TELL ME SOMETHING
“Look,” I said, “you better leave. I want to unpack by myself.” And, as she continued to kneel there on the floor, I walked to the open door and stood by it.
She waited just past the point at which I was sure she wasn’t going to move. Then she got up, elaborately dusting off her knees. “Tell me something,” she said, as if casually. “How did you feel when she went down?”
All the air left the room.
Lily was leaning forward, her gaze avid, sucking at mine. “Tell me. Did you feel … powerful? Were you glad? Even … for just a minute?”
I had words, somewhere inside me, but for a long moment they were formless. I thought, She’s just a kid, she’s just a kid, but that didn’t help. Greg and Emily and I had been kids, too. Being under eighteen didn’t mean you were innocent. Or harmless.
OTHER BOOKS BY NANCY WERLIN
Are You Alone on Purpose?
Black Mirror
Double Helix
Impossible
Locked Inside
The Rules of Survival
THE
KILLER’S
COUSIN
NANCY WERLIN
speak
An Imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
SPEAK
Published by the Penguin Group
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in the United States of America by Delacorte Press, 1998
Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2009
Copyright © Nancy Werlin, 1998
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Werlin, Nancy.
The killer’s cousin / Nancy Werlin.
p. cm.
Summary: After being acquitted of murder, seventeen-year-old David goes to stay with relatives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where he finds himself forced to face his past as he learns more about his strange young cousin Lily.
EISBN: 9781101576939
[1. Emotional problems—Fiction. 2. Cousins—Fiction. 3. Guilt—Fiction. 4. Murder—Fiction. 5. Family problems —Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.W4713Ki 2009
[Fic]—dc22
2008024294
Printed in the United States of America
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
For my parents,
Elaine and Arnold Werlin,
with love and gratitude
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
My name, David Bernard Yaffe, will sound familiar, but you won’t remember why—at least not at first. Most people, I’ve found, do not. I’m grateful for that. It gives me some space, however brief. However certain eventually to disintegrate.
When you do remember, it won’t be my face you recall. Not that the press didn’t shoot plenty of pictures. But it’s the photograph of my parents that was famous. That’s the one that’s developing now in your mind’s eye, behind your concentrated frown.
A regular-looking couple in their early fifties. The man thick-haired, blue-eyed. Groomed. The woman’s emotions shielded by dark glasses, but her hands betraying her as they clutch the man’s coat sleeve, biting through to the arm beneath. His other hand is over hers, comforting—but the man’s attention is clearly elsewhere, ahead. Behind them, you can just see the bleak facade of the courthouse in Baltimore on a bitterly cold day.
The man is looking directly into the camera. I can read his expression, but I defy you to do so. He is practiced at concealing his thoughts, my father. He’s a lawyer. A criminal lawyer. You’ll remember that now, too. Some of the tabloids said it was why I got off. Behind-scenes wheeling and dealing? they asked. Powerful litigator calls in favors? they hinted.
You’d like to know, I’m sure. Everyone would like to know. But I won’t lead you on. This—the story I have to tell—is not about me and it is not about that. I won’t deceive you about it, because I am at this moment no more willing to talk about Emily and what happened my senior year of high school—my first senior year—than I ever was.
No, this is about my second senior year. About Lily. Lily, cousin of a killer. My Massachusetts cousin. Lily.
I need to talk about Lily.
CHAPTER 1
My cousin Lily was eleven years old when I moved into the third floor of my uncle Vic and aunt Julia’s triple-decker house at the northern end of Cambridge, Massachusetts. I drove to Cambridge from Baltimore, dully, doggedly, through one long day in sticky late-August heat the summer … the summer after. My car had air-conditioning, but I kept the windows down and let the fierce hot wind off Interstate 95 slam me in the face and chest. I couldn’t be bothered to switch CDs, and so I listened over and over to R.E.M. doing the firehouse song—the only one on the album that really penetrated.
I was almost eighteen, but instead of packing for college, I was headed for a private prep school where I would repeat my senior year of high school. I needed to do it, needed to finish and finish well, if I was to have any chance of getting into what my father called a “decent college.” If I was to get my life “back on track.”
“As if I were a train,” I’d said to them.
“You’ll care later,” my mother said. “Davey …” She faltered over my old nickname and then went on. “D
avid, I swear it. I promise.”
What could I say to that? I had no better ideas. Just revulsion. Just general, all-purpose, constant nausea.
I knew I should be grateful that Vic and Julia had agreed to take me. Grateful for shelter far from Baltimore; grateful to be away from the Baltimore and D.C. press. From my ex-friends. From my parents. Grateful to have a future at all. Grateful, grateful, grateful. I knew what I was supposed to feel.
“Vic and Julia and Lily are your family,” my mother said, urgent to persuade me. “Families stick together in …” She hesitated, as always. “In crises. Let them help you, David. Let them help us. Please.”
In a way it was hilarious, hearing my mother sing the praises of her brother, Vic Shaughnessy, and his wife, Julia. Because the fact was, our family hadn’t had much to do with theirs, and it wasn’t because Maryland to Massachusetts was too far to travel. We stayed distant from my mother’s family because, in my childhood, my mother and her sister-in-law were engaged in ongoing guerrilla warfare.
“Well, look,” my mother would say, ripping open a thick cream envelope in mid-December. “Julia’s gone all out on the Christmas cards this year. A Botticelli Madonna! Religious, but so tasteful!” And she would fire back an envelope containing a construction-paper menorah (commissioned from me) plus the contents of half a tube of silver glitter. “Imagine it, Stuart,” she’d say to my father triumphantly. “Glitter all over Julia’s clean floor.”
“Eileen,” my father would say, his eyes amused, “is this necessary?”
“Absolutely.”
It was no secret that Julia disapproved of my parents’ marriage and of our Judaism. Of my mother’s in-your-face conversion from Catholicism. And, in those innocent days, my mother positively enjoyed disliking Julia. “Behave yourself,” she would threaten me, “or I’ll pack you off to Cambridge to live with your aunt Julia and go to Catholic school with your cousin Kathy!” At that time, Lily, twelve years younger than her sister, Kathy, had not yet started school.
Odd that all these years later, my mother really had packed me off to Massachusetts to live with Vic and Julia, and to enroll in the same Catholic prep school that Kathy had attended.
I remembered Kathy vividly, though we’d met only once, when Lily was born. I’d been seven, and fascinated with my pretty older cousin. I loved Kathy’s red hair; her laugh. I followed her everywhere that week she stayed with us, and she let me. She spent her own money at the corner store to buy me ice cream.
She had been dead four years now, Kathy.
“Stuart, they understand something of what we’re feeling,” my mother had said to my father, after Vic called and made the offer. I wasn’t meant to overhear. “Because of Kathy,” my mother said. “Because of Kathy, my brother understands.”
* * *
The words back on track, back on track took up a measured beat in my head as I went through Central Square and, following Vic’s directions, got myself on Massachusetts Avenue and nosed north.
At the umpteenth light I spotted the sign for Walden Street. I signaled for a left-hand turn, waited for the light to turn yellow and narrowly avoided colliding with an oncoming car whose driver audibly swore at me. My stomach clenched; I was too shocked even to swear back. And in that flash of danger—the few seconds when the Cambridge driver ignored traffic laws and barreled straight into my right-of-way—I suddenly knew something. I didn’t want to die.
Other cars were honking furiously at me. I opened my eyes. Gently, I pressed on the gas again and pulled onto Walden, and then, a few streets later, onto Vic and Julia’s street.
Like its neighbors, Hubbardston Street in North Cambridge was one-way and narrow, packed with tall wood frame houses, and full of screaming kids on Rollerblades playing street hockey. Confused by the kids and by the way each house had multiple numbers, I drove past No. 87 and had to go around the block again. This time I found Vic and Julia’s driveway. I backed into it with difficulty, turned off the car’s motor, and looked out at the house.
And met the green eyes of a prepubescent girl who was sitting alone on the front steps, hugging her bare knees. Lily.
I took a deep breath. There was no choice; I got out of the car. Stretched my cramped shoulder and leg muscles; felt the bones crackle. “Hey, Lily,” I croaked. I hadn’t spoken since ordering at the drive-through McDonald’s in New Jersey at noon. I cleared my throat. “How are you?”
She didn’t move. She was small, pasty-faced, and slightly chubby, with thick shaggy brown hair almost hiding her eyes. Her chin stuck out; her elbows defended her body. I had a sudden memory of the last time I’d seen her, on a chair at the funeral home, her feet dangling. Old and middle-aged people filling the room, crowding around the closed coffin, around Vic and Julia. No friends of Kathy’s. No kids at all, except Lily. And me.
I had been having trouble breathing in the stuffy funeral home. I’d kept staring at the polished mahogany coffin lid, imagining Kathy beneath it; recalling horror movies I’d seen in which people were buried alive.
I had wanted, powerfully, to get out of there. I had certainly not thought to spend any time with Lily. Lily, who had stared at everything from her chair. Who got paler and paler as the day of the funeral wore on, but who did not cry, even during the eulogy.
But that was then. I drew a breath. Awkwardly, I approached Lily and sat down beside her on the steps. “It was a long drive,” I said.
Her arms tightened around her knees. She looked steadily at me. It was difficult to look back at her, but I had learned how to meet people’s gazes, and I did it.
“Hi,” she said grudgingly. One last, long stare, and then she got up. “I’ll tell them you’re here.” Before I could move, the screen door slammed behind her as she pounded up the inside stairs to the second floor.
I got up from the stoop, not knowing if I should follow Lily, and waited, shifting from foot to foot. The noise from the street hockey paused for a split second before exploding into an uproar of excitement as one kid—ten million years younger than me—made a spectacular goal. In that instant of silence, somewhere above my head I heard a woman say, “Tell your father, not me.” Julia?
But before I had time to think anything, Vic came bursting out of the front door and without warning enveloped me in an enormous hug. “David! I was starting to get worried—come in!”
He released me, but I could still feel the shocking imprint of his arms. I backed up a half step. When was the last time my father had touched me?
We went upstairs, Vic exploding with words as if he hadn’t talked to anyone for a month. “… We rent the first floor to a girl, a college student. She’s an artist but always pays the rent on time. We live on the second … You’ll want something to drink? … You should call Eileen and Stuart to tell them you arrived safely … You’re sure you’re not hungry? … You’ll be on the third floor; I’ll show you after you’ve had a chance to relax … Sit down, sit down …” He forced me into a kitchen chair and bustled around, getting a Coke for me and a lemonade for Lily, who had perched on the edge of the counter and was watching my every move.
Vic had put on weight in the four years since I’d seen him. He’d been gaunt then, unhealthy, but the new weight wasn’t right either. His flesh hung from his cheeks like a basset hound’s, and his eyes were anxious and tired. I accepted the Coke. I looked around for Julia.
“You’ll be very comfortable, David,” Vic was saying. “It’s really a little apartment, not a spare bedroom. But we can’t rent it because it has only one entrance, and fire codes require two. Plus, the entrance is through our apartment, so, well, we wouldn’t be comfortable with just anyone. But you’re family, of course.”
He sounded somehow uneasy. More so, even, than I had expected. Or maybe I thought that because I caught Lily’s face just then, squinched up in scorn. And because there was no sign of Julia. But I followed Vic’s lead.
“It’s a big help,” I said. “Your having me.” I paused and then said it. “T
hank you.” I looked right into his eyes, as my mother would want me to do. “Thank you, Uncle Vic.”
“Well,” said Vic. His shoulders moved awkwardly, but he did look straight back at me. “Well …”
The pause lengthened. I finished my drink, put down the can, and said, “Could I have a look at my room … at the apartment now?”
“Sure,” said Vic. He took me on a tour, Lily trailing behind.
Vic and Julia’s second-floor apartment followed a plan that I later learned was standard in Cambridge multifamily houses. Stairs from the ground floor ended in a hallway that ran the length of the house. On one side of the hall were a bath and two bedrooms. On the other sat the kitchen, a dining room, and at the front of the house, the living room.
In the living room, Vic unlocked and pulled open a door that I would have guessed concealed a closet. “Up here,” he said. Behind him, I saw a narrow wooden staircase. It climbed steeply upward between walls of frayed and darkened yellow wallpaper. At the top was another door.
They were putting me in the attic.
“One day, I’ll need to rebuild these stairs,” Vic said as we climbed. Silently, I agreed; I could hear the creak, feel the give, of the old wood under me. Lily crowded me closely from behind. For a moment we all stood on the narrow steps in the dark. Then Vic opened the door to the attic, and sunlight burst in around us.
A living room and bedroom lay snugly under the eaves, with a counter separating a modern kitchenette from the living room. The furniture was spare but sufficient—bed and nightstand, small sofa, table and chairs. Fresh white paint dressed the walls; the wooden floor gleamed with polish. The bathroom was compact but complete, its one flaw the tininess of the tub. But who cared? I took showers anyway.
“Wow,” I said to Vic. “It’s a great place.”
“I just installed the kitchenette a couple of years ago,” Vic said, “and put the skylights in the roof. Divided the space.” He smiled shyly at me. “It used to be just one big room, with a bathroom that I added when …” He stopped and bit his lip.