The Girl I Used to Be

“Now you will have a cheerful, pleasant memory from when you were three,” Quinn says. “Of a time when your parents are still alive.”

  I have a flash: two tiny legs from the knees downward, wearing red socks and blue shoes. Walking. Each of my hands is in a big hand. Two adult voices say in unison, “One, two, three!” The hands lift me up so I swing in midair, held aloft.

  I grin.

  “That’s good, Olivia. And now you will have a memory about the day your parents died.”

  My eyes dart wildly under closed lids.

  “You are safe here, Olivia. You are safe and completely relaxed. Your memories cannot harm you. You’re an observer, that’s all.”

  I see more legs. Two sets of adult legs, both in blue jeans, facing each other. I’m standing behind one of the people, and I’m little. White snow all around. The person who is farthest away from me steps closer, so the two sets of knees touch.

  “No,” a voice says, and I know it’s my mom’s voice. She says it quietly. Desperately. Earlier there had been yelling. I tilt my head up to see what’s happening. My mom steps back from the other person, but then there’s a gloved hand on the nape of her neck, pulling her in close. So close. They’re dancing. Her arms slice through the air, windmilling as they do when we put on music and dance in the living room.

  Something lands on my face. It’s like rain, only hot. When I touch it, my fingertips come away red.

  At first I think it’s paint, but that doesn’t make sense. Then I know it’s raining blood, pockmarking the snow. The white underneath their boots is turning scarlet.

  And my mother is making a noise, but it isn’t words. It’s beyond words.

  I turn and run into the woods.

  CHAPTER 26

  TRUST YOUR GUT

  “Two! One!” Quinn says from somewhere outside where I am. I’m scrambling in the snow, falling, crying, trying to leave the blood behind. “One!” Her voice is urgent, a compressed shout. “You will leave the trance now, Olivia. You’re safe.”

  As if someone has just cut the string, my right hand falls down by my side. Slowly I become aware of where I am. Of when I am. I’m panting, breathing as hard as if I really had been running through the woods instead of just remembering.

  I open my eyes and straighten up. Try to slow my breathing.

  “What did you see?” Quinn leans forward.

  “I saw…” I have to swallow before I can continue. “Two people in the woods. Standing close together. My mom and someone else. She kept saying no, but the other person pulled her close and stabbed her.” I raise my hand to my face, half expecting to still feel the blood freckling my cheeks. “And then I ran.” The terror races through me again.

  Putting my hands over my face, I try to put in order the memories I’ve had since I’ve been back. My mom reading to me. The fresh snow. My mom being stabbed as the churned snow turned red. The bloody knife on the floor mat.

  “Did you recognize the other person? Did you see their face?”

  Opening my eyes, I shake my head. Quinn’s eyes are the color of gas flames. I’m shivering, a tremble so fine it’s like I’m vibrating. “Only their legs. I guess because I was little. I couldn’t see either of their faces. And I didn’t understand what was going on until it was too late. I don’t think I really understood until now.”

  Quinn blows air through pursed lips. “No three-year-old should ever have to understand that.” She thinks for a minute. “Even if you didn’t see the other person’s face, did you hear them speak?”

  “No. Like I knew they had been yelling at each other, but in that little bit of memory, the only voice I heard was my mom’s. And she just kept saying no.” I grab Quinn’s hand. Her thin fingers are ice-cold. “Put me back under. If I can go back, I might see the killer’s face. I might know who did it.”

  Sucking in a breath, she pulls her hand back. “I’m so sorry, Olivia, but I have another client coming in ten minutes. Even if I didn’t, it’s not like there’s a dial I can set to take you back to an exact time. Remember, there’s no guarantee you even retained the memory of the killer’s face or voice. I could take you back over and over, and it might not do anything but cause you a lot of pain.”

  “But I could still have the memories,” I insist, my jaw tight.

  “Let me ask you something,” Quinn says slowly. “Who else knows?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who else knows what you’re trying to find out?”

  “Just one person. But he won’t say anything. And I guess now you know. Why?”

  Her answer is blunt. “Because if whoever did it is still around, they’re not going to like you trying to find answers.”

  “But I’m not the only one who’s trying to figure out what happened. At least not since my dad’s jawbone was found. The police are reopening the case.”

  “That’s from the outside looking in. You were right there. You were an eyewitness. Even if you didn’t retain the memories, if whoever did this finds out about you, they’re going to want to stop you. You could be in danger.”

  “I’m being careful. I have a different name now, first and last, and my hair’s a different color. But my parents deserve justice. I deserve justice.” I square my jaw. “So when can I come back?”

  With a sigh, Quinn picks up her appointment calendar. “My next opening’s Monday at eleven.”

  I swear under my breath. “I’m scheduled to work that day.”

  We go back and forth until we find a time that works for both of us, but it’s more than a week away.

  “I don’t want to wait that long.”

  “You might not have to.” Quinn looks at me appraisingly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “After a session, many people have revelations, both in dreams and while awake. Some obvious and some not so obvious. Write them down. Keep track of them.” She leans closer. “Trust your gut.”

  CHAPTER 27

  A STORY GOING AROUND

  I have to go to work, but once I’m at Fred Meyer, I move like an automaton. Duncan texts me from Zumiez, wanting to know what I learned, but I respond that it’s too long to explain in a text. I’m working in the prep room when my coworker Andy snaps his fingers and says my name.

  “Huh?” I follow his pointing finger. I’ve just tossed a trimmed bunch of celery into the garbage while keeping the pared-off brown and broken bits on the cutting board. “Oops!” I retrieve the bunch and rinse it off.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. Andy has worked here forever, and he’s always warning me to lift with my legs and be careful with the produce knives.

  “Just didn’t sleep well, that’s all.” In my head, I’m still watching my mother flail her arms while her blood rains onto the snow.

  “I hear you. It’s been so hot.” He takes a paper towel and runs it over his red face and what remains of his hair. “Even the air-conditioning here isn’t keeping up.”

  I don’t feel it. I’m stuck in the bone-chilling cold of my memories.

  A half hour later, Duncan comes in, his face full of curiosity. I ask Andy if it’s okay for me to go on break, then take off my apron and ball it up. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  I don’t speak until we’re alone in the cookware aisle. “The hypnotist was able to take me back to that day, but I guess nothing about it is exact. Not what ends up in your memory, not where she can get you to go. But”—I have to swallow before I can continue—“I saw it happen. I saw my mom’s murder. And now I know why I told my grandma that she was dancing.”

  “Why?” Duncan breathes.

  “Because she was pinwheeling her arms, trying to get away, but the killer was yanking her close.” I demonstrate, feeling her helplessness in my own body.

  “Oh my God.” Duncan grabs my wrist, his eyes widening. “So you saw the killer?”

  Still feeling the echoes of my mom, I step back and pull my arm away. “I was only three, remember? Probably no taller than this.” I put my hand at h
ip level. “They were both wearing jeans and boots. And that’s all I saw: their legs, and my mom’s back and arms, and her blood falling onto the snow. And then I guess I started freaking out, both in the past and now, because the hypnotist woke me up.”

  “Do you think it was someone you knew? Was it a man or a woman? Was your dad there?”

  “I don’t know,” I say miserably. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. I was trying to run away. But I guess the killer must have caught me.” I shiver, remembering the bloody knife on the floor of a car.

  “That must have been awful, having to relive that.” He pulls me into a hug, and this time I don’t pull away. My shoulders tremble against his chest.

  A second later, a surprised voice says, “Duncan?” We step apart. It’s a woman with a thick brown braid almost to her waist. She’s wearing a green apron that matches the one I’m holding.

  Color rises in Duncan’s cheeks. “Oh, hi, Mom. Um, Mom, this is Olivia. She’s Nora’s new neighbor.”

  I almost put out my hand, then remember the scar and think better of it. I just say, “Nice to meet you, Mrs.—”

  “Call me Audrey.” Her eyes are still going back and forth between Duncan and me. It’s clear she’s imagining much more between us than there really is. “So you’re Nora’s neighbor, huh? If you’ve just moved into the neighborhood, then you might not know about the big barbecue we have every summer. It’s this Friday at six. I don’t know if Duncan’s invited you yet, but you should come.”

  “Thank you.” I try to sound perky and normal, like I wasn’t just talking about blood raining on the snow. “That sounds fun. I can come over after I get off at eight. Should I bring something?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She waves a slender hand. “Just bring yourself.”

  “We’d better get going, Mom,” Duncan says. “Olivia’s on break, and she wanted to go to Starbucks.”

  We say good-bye. Once we’re out of his mom’s earshot, I say, “I get the feeling your mom wants a chance to check me out.”

  Duncan’s cheeks get even redder. “I’ve been thinking: If we pretended to be boyfriend and girlfriend, it could be a good cover for us spending time together.”

  “Maybe,” I say, drawing the word out. Before the cops showed up at my door, I would have wanted to be far more than Duncan’s pretend girlfriend. But now finding my parents’ killer is the only thing that matters.

  “And the party will give you a chance to check out people. Half of Medford comes. Even Chief Spaulding. Everybody’s going to be talking about the murders.”

  At Starbucks, I order a grande latte, hoping it will warm me up. I also get a scone, since I got up too late to have breakfast. We sit in an empty corner.

  Duncan takes a sip of his iced coffee. “I was talking about it with my dad this morning. He said there’s a story going around about Samantha.”

  “Sam?”

  “I guess when she was in high school, her mom had to work two jobs because her dad was basically a drunk. Once Sam and her dad got in this big fight. After they saw blood on her sweater, the neighbors thought he had hurt her and called the police. Only it turned out that she was the one who’d hurt him.” Duncan sucks in a breath. “And get this—she stabbed him.”

  “What?”

  “Dad said it was just a paring knife, and her dad refused to press charges. Still, my dad said people are talking about it now.”

  Even Duncan must be starting to realize that just because you know someone doesn’t mean they can’t be a killer. “So Sam and Jason,” I ask. “Do they come to this party your parents throw?”

  “Every year.”

  CHAPTER 28

  A LOT OF CASH

  When I clock out, I’m starving. All I’ve had to eat today is that scone at Starbucks, as well as some unsalable produce, which I ate over the prep sink. Half an apple with a wormhole in the other half. A chunk of watermelon too mangled to wrap in plastic. A carrot that looked like two legs and a torso. All the imperfect things no one wants to buy, as if everything has to be free of bruises and blemishes or it’s worthless.

  There’s a McDonald’s just down the street. When I walk in, my mom’s old best friend, Heather, is sitting at a table for four. Her eyes slide over me, like she’s waiting for someone and I’m nothing but a vague disappointment. With a sigh, she looks back down at her phone and picks up a limp french fry from one of two half-eaten Happy Meals on the other side of the table.

  After I get my order, I take the next table over so that I’m sitting with my back to her. I get out my phone and pretend to be engrossed in it, tilting my head to let my hair obscure my face.

  Jason hurries in. Heather’s ex-husband. My dad’s best friend. My mom’s old crush? And just maybe a serial killer.

  “You’re late,” Heather says in a flat voice.

  “You can’t blame it on me, Heather. For once.” Jason slides into a seat across from her so that we’re sitting back-to-back. “I would have been here on time except I had to swing the rig wide to make a right turn, and then some idiot tried to pass me on the left. I had to cut back over so I wouldn’t hit her, and then I couldn’t make the turn. It took me forever to get through. No one would move.”

  “And that made you nearly an hour late?” She bites off each word.

  “Don’t you get on my case, too. The company already did. All they care about is moving freight. They’re always watching me. I know the dispatcher talks about me behind my back. Between how little they pay me and how much I have to give you, I’m basically a homeless guy living in a truck.” He pauses. “Where are the kids, anyway?”

  “In the play structure. They got bored waiting for you.”

  Through our connected seats, I can feel him continually shifting. “Have the cops talked to you yet?”

  “I talked to Stephen two days ago, but I didn’t have anything new to tell him.”

  Jason lowers his voice. “Did he ask about me?”

  “He asked about everyone. But who can remember exactly what everyone was doing fourteen years ago?”

  “So you didn’t tell him anything?”

  “No, Jason!” Heather’s tone changes, becomes more uncertain. “What is there to tell?”

  “Nothing. Forget I said anything.” He grunts. “About the only thing we know for sure is it wasn’t Terry. It could have been any of us, couldn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Terry and Naomi might have taken someone with them. Some friend of theirs. Which means it would be a friend of ours.”

  “Jason.” She heaves an exasperated sigh. “Can you stop being so paranoid? It wasn’t one of us. Naomi and Terry—they must have just run into some bad guy. Some crazy psycho killer out in the woods.”

  “Why would a stranger kill them?” Jason asks.

  “Why does a psycho kill anyone? Because that’s what they do. All I know is that no one I know would be capable of doing”—she hesitates—“that.”

  “What about Rich?”

  Heather lets out a surprised bark of laughter. “What would Richard have to do with it?”

  “Right after Terry and Naomi went missing, I noticed Rich’s knuckles were bruised. Like he’d been fighting. And remember how he always used to wear thrift store clothes and scrounge for meals? Now he’s just like his name—rich. Everything started to change for him around the time Terry and Naomi died. You have to ask yourself why.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense. Those two didn’t have any money.”

  “That’s not true,” Jason retorts. “I’ve been thinking back about what was happening then. Terry had been pulling a lot of double shifts so he could catch up on child support. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was carrying a couple of thousand that day.”

  Is Jason right? Could money have been a motive after all? Or is Jason just trying to make sure no one looks too closely at him?

  CHAPTER 29

  DISCARDED

  The next morning, Duncan texts
me before work. “Look at the Mail Tribune. Evidence got ruined.”

  With a sinking feeling, I turn on my laptop.

  WITH EVIDENCE DISCARDED, NEW LEADS SOUGHT IN DEATHS OF TWO

  Nearly fourteen years after the deaths of twenty-year-old Naomi Benson and twenty-one-year-old Terry Weeks in the Cascade Range, friends and family are hoping that the recent discovery of some of Weeks’s remains will help jump-start the cold case. Weeks had long been suspected in Benson’s murder, but now authorities believe both were killed by the same person.

  Medford’s chief of police is asking for help in finding their killer. “No matter how small or insignificant it may seem to somebody, it could be an important lead,” says Chief Stephen Spaulding. He says he wants to know of any individuals who changed their patterns since the murders—maybe moved, quit their jobs, or stopped visiting the forest where the bodies were found.

  Although advances have been made in retrieving even minute amounts of DNA in cold cases, Spaulding said that won’t be possible here. “A few years ago we had a pipe break in the evidence room, and it left some case files completely waterlogged. Unfortunately, this was one of those cases. All the fabric items associated with those cases—including Naomi’s clothing and the tarp she was found in—became severely contaminated with mold and had to be discarded.”

  So that’s it, then. No fibers. No fingerprints. No DNA.

  But I think about what Jason said, what the police chief asked. I wonder if anyone has pointed out to him just how much Richard’s life has changed since my parents’ murders.

  CHAPTER 30

  ARE THEY REALLY THAT DIFFERENT?

  A couple of days later, I’m walking into work when I spot Sam in the parking lot. The girl who stabbed her own father. The woman who is now even higher on my list of suspects.

  She’s loading a bag of groceries and a case of Coke Zero into the trunk of her car. It’s a silver Audi, as sleek and understated as she is. She’s wearing high-heeled sandals and a short-sleeved black dress that skims her thin figure. Would those slender arms be capable of plunging a knife into my mother so many times? Fighting her drunk dad would be one thing. Killing two people while their kid watched would be something else entirely.