Todd Strasser - Kill You Last

“So how’s it going at home?” he asked as we followed the path through the trees.

“Off the record?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Not good. My parents weren’t exactly getting along to begin with. And my father can’t work, so I think money’s a problem.” I knew better than to say anything about Gabriel and the blackmail. Or regarding Dad’s admission about what he did with those girls.

But then Whit asked a question I didn’t expect. “What about Mr. Kissy Face?”

Was he asking because he was curious about whether I was having a relationship with Gabriel? Strangely, I discovered I liked the idea that Whit might be interested. But then I remembered telling him about how uncomfortable I was about the oddly unempathetic way Gabriel sometimes acted. That was probably what he was referring to.

“Haven’t heard from him lately. I have to assume he has his own problems.”

We stopped on a wooden footbridge over a small stream. Yellow and red leaves floated on the dark water under us.

“Any job offers yet?” I asked.

He shrugged. “You mean, after being written up in the Times? Actually, it’s been pretty quiet. And you? Any thoughts about Sarah Lawrence?”

“Haven’t had time to think about it. I mean, I guess I want to go to a bigger school than that. I only went to the interview because my mom wanted me to. I don’t see how we could afford it now anyway.” Whit gazed away. I couldn’t see his expression. “What about you?” I asked. “The last we talked about it, you weren’t so gung ho about the school, either.”

He looked at me with those pale green eyes. Were they merely pensive, or also a little sad?

“I think I’m going to stay there. The classes are small and the professors are great, and they do offer a pretty wide range of courses.”

“But you said not that many in journalism…”

“No, not that many,” he repeated, almost wistfully.

Did that mean he wasn’t as excited about the profession as he’d been only a few days before? A light breeze blew through the trees around us, rattling the leaves. A few fell gently.

Then he said, “You might want to give Sarah Lawrence more serious consideration. Even though it’s small and close by, it could be a really good place for you.”

I wondered why he’d said that. We hardly even knew each other. How could he know what school would be good for me?

“You think?” I asked.

The slightest smile appeared on his lips. “Yeah, I do.” He pushed himself away from the railing, and we started back toward the parking lot.

And that’s when it occurred to me that maybe part of the reason he’d wanted to meet had nothing at all to do with Janet, Gabriel, Dad, or the murdered girls.

Back at home, Mom and Dad were in silent mode and avoiding being in the same room at the same time. I made a conscious effort to divide my time between them. But it wasn’t easy. Mom was understandably distant, sullen, and uncommunicative; and while Dad tried to be affectionate and open, it was impossible for me to be with him without feeling furious about what he’d done.

And then there was the TV. Like the Sirens who tempted Odysseus in the Odyssey, it was both tempting and the source of great misery. We tried to keep it off as much as possible. But there were moments, usually first thing in the morning, and around dinnertime, when it was impossible to ignore.

That evening around dinnertime, hunger forced me down to the kitchen. Dad was boiling hot dogs and heating baked beans. He was clean-shaven and was wearing jeans and a freshly laundered shirt.

“Hey,” he said with an unconvincing smile. “Feel like joining me for this gastronomic extravaganza? I made a few extra dogs.”

Even though I was still angry, I started to take plates out of the cupboard.

“So how was your day?” he asked.

“Okay.” I didn’t want to talk about Jane/Janet, or the discovery of the second body.

“How are things at school?”

“Okay.”

Dad glanced at me, then nodded as if accepting the fact that I didn’t want to talk. Ever since I was a little girl, I’d been warned about strangers. About what they might offer and what they really wanted. I’d been taught to be careful and watchful and suspicious. There were men who would say or do anything to get what they desired.

But whoever thinks…that one of them could be your own father?

When the hot dogs and beans were ready, we ate in silence. I guess Dad realized that there was nothing he could say. That whatever was going to happen next between us would be my decision. In a strange way, I appreciated him for that.

At a few minutes before six, he glanced at the kitchen clock. We both knew there would be reports on the TV about the latest developments.

“We don’t have to watch,” I said.

But Dad turned it on anyway. “Can’t get worse. If it did, I’d know about it, right?”

On the TV, Police Chief Jenkins stood at a podium with microphones. His forehead glistened with sweat, and he squinted in the bright TV lights. “All right. I’ll read a short statement and then take some questions.” He put on a pair of reading glasses. “Earlier today, at the request of the police in Hartford and Scranton, we took Jane Fontana in for questioning regarding the murdered young women from those cities. Miss Fontana is an employee of the Sloan Photographic and Modeling Agency. It is alleged that she may have committed identity theft in an attempt to hide a lengthy criminal record.”

I glanced at Dad, who nodded gravely. “Until this morning I had no idea.”

I could only hope that he was telling the truth.

Chief Jenkins continued: “After several hours of questioning, as well as a search of Miss Fontana’s home and car, detectives uncovered evidence that appears to link her to the murders. Therefore, she is being held pending charges. Investigators are working on several possible motives in the case. That’s all I have to say right now.”

A barrage of questions followed. I wondered if Whit was in the crowd of reporters, but the camera stayed on the police chief. A reporter wanted to know what evidence had been found linking Janet to the two missing women. Chief Jenkins talked about traces of mud on her car that had come from the crime scenes, as well as rope that matched the rope used to tie the victims’ hands and feet. Someone else asked whether Mercedes was now considered a possible victim.

“At this time, there is no evidence linking Ms. Colon’s disappearance to those of the three girls,” the police chief replied. “But we are continuing to look into the situation.”

More questions followed, but in the kitchen, Dad and I were no longer paying attention. It felt as if we’d just come out of a trance. The police, the world, everyone would now know beyond a doubt that Dad had had nothing to do with the deaths of those girls. Both of us had tears in our eyes. Had the police arrested someone we didn’t know, those tears might have been for happiness. But because we knew Janet/Jane, and because Mercedes was missing, they were only tears of relief. Dad had finally been vindicated…at least as far as the murders were concerned. There was still the question of his behavior with the young women, but just for this moment, I decided not to focus on that.

The phone rang. The news on the TV switched to a story about unemployment, and I got up and turned it off while Dad took the call. “Hello?”

I could barely make out a man’s voice on the other end.

“Well, I’m both relieved and saddened,” Dad began in his “official statement” tone of voice, and I knew he was speaking to someone from the media. “Yes, of course, I’m quite worried about Mercedes Colon…”