in my room and gently shook my shoulder. I kept my eyes closed. After the past two weeks, I craved sleep more than anything else.

“C’mon, Mary, we’re gonna be late for Mass. It’s All Saints Day.”

I didn’t move.

Dad shook my shoulder again.

“I think we need it,” he murmured.

Fifteen minutes later, we were both in the truck. I didn’t bother to dress up—I wore jeans and a hoodie beneath my coat.

The neighborhood was covered in mist. The string lights had been shut off. The mechanical witch no longer moved. The chalkboard had collapsed onto the ground. They were shadows, and by the end of the day, they would disappear.

I thought of Olivia in her nude photo, and I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear it away. Dad and I had never discussed it. But I knew he had received one, too. He’d seen the photo of his daughter’s childhood friend.

“You think we should report the emails to the police?” I asked quietly.

“No.” Dad kept his eyes on the road. “The police were there. I think they know everyone got it.”

The rest of the car ride was silent.

At St. Rita’s, we sat in the back pew. It was where we used to sit with Mom, on the periphery. We could watch everyone else without being watched.

The church was unchanged except for one new addition: a large crucifix suspended in the air above the altar. The crucifix was held up by a series of thin black wires. The limbs on the body were contorted in agony, the blood splashed like inkblots on the carved flesh. I had to look away.

The priest from my confession led the Mass. The church bulletin said his name was Father Greg. As he shuffled up to the altar, he passed by a blond bob of hair. It was Mrs. Willand. She sat on the other side of the church. John Stack was next to her, his gaze following the priest.

But Mr. Willand was nowhere to be seen. He’d skipped Mass. After his outburst in the park, it was clear that he didn’t want to be around other people. He’d been horrified, humiliated by Olivia’s photo. He knew that soon enough, everyone would know about it—including the members of his own church.

He’d seen a part of his daughter’s life that he had never considered. He didn’t want to know. It wounded him.

And that was why she’d kept it hidden. That was why we all did.

For most of Mass, my mind was blank. I didn’t have to think or do anything. I simply followed what the others did. I didn’t even listen until I heard the petitions.

“For the victims of unjust murders, may God bring them peace in his embrace,” said the reader.

“Lord, hear our prayer,” said the parish.

“And for Olivia Willand, our fellow parishioner here at St. Rita’s, may God protect her and guide her back to us in safety.”

“Lord, hear our prayer.”

Far away, Mrs. Willand turned to John. He leaned in toward her, whispering. Then he squeezed her hand. It was similar to the scene at the park: John comforting Mrs. Willand with a tender, intimate gesture.

I had never seen the Willands reach for each other like that. They were hardly ever home together when I’d been around. And when they were, they never seemed to meet, like two lines running parallel to each other. They talked of shopping, family trips, and activities for Olivia, but they showed no intimacy.

Even Olivia had mused about her mother’s affairs. She expected the worst from her parents. She might have been right after all.

During Communion, I saw Mr. Nguyen waiting in line. He was bundled in a winter jacket, no hat on his head. He didn’t notice me, but I remembered the conversation that we needed to have. He was connected to DeMaria’s case.

And DeMaria’s case was connected to Olivia’s.

I couldn’t be convinced otherwise. DeMaria’s body parts had washed up so quickly after Olivia disappeared. There was at least one other person online who agreed—the women were connected. There was a potential serial killer involved.

The Liberty Lake Police Department said that the two cases were unrelated. But there wasn’t enough information to prove anything. They had neglected DeMaria’s case since July. Olivia’s case had mostly turned up nothing.

I didn’t know what other information the police had: the things the searchers might have found, the investigation that they were doing on the nude photo, the list of suspects they had made.

Kevin would have access to all of it. He would have broken a few rules for Olivia.

But at the park, he’d been useless. He had the badge, but none of the authority. He couldn’t calm down a few angry suburbanites. I doubted he was sly enough to not get caught. He wasn’t even bothered by DeMaria’s case, so he saw no reason to investigate it.

There had to be someone else in the police force who knew what was going on. In turn, the police department needed more pressure to connect the women. Otherwise, they were ignoring a crucial lead.

I reached the front of the Communion line.

“The Body of Christ,” said the woman. She held the Communion wafer in front of me.

“Amen,” I said, bowing slightly.

She put the wafer in my hand, and as my fingers reached for it, it fell onto the ground. Embarrassed, I quickly picked it up and shoved it in my mouth. I hurried back to the pew, my mind starting to race.