The Familiar Dark(30)
She moved, although I could see it pained her. Having me so close and all to herself and not able to cash in on it. “I’ll be at the press conference tomorrow,” she called, jogging alongside my car as I pulled out, tires chirping against the gravel of the parking lot. “Maybe by then you’ll have something to say.”
“Don’t count on it,” I muttered under my breath. Talking to reporters was for other people. People who could say the right things and make the right faces. That was never going to be me. Yet another thing I couldn’t give my daughter. But maybe, by the time this was over, I’d be able to give her something even better.
* * *
? ? ?
It had been with reluctance bordering on refusal that I’d agreed to participate in the press conference with Izzy’s parents. Land had called me into the station the day after I’d seen Jenny at the park, said the Logans had already agreed. At first I’d said no flat out, said I didn’t see what good it would do to have me there. Couldn’t Zach and Jenny handle it? If someone knew something, why would having me standing there make them any more likely to talk? They were either going to spill their secrets or they weren’t.
But Cal, as he often did, was the one to convince me, his voice patient long after Land had stormed away in disgust. Cal agreed with me that it might not matter, that it might make not a bit of difference to have my brokenhearted face showing up in living rooms across the entire country. But what if it did? he’d asked. And finally, the kicker: It’s something you can do for Junie. And I saw suddenly, firsthand, how good of a cop he was, sliding in under people’s defenses, talking them into doing things that arguably went against their best interests. So smooth and kind you didn’t realize you’d been played until it was too late.
And it was definitely too late now, with bright lights shining into my face and sweat slithering down my back underneath my cheap polyester dress. I wished I’d worn my jeans, but at the last minute I’d swung by the thrift store the next town over and grabbed the first dress I’d seen. Too big and an awful shade of brown. My choice was made all the worse by Jenny Logan, chic and sleek in a black pencil skirt and cream blouse, a single strand of pearls around her neck. The fact that they were probably fake made no difference. She looked the part and I didn’t, simple as that. She was someone people could sympathize with. I was the poor, dumb hick who probably deserved what happened to me. I knew people were thinking it because I’d already thought it myself.
Land put the three of us in a row, seated behind a table, Zach in the middle. The table was covered with framed pictures of the girls and I was thankful to be behind them. I knew forming a single word would be impossible with Junie’s face staring at me.
Land spoke first, from a podium to my right. I tuned him out, kept my eyes down, the brightness of the lights burning into the top of my head. When Zach spoke, I forced myself to look up, turn my head in his direction. A line of sweat had formed along his hairline, thin enough the cameras probably wouldn’t pick it up. “We all, all three of us,” he said, glancing first at Jenny and then at me, “are begging anyone with information to come forward. Anything you saw that day, please let law enforcement know.”
“Even if you think it’s nothing,” Jenny interjected. “Even if it seems like nothing. Please, please call it in.”
Zach squeezed Jenny’s hand on the tabletop. “That’s right. You never know what might make a difference. What might help us get justice for our daughters. Whoever did this is still out there. None of us, none of our children, are safe until we catch him.”
No one spoke for a moment, the room awash with the sound of clicking camera shutters, the rustling of notebooks. I concentrated on the freckles dotting my arms, remembered Junie tracing them with her fingers. She always said my arms were my very own connect-the-dots. I jerked my eyes upward, trying not to squint as I looked out into the field of reporters. “Ms. Taggert,” someone shouted. “Is there anything you’d like to say?”
My eyes were adjusting to the lights, and behind the reporters I could see Cal, face tight with tension. Louise was there to his left, her eyes warm with sympathy. I knew it wasn’t possible, but it looked like half the town was crammed into the room, necks craning for a glimpse of the action. And behind everyone else, standing right next to the door, was my mother. Nothing about her was either concerned or sympathetic. Her bony arms were crossed, her face pinched. I could practically hear her voice if a reporter stopped to ask her name. Mind your own fucking business. How’s that for a name? She looked furious, and her fury fired my own. A match to the anger that now simmered always right below the surface.
I’d taken too long to respond and Land started to jump in, pulling the microphone at the podium toward his face. “This has been difficult for everyone, as you can imagine. Ms. Taggert isn’t—”
“I can talk,” I said, voice hoarse and too loud. The whole room went silent, the whispery undercurrents cut off cold. Next to me, Zach stiffened, and I saw his hand flex on the tabletop like he was stopping himself from reaching for me. Whether to silence me or comfort me, I had no idea. Knew only that I was beyond either offering.
“Call in your tips,” I said. “Talk to the cops. Do all that. And maybe it will help. But I doubt it.” I paused, sucked in a shaky breath. I was smart enough to know the anger zinging through my blood like a fast-acting poison was probably misplaced grief, but I didn’t care. It felt good. Felt good to feel something that would potentially hurt someone else instead of harming me. “But that doesn’t mean whoever did this should be resting easy, thinking they’re going to get away scot-free.” I pointed out at the cameras, stabbing my finger into the air. “Because I’m going to find you, you sick fuck. And I’m going to tear you apart.”