What Remains of Me Read online

  Finally Rocky stopped, turned. He peered into the car. “Kelly,” he said. He dropped the chainsaw. She got out and moved toward him.

  “What happened to your car?” he said. “What happened to you? You look exhausted.”

  “The police have my car,” she said. “They questioned me. I’m officially a suspect, I suppose.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Nothing.” Kelly took a step closer, ran a hand down the length of his smooth, sculpted arm, so much like one of his own creations. She’d never done this before, touching him outdoors, in broad daylight. But it didn’t matter anymore. Her father-in-law was her father. Soon she’d be arrested for his murder, her husband/brother testifying against her. Getting seen with the neighbor was the least of her worries. “There’s freedom in that, isn’t there?” she said. “Knowing there’s nothing we can do?”

  “We can do something. We can run away.”

  She shook her head. “Aren’t you tired of running?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She stared into his eyes, took both his hands. “Rocky,” she said. “Remember how you told me to only ask about your past if I’m sure?”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You are?”

  “Life is so short and so misleading,” Kelly said. “More than half of mine is over and it’s been pretty much a lie. I’m tired of hoping for things. I’d rather just know them.” She brought one of his strong hands to her lips and kissed it—a gesture she knew he wasn’t comfortable with, but she didn’t care. “So tell me, Rocky Three . . .” She cleared her throat. “Have I seen you somewhere before?”

  He swallowed, the bottle green eye at his throat rippling. “Yes.”

  She touched his face, wishing she could brush the vines away, see beneath his tattoos to his skin, his lips . . . “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

  The blue eyes clouded. “I don’t want to say.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he said. “I was terrible to you.”

  “You weren’t.”

  “I was.”

  “I know who you are,” she said. “I just need you to say it.”

  “I read about your trial, Kelly. I remember getting the newspaper and just . . . staring at those courtroom sketches, trying to figure out how you were feeling. Wondering if you were okay. I saw that picture of you after your sentencing. That smile—you were in pain. I knew it because you smiled at me that way once, a long time ago.”

  “I did?”

  He nodded. “You smiled like that when I hurt you.”

  Kelly had a flash, a dim memory of Vee late at night in his apartment, lying on his mattress, both of them stoned. “I think I loved her,” he had said. Talking about Catherine. A stab in the heart back then, but now . . . Now that she knew better . . . “That didn’t hurt me,” she said. “We both loved her. We both missed her.”

  Rocky’s blue eyes narrowed. “Missed who?”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I understand.”

  He glanced over her shoulder, at the road behind her. “Should we go inside? Your husband—”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore. I told you. Nothing does.”

  He took a breath. “Kelly . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Who do you think I am?”

  “Vee,” she said. “I know you’re Vee.”

  He shook his head slowly, sunlight sparking the sad blue eyes. “I’m not even sure who that is.”

  “What?”

  “Look at me, Kelly. I was blond when you used to know me. Shorter than you. I’ve grown since then.”

  “You aren’t—”

  “Look at me and think,” he said. “Not about who you want me to be, but who I am.”

  Kelly looked at him, the blue eyes a shade or two lighter than Vee’s had been, the jawline smoother, the forehead slightly broader. “You’re . . . you’re not . . .”

  “My voice,” he was saying. “Imagine it behind you. One row. I watched you all the time. You didn’t know that but maybe you felt it sometimes.”

  “One row?”

  “I liked your face, your voice. I liked how, when Hansen would drone on and on, you used to get lost in thoughts I probably would never be able to understand.”

  “Mr. Hansen’s science class . . .”

  “I was scared of you. The way you made me feel. I threw spitballs to get you to turn around, to notice me.”

  “Mr. Hansen’s science class,” she said again, Rocky’s face coming into focus, the whole of it behind the twisting vines, the blond eyebrows shining like silk. She gazed at the body, lean and slight beneath the sea creatures and red roses, beneath the leathery skin and layers of sinew. She pictured him with hair—floppy yellow hair falling into his blue eyes, a child’s eyes, a spoiled child. She pictured his thin lips twisting into a sneer, calling her a lezzie, a freak. “Evan Mueller,” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus . . . I . . . I hated you.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I hated me too.” He took her hand, the first time he’d ever done that. He led her past his creations and stopped in front of the skull-faced angel, the one he’d named Kelly. “Can I give this one to you?” He said it like a shy boy asking a girl to dance.

  She swallowed hard. Nodded.

  “Good.”

  They stood there, in front of his trailer, former convicted teen murderer and former high school bully, the world falling in on itself like color chips in a kaleidoscope, changing into something different, yet still somehow the same.

  “You sent me that postcard,” she said—a statement, not a question. “The one with the cactus.”

  Rocky smiled—a shy smile for such a strong, strange man. “Guess ‘someday’ is finally here,” he said.

  YOU GUYS HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH OF THIS STORY YOU’RE MISSING, Kelly thought to herself as she arrived home after seeing Rocky, passing the press carnival across the street and pulling into her driveway. Still holding her breath, she got out of her car. The shouts came fast and furious.

  “Kelly, how are you feeling?”

  “Kelly, did you kill Sterling?”

  She kept her head down, a hand covering her face. Rocky had wanted to come with her but she’d said no. Smart of her.

  “Do you have a statement?”

  “What would you like to say to Sterling Marshall’s family?”

  If you only knew.

  “Kelly, give us a smile!”

  She glanced up, then back down at the walkway. Not falling for that one again . . . She slid her key into the door

  “Kelly, are you glad Shane is home?”

  She whirled around. “What?” she said as the door opened in, Shane standing there, exhausted-looking and pale, her letter in his hands. His eyes glistened. Tears. Her husband. Her brother. “You,” she said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “You turned me in to the police.”

  Kelly heard one of the press people say, “Are you getting this?” She closed the door behind her.

  “I’m sorry,” Shane said. “I’m sorry I went to the police.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “I know.”

  He moved toward her. She stepped back. “He was my father too.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “My mother told me.”

  Kelly gazed into Shane’s eyes, black eyes, so very much like Bellamy’s and their father’s in color, yet shaped exactly like her own. “We have a lot of figuring out to do,” she said.

  “I’m going to make this right with the cops. I promise.”

  She didn’t think it would be this hard, looking him in the eye. “I think it’s a good idea,” she said, “for you to leave right now.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “You should probably leave out the back—avoid that scene out there.”

  He nodded. “After I leave, Kelly. Please charge up your
phone and read your texts.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a long one from me.”

  She glanced at the letter in his hand, barely remembering what it said. So much had happened since she’d written it in Bellamy’s empty house, telling him her truths, asking him for his. “Is it a reply?”

  “In a way,” he said quietly. “It’s about Bellamy. And Catherine.”

  BARRY DUPREE HAD NEVER LIKED GIVING PRESS CONFERENCES. THERE was something so hostile about the whole situation—standing out in front of the police building as though you’re defending your home against marauders, reporters hurling questions at you, taping your every move, dying for you to screw up like the marauders they are.

  The “dying for you to screw up” part was most pronounced when the press conference centered on a celebrity. Barry’s ex-wife had been a supermarket tabloid reporter, so he knew for a fact that the possible crash-and-burn was the only reason they came.

  You couldn’t blame them, these celebrity journos. Police press conferences were carefully scripted. Any deviation from that script could hurt an ongoing investigation, so by nature they were brief and boring. These guys from the tabs and the gossip Web sites spent 90 percent of their time waiting for some Real Housewife to get out of a limo with no panties on—why should they give a crap about an ongoing investigation? They wanted to knock you off your game, get you to say more than you were supposed to. They wanted to turn you into the law enforcement equivalent of Stars without Makeup—and they knew all kinds of tricks to make it happen.

  So when the lieutenant told Louise and him they’d be facing reporters this morning at eight, Barry tried to get his partner to take the reins. “You’re better at these things than me,” he’d tried. “You’re more personable.” Which had even made Louise laugh. “You know damn well I’m not personable at all.”

  Barry couldn’t argue with that. So he bit the bullet, read the statement, telling TMZ and US Weekly and the rest that while Kelly Lund had not been formally arrested and charged with the murder of Sterling Marshall, she remained “under the umbrella of suspicion.”

  Man, Barry hated that phrase. Saying it out loud made him feel like a jerk. It reminded him of a song from those old MGM musicals his parents were always watching on TV when he was a kid. Every time he had to say it, he’d picture Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds in matching raincoats, twirling their umbrellas of suspicion and tap-tap-tapping away . . . “Thank you for coming,” he said, making sure not to smile, because, unless you are a victim’s family member who has finally gotten justice, smiling during any part of a murder investigation makes you look like a psychopath. Just ask Kelly Lund.

  “Is an arrest forthcoming?” shouted one reporter.

  “Was her husband the one who turned her in?” said another.

  “Can you answer to the rumors that Kelly Lund had been having an affair with her father-in-law?”

  Louise picked up the torch on the “no comments” and Barry said “thank you very much,” and the two of them kept their funeral faces on as they headed back into Parker Center, their chorus of uniforms behind them, twirling their umbrellas of suspicion, tap-tap-tapping away.

  “I THINK THAT WENT VERY WELL,” LOUISE SAID AS THEY TOOK THE elevator back up to their floor.

  “I’m just glad it’s over.”

  As the elevator doors opened, Barry thought about Kelly Lund—a tough nut to crack, especially with Ilene Cutler for an attorney. But that wasn’t what had struck him most during questioning. The whole time she was answering their questions about driving to Sterling Marshall’s house the night of the murder, she’d looked directly into their eyes, paused an appropriate time to think, and showed no unusual signs of anxiety, and here she’d been taken in for questioning, no time to prepare. Whereas when Shane Marshall confided his suspicions about his wife back at his parents’ house, his eyes kept seeking out his mother and sister, as though he were expecting them to give him cues.

  Louise was saying, “I think the TMZ guys seemed pretty respectful, considering.”

  “I guess, but you’re setting the bar pretty low,” Barry said. He flashed on all those cameras, aimed at him firing squad–style. “Meet you back there.”

  He stopped in the men’s room, checked himself in the mirror—no cowlick, nothing in the teeth, tie on straight, fly zipped. Whew. Probably should have done that before the press conference, though.

  He splashed some water in his face, took a deep breath, then headed out the door and made for his pristine desk, ready to face the day—only to find Louise and Hank Grayson standing there. The rest of the squad was clustered around, all of them staring at him expectantly, like this was a surprise party and he still hadn’t figured out that he was supposed to be surprised. “Um . . . Anything I should know?”

  “Game changer,” Louise said. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide. Barry had never seen her anywhere near close to this animated.

  “Game changer?”

  Grayson said, “We have a confession for the Sterling Marshall murder. She came in early this morning.”

  “What?”

  “She’s been booked, fingerprinted. But she says she wants to give her confession directly to you.” He smiled. “Guess you made a nice impression on her . . .” He gave Louise a look. “Or a better one than your partner.”

  “Whatever, Hank.”

  Barry stared at him. “What? Wait. Did Kelly Lund confess?”

  Louise said, “Wait. You honestly think you made a good impression on Kelly Lund?”

  “Well, then . . .”

  “The wife says she did it, Barry,” Grayson said.

  “What?”

  “That’s right,” said Louise. “Mary Marshall with her urgent funeral plans. Next time you feel like giving me shit for being unsympathetic to victim’s families, Mr. Bleeding Heart, you might want to chew on that one for a while.”

  IT WASN’T LOST ON BARRY, HOW DIFFERENT MARY MARSHALL LOOKED from the shattered woman he’d spoken to just one day earlier. Her face devoid of tears and tastefully made up, Mary was pulled together, relaxed in a clean white silk blouse and gray linen suit, manicured hands folded in her lap, her eyes surprisingly clear—which only pointed to what a mess she’d been back at her house with her two children.

  As he slid into his seat across the table from her, he nearly expected it to be a joke—some sick practical joke of Louise’s and somehow she’d convinced a grieving widow to play along. But no, she was serious. She was ready. “Let’s get this over with,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”

  Barry turned the tape recorder on. He stated the date and time and let Mary know she was being taped, asking her to state and spell her name, asking why she was at the police station, lingering on the technicalities a little too long.

  “Fine,” she said. “That’s all fine. Let’s cut to the chase. I have two confessions to make, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to take care of the most painful one first.”

  He cleared his throat. “Okay.”

  “Thirty-five years ago, I visited the set of the film Defiance. My husband starred in it and it was directed by John McFadden.”

  “Yes,” said Barry. He’d heard of the film, but only after McFadden’s shooting. He’d been just two years old when it had come out after all. “Let me just get this straight: this is your most painful confession?”

  She ignored him. “My daughter Bellamy was spending a lot of time on set,” she said. “She’d become friendly with . . . the director’s son. I was glad because it was summer and she didn’t have many friends her own age, and frankly, it was nice to have her out of the house.”

  “Sure.”

  “Anyway, that day, I hadn’t been planning on going to the set, but Shane begged and pleaded with me. He wanted to see his daddy . . .” Mary’s voice trailed off, her gaze resting on the one-way mirror in a way that must have been unsettling for everyone watching, even to Louise. It was a gaze that could burn through glass.

&
nbsp; Barry said, “I’m listening, ma’am.”

  “We got to the set, most everybody was around the craft services table. My husband wasn’t there, but that was no surprise. He always took meals and breaks in his trailer.”

  Barry nodded. “Did you go looking for your husband?” He knew he shouldn’t have said that. This was Mary’s confession. He wasn’t supposed to prompt her. But Barry desperately wanted her to get to the point of this story, which, from what he gathered, had to do with an affair of her husband’s that was nearly as old as he was. He wanted that over with, so he could hear the murder confession.

  “I didn’t go looking for my husband. Like I said, he takes his meals alone.” She closed her eyes for a moment, shut them tight, as though she was shaking away a bad thought. “I went looking for Bellamy.”

  Barry frowned. “Your daughter.”

  “Yes,” she said. “McFadden’s son was at the craft services table. But Bellamy was not. I . . . I got this awful feeling. An intuition. I went to John McFadden’s trailer. I opened the door . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Bellamy was there . . . Her shirt was ripped. McFadden gave me this big smile, as though this were a perfectly normal thing for a mother to see. He asked if I’d like to stay for lunch. Bellamy ran out of that trailer so fast. I saw the tears on her face, the shame . . . She was twelve years old.”

  Barry swallowed hard, nodded, tried to keep his expression neutral. “What did you do next?”

  “I went directly to my husband’s trailer. Shane tried to go in with me, but I wouldn’t let him. I told Sterling everything that had happened, demanded he pull out of Defiance for his family’s sake. For his daughter. Prove to her he cared.”

  Barry thought of Marshall’s face on the Defiance poster—the good-hearted sheriff, the man in the white hat. He thought of Bellamy Marshall, what a troubled piece of work she must be, her father giving interviews to the Los Angeles Times three decades after her rapist’s death, calling him a “dear friend and one of the great directors of our time . . .”

  So many thoughts running through his head. But he decided to go with the obvious. “Your husband didn’t pull out of the movie.”