All the Dark Places(55)
Keith Russell, Indie’s cousin from Poughkeepsie, was eighteen and was spending the summer with his aunt and uncle. He was really tall, or he seemed so to me at the time, and thin, with a bulging pointed Adam’s apple that bobbed when he talked. His hair was thick and brown and hung over his bushy eyebrows. His teeth were too big for his mouth, and shiny red spots covered his chin. But he was nice to me and Indie. He liked to play with us in the yard, pushing us on the swings or chasing us in a game of tag. When he’d catch us, he’d grab us from behind and lift us high in the air. It was strange that he was coming through the woods. I’d heard him tell his aunt that he was going to the movies when I showed up at their door earlier. Maybe he changed his mind, I thought, and we were glad to see him as we had run through all our usual routines and were looking for something to do. Keith beckoned to us from the trees, and we eagerly climbed through the hole in the chain-link fence.
“Let’s go get ice cream,” he’d said, and led us through the woods to his car, which was parked on the next street. The lure of adventure and ice cream trumped all worry about running off without letting anybody know. And it was Keith. He must’ve told Indie’s mom.
I remember everything clearly as we rode through the street in Keith’s rusted blue car, the windows rolled down and hot, dusty air blowing over us. He gave us each a warm bottle of orange soda, and we drank eagerly. He had the radio on, and the song that was playing is forever the backdrop of that fateful ride. A ride into a new life, something that could never be undone. But, at the time, I anticipated a strawberry sundae topped with lots of whipped cream. I remember looking back over my shoulder as the ice cream parlor faded into the distance.
“You missed it, Keith,” Indie said. “It’s back there.” She’d stood up on tiptoe and was pointing. We were both crowded onto the passenger’s seat up front. He yanked her top to get her to sit back down but kept his eyes on the road.
“Keith!” Indie shouted, her long dark hair sweaty and tangled.
“I’ll turn around in a minute. Sit still. Drink your soda.” His voice had become strange, so we sat, our little thighs sticking together in the heat, and wondered what we’d done wrong. Obediently, we sipped our drinks, and the hot day began to grow woozy around me.
I don’t want to tell this story to Detective Myers or to anyone else for that matter. But maybe she already knows. Maybe she’s already dug into my past. People do that. They pick and dig and peer into our most private lives as if it is their privilege to unearth our secrets.
As always when I think of that day, I’m filled with anger. What right had Keith Russell to do this to me? What right did he have to destroy my life before it had barely started? Afterward, therapists had all pointed out that I was in control of my own life. How I responded and chose to live the rest of it was what was important. But I don’t think that’s entirely true. Like every other child who’s been the victim of an abuser, your life is different, altered, and there’s nothing you can do about that.
*
I finally grow drowsy, with Sadie stretched out on the floor next to me, where I can reach my hand down and touch her back, feel her even breathing.
My phone vibrates on my pillow. Unknown caller. I want to kill the bastard.
“Hello!”
“Hello, Melinda Wright.”
“What the fuck do you want from me?”
Big raspy breath. “I’m the one who knows, and I won’t be happy until you’re back in that cellar for good.”
CHAPTER 39
Rita
I’M SUPPOSED TO BE OFF TODAY, BUT I WAS JUST DRIVING MYSELF CRAZY at home, so I came in. We need to get our suspects in for questioning, but better to wait until Sheriff Skinner gets back to me with what his forensics team found. That report will be key in our questioning. But I’m antsy as hell waiting. I’ve worked through files on my other cases, made a few phone calls, but the Bradley case intrudes on my thoughts, scenarios running around and around, squirrels in a cage.
My phone rings. An unfamiliar number pops up on the screen.
“Rita?” At first, I don’t recognize the voice.
“Yes.”
“Joe Thorne.”
I break into a smile. Joe and I go back a ways, but I haven’t heard from him in a couple of years. He’s an FBI agent I’d worked with on a case five or six years ago. And the memories of that case—or, more especially, what happened afterward—bring a flutter to my heart and a blush to my cheeks. He’d reached out a few times in the subsequent years, but I, coward that I am when it comes to relationships, had let things drop. Now here he is again, stepping back into my world, and I’m both excited and troubled at the prospect, but above everything else, I’m a professional. I can handle this.
“Great to hear from you, Joe. It’s been a while. How are you?”
“Fine. Getting old.” I laugh with him. He doesn’t sound old. “Looks like we’ll be working together on this Annalise Robb case.”
“Sheriff Skinner turning the hard work over to you guys?”
“Yeah. Since it looks like our focus is turning to several people of interest in Graybridge, he reached out, asked for our help.”
“Has Sheriff Skinner told you guys anything new?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “The initial lab report on the blood found in the Bradley basement has come back. It’s been identified as Ms. Robb’s.”