Real Bad Things(51)

Angie shook her head. “Nothing. It was a long time ago.”

“Not so long ago and nothing for you to bring it up and then pretend it doesn’t matter. Spill it.”

Angie scrunched her nose and then blew a long stream of air out of it. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to say anything.”

“Jesus, that sounds ominous.” When Angie paused, Jane spoke. “I promise. What is it?”

“I saw your mom there,” she said after a while. “She was helping Jason.”

“What do you mean, helping?” That didn’t make sense. If Diane had helped Jason clean up, did that mean she knew that Jason had killed Warren, not Jane? She’d never have lifted a finger for Jane. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Angie said. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. But like everything else that night, it got messed up. And I got scared.”

“What was she doing?”

Angie looked off into the distance as if to remember. “She had a shovel. She was shoveling the ground.” She mimicked the action with her hands. “Or more like scraping off the top layer of blood.”

“To do what?”

Angie shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe toss it in the water? Get rid of it.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“I had to. She saw me.”

“What’d she say?”

Angie paused again. “Said if I told anyone I saw her, even you, that she’d make sure I paid.” She shook her head and stared at the ground. “I believed her. She scared me. Stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. We were kids. She was the adult.”

If only Jane could go back and fix things. A time machine to help her reset everything. She would’ve graduated soon enough. She could’ve taken Jason with her. Her money from Family Fun wasn’t much, but she would’ve figured it out.

She could never fix the knowledge that Diane had made a choice about which of her children to save. Diane knew Jane was innocent. She wanted to sacrifice her. Her own daughter. She had screamed for them to kill Jane as they led her away in handcuffs. To erase the child who had ruined Diane’s life. Jane felt sick.

All that humidity coalesced with the rising heat under Jane’s skin. Her tongue got heavy. The smell of the trash can beside her made her sit up straight, an attempt to keep the vomit at bay.

“You got pictures of your kids?” Jane asked, changing the subject before she spiraled.

Angie relaxed for the first time since she’d sat down. Still, she sneered jokingly and then pulled out her phone to swipe through her photos. She held the phone out to Jane.

Three kids, all under ten, Jane guessed. Cheesing on the couch in their pajamas with a giant bowl of popcorn. “Cute.”

“Thanks.”

“You in Maud Proper?”

“No. I only come here to check on things. We moved outside of town. Better jobs.”

“So I’ve heard. And your husband?”

Angie swiped, held out the phone to reveal a photo of her in a bikini and a white guy in psychedelic board shorts on a pontoon boat in the middle of a lake. Aviators on both. Her torso twisted slightly, leg posed. Her hand on his trim waist, his arm around hers. Friends in the background midlaugh. Beer koozies in hand. Sunshine glittering off the water in the background. The American dream. “Handsome.”

Angie smiled. “I know.” She tucked her phone away in her purse. “I should go.” She stood and headed to the door.

Jane stayed put on the bench. She needed a moment alone.

“It was good seeing you,” Angie said.

Jane nodded and locked down any desire to ask Angie for more. She’d already done so much. “It was good to see you too.” Before she forgot, she added, “And thanks for giving Jason my shifts after I left.”

“Well, someone had to scrub the toilets, and it wasn’t going to be me.” She laughed and grabbed the door handle. But then the smile faded and she paused. “I’ll stay quiet as long as I can, but there’s only so much I can control. If things get intense, I need to protect myself. And my family. I’m sorry. I really am.”

Jane nodded, waved her hand as if it were totally understandable. Because she’d been in Angie’s shoes. When things got intense, she’d protected herself and her brother.

But why had Diane done the same?





Sixteen

GEORGIA LEE

Georgia Lee should’ve canceled the barbecue. She hadn’t felt right for a week. Not since she’d seen Jane. Since the memory. She’d called in sick at work. She still slept in the guest room. How could she sit with a bunch of cops, knowing that she had killed the man whose death they were investigating?

Georgia Lee glanced out the kitchen window at Rusty and the other guys in the backyard while she washed dishes. Trading “war” stories. Big talk about so-and-so getting in their face and how they got right back. Cheap jokes about shooting guns being better than sex even though the boys were right there. Laughing along like they were grown men. And Rusty let them. If they’d had daughters instead of sons, Rusty would probably have them in chastity belts. Pose with them in uncomfortably similar-to-wedding photographs after they made virginity pledges.

Not five minutes after the guys from the station walked in the door, Rusty had pulled out his new toys. The manufacturer name followed by his pet name for each gun: The Terminator, Rambo, John McClane, and Sweetie (named for her, he’d said that morning with a genuine smile). As if that were any kind of gift. As if their recent conversation had never happened. The cookout had been intended for the station only, but Rusty had invited several of his about-town buddies. Probably for the best—that way it didn’t look like Georgia Lee was trying to buy their support or endorsement, even though that’s exactly what she was doing. Only a handful of the station had made it. All but Benjamin silver haired and wary of unfamiliar or heavy spices. Spouses and girlfriends welcome, but none of them had shown—a relief. Most of them were at least twenty years older than her and about as fun as watching someone crochet a single-color blanket. That’s probably what they were doing right now while she entertained their should’ve-retired-by-now husbands.