Nice Girls(48)

“I’m gonna target the local newspapers,” I said quickly. I had to look away from Jayden’s gaze. “It’s harder to reach out to them undetected. But they might be more likely to talk about DeMaria’s case if the NYT doesn’t. And I might check with a few journalist friends to see what they can do.”

“Okay,” said Charice. “We all do this quick then.”

I unbuckled my seat belt. Before I left, I had one last question.

“Did your brother ever have access to Olivia Willand’s file?”

Charice shook her head.

“It was too risky. There’s a lot of eyes on her case,” she said. “Felix said they interviewed a ton of people, including her sorority, but not much of it was useful. She just vanished in the park reserve.”

“And her nude photo?”

“They’re still investigating it.”

I sighed. Even in death, Olivia was hard to read. I realized that I now knew more about a stranger than I did my childhood friend. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever known her.

“The whole damn universe is looking for the Olivia girl,” muttered Jayden. “I wouldn’t give two shits if it didn’t involve DeMaria.”

I ignored him. Jayden’s actions were more crucial than his words—and I needed him to cooperate.

“Thanks for everything, Charice,” I croaked. I meant it.

“Stay safe,” she said. She took a sip of her pop—a large Dr Pepper—and scanned the parking lot through her window. “If we’re right, then there’s a serial killer out here somewhere. That’s scary as hell.”

“Evil-ass creep,” muttered Jayden.

As soon as I got back into Mom’s car, I slammed on the lock, peering behind at the back of the car. I hid the unicorn folder under my seat, the back of my neck crawling. And before I left, I looked back one final time.





23




At home, I locked myself in my room and opened the folder that Charice had given me. But the words seemed to slip right before my eyes. I couldn’t concentrate.

I turned to the back of the documents, where Charice had placed the photos. I braced myself for the gore. But the pictures were grainy—a photo of another photo on a computer screen. DeMaria’s legs and forearm had been photographed at multiple angles. In one image, DeMaria’s left leg looked ghostly. It was speckled with craters where the fish had eaten away at her flesh.

At the bottom of the stack, there was a close-up image of DeMaria’s hand. Someone had stretched out her fingers so that they were far apart from each other. Her thumb and forefinger made the letter “L.” In the small web of skin between her two fingers, there was a tiny black heart. A tattoo.

I turned to the initial autopsy report that Charice had summarized. The coroner had found multiple incisions in the radius and ulna in her forearm, some of which had gone completely through the bone. The coroner suggested that the wounds had been made with a sharp common outdoor tool, likely a splitter maul.

On DeMaria’s right leg, the coroner also noted multiple incised wounds through the femur, but they were too numerous and detailed to count, as Charice had mentioned. On DeMaria’s left leg, there was a similar set of fewer wounds. The killer had most likely dismembered her right leg first, gotten tired, and then worked on her left leg.

But there was an inconsistency to the killer’s work. The coroner noted that the incised wounds on the legs had all been relatively contained to the same area. The wounds on DeMaria’s forearm, however, were scattered. There were shallower cuts that grazed farther down. The coroner believed that DeMaria’s arms had been moving—she had been struggling before she died.

And there was one detail that Charice had forgotten to mention: there were deep rope indentations on DeMaria’s wrist and ankles. She’d been restrained while she struggled.

The coroner’s overall conclusion was that DeMaria had been dismembered alive.

I put the photos away. The more I knew about what had happened, the less I could stomach looking at them.

I skimmed through the last of the police reports. There was a jolt in my stomach when I saw Mr. Nguyen’s name. A police officer had interviewed him a few days ago.

The officer wrote a single paragraph: Mr. Nguyen was cooperative and is eager to help with future inquiries. Mr. Nguyen verified that DeMaria Jackson had worked for him as a server between February–July. He claims that DeMaria was scheduled to work on July 10, the day of disappearance. DeMaria showed up late and then promptly quit. Mr. Nguyen saw her leave and noted nothing strange about her behavior. I left him a card with contact information.

I closed the folder and slid it under my bed.



Pho Village was quiet during the lull between lunch and dinner. Mr. Nguyen was tapping through his phone at the cash register, a Vikings baseball cap on his head.

“Hi, Mr. Nguyen,” I said loudly. I sounded chipper.

“Mary,” he said, glancing back at his phone. “Are you eating here today, or—”

“I just wanted to talk to you about something important,” I said lightly, as if we were discussing a day at the cabin. “It’s about DeMaria Jackson.”

Mr. Nguyen suddenly looked up, stone-faced. His eyes seemed to dart back and forth between mine. It was a trait that Madison shared. The few times that we’d argued, Madison would remain passive as her eyes roved back and forth. They were scoping out some weakness, some flaw. I was always uncomfortable when it happened, as if I were being studied under a microscope.