The Book of Cold Cases(16)

To my surprise, she laughed. Her laugh had bitterness in it, but it also had real humor, and for a second I saw the young woman who had captivated the media for a few months in 1977. Whether she was a killer or not, Beth Greer had charisma that was hypnotic to experience in person.

“You don’t quite think I’m innocent, do you?” Beth said.

What was I supposed to say? I had to tell her the truth. Our entire interview was about the truth. “I have a lot of questions,” I said. “I’ve read so much about this case, and I keep feeling like I can only see a piece of it.”

“Then you’re as perceptive as I thought you were,” Beth said. “The first thing you need to remember is that if there was anything true spoken at that trial, I can’t think of what it is. That trial was all rumors and lies. Did you know they thought I was sleeping with Ransom?”

“I read that,” I said. Ransom Wells, Beth’s lawyer, was older than her and a married man, but that didn’t mean much. “I never believed it.”

Beth leaned back on the sofa. She was in control of her emotions, but her expression was hard. “There were rumors I was fucking everyone,” she said. “In 1977, if you had tits and an ass, you were a piece of meat. And if you got mad about it, everyone thought it was funny. I was a dirty joke—to the cops, to the media, to the judge. The only time they took me seriously was when they thought I might blow their brains out. That was the only time I had them scared.”

I stared at her. I couldn’t summon a single word. My blood hummed in my veins, and sweat prickled the back of my neck, harsh yet somehow pleasant. Beth Greer was telling me the truth. It was amazing, and it was terrifying. This—this was what I wanted. This was what made the rest of my life pale into nothingness. This was a high I didn’t think any drug could match.

“Tell me more,” I said.

Beth picked up her drink, the ice cubes clinking some more. “Why don’t you drive?” she asked instead of answering. “You’re not a drunk like me, so that’s not the reason. Tell me the real one.”

I wasn’t going to tell her. It was my automatic reaction to never tell anyone. Esther knew; so did my parents. My therapists, of course. My ex-husband had only heard the story once after we’d dated six months, and then never again. No one else had heard it, at least from me. So when the words came, I surprised myself.

“I was nine,” I said. “I was walking home from school. A man pulled up in his car and asked if I was cold. He said I needed to get in. He said my parents were waiting for me.” I kept my eyes on Beth, watching me. “I got in. After a few minutes, I realized something was wrong. I asked to get out, and when he said no, I begged. He hit me. I started struggling, screaming. He tried to pin me down and make me be quiet, but he was driving at the same time. When he was distracted and the car slowed, I opened the door and jumped out and ran. I told my parents, and eventually the police found him and arrested him. He went to prison.” I took a breath. “He’s been put away, but it doesn’t matter. He gets out in a few months, and I don’t drive. I don’t feel safe in cars since that day. I hate them.”

There was a roaring inside my skull, like someone had opened the hatch of a spaceship. A presence and an absence at the same time. Everything and nothing at once.

It was my biggest secret, the thing I never talked about. Ever. I had just told my biggest secret to Beth Greer.

I couldn’t read her expression. It didn’t crumple into pity, which was what I’d dreaded. If anything, she looked thoughtful, with no emotion at all. In that moment, she had the face of a woman who just minded her own business, and I had the crazy thought that sometimes it was a relief to be friends with someone who didn’t have any emotions.

“Is that the end of the story?” she asked.

Cold sweat broke out on my hands, and my stomach turned. For a second, I thought I might throw up. “Yes,” I said. “That’s the end of the story.”

I wondered if she knew I was lying.

Who was I kidding? Of course she knew.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


September 2017





SHEA


“Okay,” I said, pulling out my cell phone and turning on the recorder. “Let’s talk about the Lady Killer murders.”

“Let’s,” Beth said, her tone dry.

I looked at her. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in me asking you if you committed them or not?”

She didn’t blink. In the merciless light from the windows, her high cheekbones and large eyes were especially striking. “You’ll form your own conclusions,” she said. “Everyone does.”

I looked around at the old-fashioned figurines, the expensive dark wood paneling, the now-vintage print of a racing horse on the wall. “You were living in this house when it happened,” I said. “Alone.”

Beth waited. She had a talent for stillness.

“Your parents had died, and you’d been on your own for two years,” I said.

“Is there a question in there?”

“Didn’t you hate it?” I asked. “Living in this house?” It was oppressive in here. Beautiful in a way, but oppressive. Like the house of someone who’s died. Everywhere you turned, you could see the windows with their cold, bleak view, and even with the light coming in I found myself wishing Beth would close the curtains again. “Your mother must have decorated this place,” I reasoned. “You were living with your mother’s decorations after she died. You’re still living with them.”