A Secondhand Life Page 7

  It didn’t feel so honorable at the moment as I watched his retreating form—head hung low, shoulders stooped, as he strode against the harsh wind to his car.

  My mother always called me an empath—someone who feels what others are feeling, and often magnified—to my own detriment. Seeing a person get injured, for example, shot pain through my legs that nearly crippled me. Or the tears of a friend could send me bawling. But that’s not the worst of it.

  Love was the worst of it.

  Feeling things so deeply could be a blessing or a curse. A blessing when the love is as deep as the ocean and as pure as mountain air, but a curse when heartbreak sent me over the edge and into a pit of oblivion.

  I had stumbled into my pit.

  Chapter 9

  As the workweek took its sweet time lumbering toward the weekend, Landon’s calls filled Brad’s void and kept me company … until they started coming later and later into the night. I began to wonder if he ever slept. But when his phone calls started interfering with my own sleep, I made a mental note to talk to him about boundaries the next time I saw him.

  That day came the next Tuesday.

  Tuesday afternoon my cell phone rang as I was walking to my car from work. With things so dire between Brad and me, I had lost any incentive to put in extra hours editing the growing pile of books demanding my time. Clocking in late and leaving early—deadly ammunition any normal boss could use against me, but Jackie wouldn’t. Besides, at this point, I didn’t care. They were lucky I showed up at all as my pit of depression sucked me in deeper.

  I answered my cell and recognized Landon on the other end.

  The wind whistled over the sound of his voice, so I ran across the parking lot and jumped into my car to better hear him.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I said with a glance in my mirror. I was a hideous flashback from the big hair days of the ’80s—a frizzy, brown mess that the wind had whipped into a mile-high wad of cotton candy. I tamed the unruly ’do with my fingers, then dotted my lips with a shimmery Burt’s Bees lip balm—the most makeup I ever dared to wear.

  “I thought about your offer … to go to jail with me to visit my dad. I want to take you up on it.”

  “Really?” I exclaimed with a little too much fervor. It was the best news I had all week, which wasn’t saying much. Brad had refused all twenty-six of my calls, and my dreams were MIA. “When do you want to go?”

  “You free tonight? I scheduled a visitation for six o’clock.”

  It wasn’t exactly how I planned to spend my evening, but since Brad and I hadn’t reconciled yet, I was plan-less and had nothing better to do than veg on the couch with a book.

  “Sure. Where’s it at?”

  “The Durham County Detention Facility on South Mangum Street. You know what—how about I pick you up at your house and we can drive together? It’d do me good to have you in the car with me so I don’t chicken out and drive home instead.”

  I gave him my address and told him I’d need about an hour and a half to get home, grab a bite, and change out of my work clothes into something more casual. “Wouldn’t want your pop to think I’m a mouthpiece you hired to spring him from the big house,” I joked.

  Landon didn’t laugh.

  **

  Two hours later Landon and I were sitting at a metal table in front of a bulky, nearly bald man who introduced himself to me as Dan. The visitor’s room was a sparsely occupied pod with a Plexiglas wall separating inmates clad in rumpled jumpsuits—some orange, some green, depending on how long you’d been there—from their loved ones and not-so-loved ones. Guards loitered around the room, pacing with a watchful eye.

  Amid hostile arguments over child-rearing and sentimental tears of hope at being reunited with their families soon, a sense of longing permeated the room. For we all knew that at the end of the hour, those of us on the outside would return to freedom’s embrace while the prisoners trudged through their harsh reality of bland prison food, cramped and squalid living quarters, endless boredom, and an oppressive atmosphere of violence and hopelessness.

  The conversation was stiff at first as Dan and Landon sat in solemn silence. With meager participation from the men, I chattered about nothing in particular just to fill the void between them, as promised. The belated spring weather. The skyrocketing price of gasoline. The latest Steelers draft picks. Since my father loved the Steel Curtain, he raised me with the same passion, thus saving me before I could jump on the Carolina Panthers bandwagon, despite being a born-and-bred Tar Heel, and danged proud of it. However, after 2013’s middling 8-8 season, I wondered if I had made the right choice.

  When it became clear that Dan wasn’t interested in idle chitchat, current events, or sports, he blurted out, “Landon, why are you here? You haven’t visited me once since I’ve been in here. Why now?”

  I heaved a sigh of thanksgiving that the conversational burden was finally off my back.

  “Long overdue, I guess,” Landon said half-heartedly.

  Dan snorted. “Twenty-two years overdue. So suddenly you care about me enough to stop by? Are you here to announce an engagement, kid on the way—what?”

  “Nope, still single and kid-less.”

  “What, then? I have no idea what’s going on with you, and you’re my son, my flesh and blood. You getting my letters? You’re still living on Willoughby with your mom, right?”

  “Yes, and yes.” Landon’s stilted answers dropped like lead amidst the din of the animated conversations elsewhere in the visiting room.

  “How’s your mom? It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve seen her.”

  Landon finally perked up. “Wait—Mom’s been visiting you?”

  “Has been for years. Almost every month. Got a heart of gold, your mom. Even when things’ve been busy, she never fails to stop in, God love ’er.”

  “Then you do know what’s going on with me.”

  Dan heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Landon, I’m just trying to connect with you. Your mama’s forgiven me; why can’t you? One more time: Why are you even here? Finally feeling guilty for shutting me out of your life, or what?”

  Landon growled and rose to his feet. “I’m here to ask if you killed Alexis.”

  “What?” Dan shouted, clearly taken aback.

  From the corner of the room an armed guard pointed to our table and yelled firmly, “Is there a problem over there?”

  “No, sir,” I answered sweetly. Then I turned to Landon. “Both of you need to take a breath before we get kicked out.” I switched to Dan. “And Dan, that’s not what Landon means. We’re trying to figure out what happened to Alexis and we thought maybe you might know something.”

  Dan lifted his chin and scrutinized me. “Something like who killed my baby girl? If I did know, I’d be in here for murder—for taking the life of the man who stole my Lexi from me. I may have been a drunk, but I was no killer. And I loved my kids—even you, Landon, when you were a teenaged prick.”

  Landon returned to his metal folding chair and propped an elbow on the table. “I was never a prick.”

  Dan chuckled heartily. “Aren’t all teenage boys? I’m kidding, son. No, you were a good boy. Always helping out, trying to mend our messes. And you took care of your sister when your mama and I were too caught up in our own selfish games.”

  He exhaled as if his secrets weighed a thousand pounds.

  “You and Lexi were gifts that I squandered. I wish I had been a better father to you back then … and to you now. But here I am …” He gestured pathetically around his dismal surroundings.

  He paused, and Landon said nothing.

  “You deserved better, son. I wish I could go back and redo my life. Take you to your baseball practices. Help you with girl troubles. Make you clean up your room. Watch you grow up … you know, just be there for you as a dad rather than a failure.”

  “Dad …” Landon interjected, the single word touched with more sympathy than any longwinded oratory.

  “No, don’t make e
xcuses for me. Since I’ve been sober I got some perspective. It’s hard to explain from behind bars, but I have changed. I’m a better man. I hope to prove it to you one day. I just wish I had learned sooner, before it was too late. Before my mistakes cost your sister her life and caused you God knows how much emotional trauma.”

  “I’m fine, Dad. And I know you meant well,” Landon replied sincerely. “The drink changed you. But when you were sober we had some good times, didn’t we?”

  “Remember that time I took you driving when you first got your learner’s permit? I thought we were gonna die!” Dan threw his head back, laughing.

  “Hey, you wouldn’t stop screaming. How was I supposed to concentrate with you crying like a little girl? And you were a terrible driving teacher, by the way, telling me to gun it through the yellow lights.”

  “Squeeze the lemon, I would tell you. Yeah, I remember those days. They get me through the tough times in here.”

  They both shared a long, healing chuckle.

  “I love you so much, Landon,” Dan said softly when the laughter died.

  “I love you too, Dad. I’m sorry I never visited before now. I just wasn’t ready, I guess.”

  I felt slightly awkward sharing in this sentimental moment, but neither seemed to care that I was present.

  “I didn’t deserve a visit, son. But I’m glad you came. Hopefully I’ll be out of here by the time you decide to settle down and marry a nice girl. Which reminds me, so what exactly can I do for you and—Mia, is it?”

  “Mia is trying to help us find Alexis’s killer. Remember when Alexis’s heart was donated? Well, this is the girl who received her heart. Alexis saved her life, so she wants to return the favor by finally putting Alexis to rest.”

  “That’s noble of you,” Dan said to me. “I hope you find who did it. The police were useless.”

  “Do you remember the details of their investigation?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t forget if I tried. No forced entry, no murder weapon recovered, tons of prints, but the fingerprints were all accounted for.”

  “What do you mean?” I prodded.

  “Back in the day Landon’s mother was a bit of a—”

  “Tramp?” Landon finished for him.

  “I was going to say ‘lady of the night,’ but tramp works too. Back then she had more men coming and going than a Thai whorehouse—pardon my French, little lady. I always suspected it was one of her boyfriends. God knows where she found them or what they were capable of. Which would also explain the lack of forced entry. But the cops couldn’t pin it down on any one guy. There wasn’t enough evidence to convict anyone, and half the guys Jennifer was with at that time she didn’t have names or contact information for.”

  “Maybe if I talked to her …” I offered.

  “And say what?” Landon interjected. “I know you don’t know me very well, but can you tell me your sexual history? I think one of your one-night stands might have killed your daughter. And I sure as heck am not asking my mom about her former sex life.”

  He was right. It wasn’t exactly a tactful conversation to broach.

  “It wouldn’t matter,” Dan chimed in. “Jennifer doesn’t remember much about that part of her life. She was always drunk, rarely lucid. Like I said, she didn’t know full names anyways. Plus, it would hurt her to have to travel back to that period of her life again. She’s finally doing good, living right, living in the present. Leave her here. Besides, hurting your mother to avenge your sister wouldn’t help anything.”

  Dan was right.

  So there it was.

  Another dead end.

  Chapter 10

  Friday, April 18

  10:08 p.m.

  The bedside clock said it was only a little after ten o’clock, but to my heavy eyelids and spasming back it felt well past midnight. It was Friday night and I was already in bed. Pathetic.

  Was my age catching up with me?

  Although my head insisted no, my body told me yes.

  I had bid farewell to my twenties four years ago. While all of my friends were married with kids, worrying about play dates and mortgage payments, here I was—single, asset-less, and on a road to nowhere fulfilling. Brad had been my last hope for a family of my own. Once a girl hits her mid-thirties, men are like parking spots: taken or handicapped. Although I had never envisioned myself as an apron-wearing, baby-toting wifey playing house in the suburbs, it was what people did if they wanted a nice life.

  I pulled my comforter down below my waist and flipped over on my side. I considered fixing myself a bowl full of ice cream and popping in a movie—nothing too romantic, since it would only depress me more—but I wasn’t in the mood. Since that fateful Saturday night when I experienced my first nightmare, all I could think about was Alexis, and finding her killer. It consumed me.

  Two weeks ago I never would have considered visiting a felon in jail. I would have never showed up on a stranger’s doorstep unannounced. I never would have given up Brad in pursuit of some harebrained idea of solving a murder. Who was I? I didn’t recognize myself anymore. But I had to admit, I liked certain aspects of the new me. Adventurous. Daring. Brave. Up for a challenge. And I was feeling things I hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Sure, I loved Brad. It was the purest love I could imagine. But our relationship lacked passion … an intense can’t-ignore-it, risk-everything-for-it urge. I couldn’t imagine how strong a grip obsession could have on a person until this case. I was passionate to figure it out. To find her killer. It gave me purpose. Never had I felt this way about anything. In a way, Alexis was saving me from myself. Instead of leading a bland, typical life I would later regret, I was living on the edge. But it was costing me everything.

  Next to my notepad on the nightstand was a pencil topped with a Troll doll. I don’t know why I had hung on to that pink-haired monster since childhood, but his goofy expression and wild Don King hair—not to mention his adorable, pot-bellied nakedness—added character to my otherwise boring pencil, I suppose. My new task was drafting a list of possible suspects. Any guy in Alexis’s life was a suspect, though I didn’t have a single name for my list. So I started with the basics:

  Possible suspects:

  Dan, father

  Uncle Derek

  Neighbors

  Classmates

  Cousins

  Friends from church, extracurricular activities

  Jennifer’s boyfriends

  While I trusted Dan’s sincerity, I couldn’t rule him out just yet. Had it been a drunken rage that sent him after her? Perhaps she said the wrong thing at the wrong time and spurred on his mean, inebriated side? I didn’t know much about him when he drank, but people did all kinds of horrendous things while under the influence. But something told me it wasn’t him. He loved his little girl, and if the same killer was tied to the current murders, it couldn’t be him.

  Moving down my list, I doubted any of Alexis’s male classmates at that age would have the strength to overpower her or the stomach to kill. Logically it had to be someone bigger, stronger, who knew the family and their schedules and could freely come and go.

  So for now I drew a tentative line through Dan and the classmates. I needed to find out more about the uncle and extended family to see who was in her life back then.

  And then there were the neighbors. I wondered how to find out who lived on Willoughby Way in 1992 and who was still local. It’d been twenty years—surely people had moved. Especially if they were trying to avoid murder charges. Either way, I’d dig through property records to turn up what I could and see where it led me.

  Since Jennifer’s list of boyfriends could be a mile long, I would save that for last. For the time being I’d focus on eliminating whom I could.

  It felt like an impossible task to weed through, and I was too drained to start tonight.

  **

  The muscles in my gaping abdomen painfully constricted as I heaved. With each precious second I grew weaker, losing any fight
left in me. Although I temporarily obliged his request to remain silent, he wrung my neck harder. A liar—that’s what he was. And a killer—that’s what he was becoming.

  As his grip tensed, I was certain he’d break it. But luckily I’d be passed out and on my way to heaven before I felt it. At least I hoped I was heading to heaven. It wasn’t a concern I gave much thought to until now, but I hoped I was right with my Maker enough to scrape by.

  My eyelids drooped, then dropped shut as all went black and my body went limp. A bittersweet end from the misery.

  I thought I was dead, until I felt him release his hold, but I was too afraid, too weak, to show any sign of life. I heard the tear of paper, then felt a coolness on my face. The pungent smell of Old Spice mingled with rubbing alcohol wafted into my nostrils as he leaned over me to wipe my lips, then my cheeks, and lastly my eyes. He was removing my makeup. I remained rigid throughout his strange ritual, praying I didn’t accidentally flinch as he finished his final swipe of my skin before moving to my fingertips.

  Upon completion, he released me, and I felt a rush of cool air as he left my side.

  Then I heard footsteps. A crunch of glass underfoot. Was he leaving? Opening my eyes a mere sliver, I watched the back of my attacker as he headed for the kitchen. The living room shadows obscured him from outside view, due to my earlier mistake of drawing the heavy, forest green curtains to keep the glare off the TV. The white light of the television illuminated the room.

  As he reached the kitchen, the contrast in brightness silhouetted him. He picked up the phone hanging on the kitchen wall and dialed, his back still toward me.

  I considered for a moment grabbing the beer bottle closest to me, but a quick self-assessment warned me that he’d easily subdue any attempt I made to attack him.

  He spoke into the phone, but I couldn’t make out what he said. Then he dropped the receiver to the floor.

  A moment too brief for me to flee, he turned back to me, stumbling toward me as if drunk. As he neared, I knew I only had mere seconds to react. Should I jump up and run? No, I didn’t have the strength. He’d easily overpower me and finish me off. Playing dead was my only choice. But I needed to keep an eye open just long enough to see his face.