Two Girls Down(105)

Vega’s neck tightened; she bent her arm like a wing so she’d be able to pull the Springfield more quickly.

“You found Bailey this morning,” said Mrs. Linsom. “I knew it wouldn’t be long. That’s what happens, unfortunately, when too many people are involved. Too many chiefs and not enough Indians.”

Vega made herself breathe now, in and out through the nose. She knew there was something very wrong here, in this house, with this woman. Even someone who had resigned herself to being caught would not be as relaxed, confident. When Mrs. Linsom looked at Cap, Vega peered out of the corner of her eye, trying to see around the room as best she could without turning her head.

“Mrs. Linsom,” said Cap, keeping it quiet and civil. “You seem to want to tell us something. Why don’t you get that off your chest.”



“That’s kind of you to offer,” she said, sincere. “There’s a lot to say, though, and none of us has a lot of time.”

What does that mean? thought Vega. Why don’t we have time?

“So,” she said, rubbing one palm against the other like she was sanding something. “I knew the girls kept those notebooks in that tree. I’d watched them from the window in the kitchen a dozen times.”

Vega imagined Kylie and Cole in the backyard, writing in pink and purple pens. She looked over Kylie’s shoulder, saw her circling Evan Marsh’s name, his real name.

“I’d taken out the page before you came. That’s really how it all started,” said Mrs. Linsom. “Kylie had written Evan’s name down.”

She seemed lost in a dream, and then she looked at Cap and Vega and must have seen their bewilderment.

“She wasn’t what we were looking for, you understand?” she said. “She’s…heartier than Cole, bigger. A mature girl, like a teenager.”

“Ma’am?” said Cap. “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to back up for us. We’re not sure what you mean.”

“I know what she means,” said Vega. “Kylie didn’t look enough like Cole. Ashley Cahill, Sydney McKenna—they both did. Blond, slight, petite. Young for their ages.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Linsom. She nodded to Vega, like she was proud of her. “Yes, that’s right. But the opportunity presented itself with Evan Marsh. It felt fated to me—that was the feeling I had. A boy she had met by coincidence happened to have a tragic story and was desperate for money. Although not so rare in this town.”

“So you tracked him down,” said Vega.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Linsom. “Not difficult. I found him at the supermarket.”

Vega saw them, by the loading dock where she’d talked to Marsh. They go for a walk. Evan looks at her like she’s crazy.

“He wasn’t interested at first…then he thought about it. He wasn’t stupid.”

Vega thought of his face changing, softening as he considered the money, the possibility of finding his brother.

“He had a need too, you understand. Also, of course, a conscience.”

She shook her head, disappointed.

“That was really my mistake. I should have known.”



“Did you kill him, ma’am?” said Cap.

“No,” she said, shifting where she sat, smoothing her robe underneath her. “Evan called and said he needed to talk to us. I could tell from his voice, he wanted to go to the police. So Press went to see him.”

“So your husband killed him?” said Cap.

Mrs. Linsom appeared taken aback by the question.

“Yes, Mr. Caplan, he did. He has two guns.”

Why is she telling us that? thought Vega.

“None of this was planned,” she said, her eyes on some distant point. “Well, that’s not entirely true. It was planned; I only mean that when we started we didn’t plan on all this damage.”

“Do you mean death?” said Cap, sounding just a little bit impatient. “Is that what you mean when you say ‘damage’?”

“Yes, I suppose. Death…damage.”

“So why don’t you tell us where Kylie is, ma’am, and then we can talk about what you did and didn’t plan on?” said Cap.

Vega heard anxiety in his voice. Mrs. Linsom focused on him and smiled rather kindly.

“Of course. First, though, Mr. Caplan, you should really speak to my husband. He’s not as levelheaded as I am. Maybe you can reach him. Man-to-man. Father-to-father.”

Vega thought there must be a window open or a busted air conditioner unit blasting cold air on her neck. She felt she was about to discover the source of a recurring wound, that thing that you did over and over again without realizing you were hurting yourself in the same spot.

Mrs. Linsom tilted her head, reminded Vega of a raccoon about to hiss, guarding the garbage cans. There’s no question these belong to me.

“I had a feeling about both of you after you left the other day,” she said. “You’re both famous. You have a lovely daughter, Mr. Caplan.”

Vega didn’t move, didn’t want to call attention to the bluff. She knew he was too smart to flinch, but she could see his posture change, head up, shoulders back, hands near the belt, ready to pull the gun.

“She said such sweet things about you on Facebook,” Mrs. Linsom said, without a single note of sarcasm. “It’s like she’s your friend, but she respects you also. It’s extraordinary. People write parenting books on how to do that using positive discipline—I’ve read them all.”