One page a day. 365 days. @projectpageaday-blog - Tumblr Blog

Improving your life the natural way!

Guys! This site is worth checking out.

#health #wellness #naturalhealth #vegan #recipes #cooking #hippie #healthy #yoga #yogi

83

During their first year of marriage it had been, as most new marriages are, nothing but bliss. Looking back on that time now, Holden could hardly picture himself having been so in love. Such a time seemed so far away, so ungraspable now that those moments of deep affection and happiness were nothing but small dots in the distant past.

Theresa had been, for lack of a more accurate description, a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants kind of girl, always living life on the edge and onto the next thing before she’d even finished the current one. Hobby after activity after excursion, it seemed that she was always packing her bags and jetting off to a new country—sometimes dragging Holden along with her but often leaving him behind as per his request—and forever seeking new thrills to keep her adrenaline high. She was younger than him by three years, so for the first year or so he’d chalked up her spontaneity and endless adventures to her youth. She let it happen, telling himself that she was just getting it out of her system before settling down.

She’d been still in high school when they’d met, a fact that he hadn’t discovered until she invited him to her commencement ceremony a month after they started dating. She’d never lied about her age, simply omitting the fact that she was in grade twelve and still a year away from the legal drinking age. That small tidbit had never come up, as oftentimes their dates consisted of hiking and rock climbing and attending art shows as opposed to spending time in bars and clubs. In that way too, Theresa had captured his heart. She was different than the other girls, unique and fun and not hard-wired into the typical ways of young people. She didn’t need alcohol to enjoy life, a trait he considered extremely refreshing.

They married in the fall. He had graduated from the policing program and managed to land a job in security. A starter job at best, but it was enough to support them while she travelled the world and took weekend courses here and there in pursuit of a career in photography.

After Christmas they bought a house. A small bungalow, nothing spectacular, but it was an upgrade from their apartment and they instantly fell deeper in love with one another as they dove headfirst into renovations and decorating, devoting all of their free time to making it their own. In early February, just as they were getting settled and the idea of babies had begun popping into Holden’s head, Theresa announced that she wanted to open a photography studio.

“For what purpose?” Holden had asked, meaning well. His sole goal since he’d uttered his vows had been to support her journey no matter where it took them, and this was no different. It didn’t matter that he had planned on announcing that very afternoon his desire to start a family.

“I want to do portrait photography,” she’d said, slightly offensive. “You don’t think I’m talented enough?”

“Of course I do.”

“Good,” she said, handing him a stack of paperwork. “This is the lease for a commercial unit downtown. I’ve already spoken to the realtor and there’ve been no offers on it, so she said I have a good chance. I just need a co-signor.”

He’d signed, of course. He had good credit and was already on his way up the career ladder at work. Rumours that he was going to be scouted by precincts in the area were being whispered around the office.

Exactly a month later, on the same day that Theresa’s launch was being held at the studio, she handed him another stack of papers, this time with a request for a divorce.

82

She couldn’t sleep.

It was frustrating to her that her body couldn’t perform its basic functions simply because it was too busy catering to the foreign life that was feeding off her, using her as an incubator for its own growth. It seemed unfair that suddenly she was secondary as far as her internal systems were concerned. Her body’s maternal instincts were making her extremely cranky as she laid awake, the chronic ache in her lower back preventing her from slipping into unconsciousness.

Her mind, as was common with insomnia, was on overdrive, thrusting itself into considerations far beyond the scope of reason. As hard as she tried to keep them at bay, feelings of regret kept wriggling their way into her heart so that tears formed behind her eyes. She wished he would come in and lay next to her, hold her close and tell her that everything was going to be okay. But she wasn’t expecting that to happen. Logic was still somewhat intact, and she was well aware that he was helping her now only because he had to and not because he still loved her. Seeing him had made that crystal clear.

Still, he was the reason she had done all of this in the first place, so she couldn’t let go of the possibility that they might be able to rekindle what they once had. It would fuel her until she saw this thing through to the end. You can’t quit, she heard her father’s voice yet again, a constant presence in the back of her mind. You’ve come this far, there’s no going back.

But so many deaths. So many innocent people killed. She’d never intended for that to happen. Some had been planned, of course. Violet, for example. She’d had no choice but to take her out of the picture. She was the baby’s mother. She would have stopped at nothing. But the rest of them? She closed her eyes so tight she saw strings of light dancing across the backs of the lids. She’d never planned on so many casualties.

She had to stop thinking about it before she drove herself crazy with guilt.

She climbed out of bed and tiptoed across the room to the chair where she’d piled her belongings, digging around in the heap until she found her phone. She couldn’t remember the number exactly but she gave it her best shot, waiting nervously as it rang.

“Hello?” the voice was weary but frantic and just about as regretful as she felt.

“It’s me.”

Silence filled the line broken only by heavy breathing.

“Where are you?”

“You think I’d tell you that?”

“Camilla.” A sigh. “Why are you calling?”

“Hormones.”

“Just tell me where you are. Let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

An extended pause ensued. As she was wondering whether he’d hung up, he spoke again.

“Tell me you’re not with him.”

She opened her mouth to respond but thought better of it. As a pesky tear rolled down her cheek, she ended the call.

81

The officer at McKenzie Falls Police Department who agreed to sit down with them was a tall man with dark hair and a kind smile that reminded Briggs of both his ex-brother-in-law and Bob Saget. He led them into a small office adjoined to the main room and closed the door, motioning at two chairs that sat facing a desk. As they sat, he took the single chair on the opposite side, crossed his right leg casually over his left, and offered a jovial grin.

“Happy New Year, first of all,” he said, placing his hands on the armrests of his seat and leaning back slightly, getting comfortable. “Beautiful day out there.”

“As I mentioned, Officer Bolton, we have a few questions regarding this case,” Gifford said, sidestepping the small talk and getting right down to business. She slapped the file on the desk between them and slid it toward him, not wasting any time.

“Rightey-oh,” he responded, opening the folder on his lap. “Call me Mark, by the way.”

Briggs knew his partner would do no such thing.

“What exactly did you want to know about this case?” Bolton asked after skimming the pages. “Unfortunately the officer in charge of this case no longer works here.”

Gifford let out a huff. “I’m hardly surprised,” she said belligerently. “It was handled completely unprofessionally. No steps were taken in concordance with protocol. It was closed without so much as an interview with the accused.”

Bolton, reading more thoroughly now having sensed Gifford’s seriousness, nodded slowly as if searching for what to say that wouldn’t serve to fire her aggression. “My apologies,” he chose, meeting her direct gaze. “I realize that may not be enough, but I can assure you I was unaware of this case. The officer in charge was one of my superiors at the time, so I was never aware that this case even existed.”

“I’m going to need a name,” Gifford demanded. “And this case will have to be re-opened. We’ll need to speak to the officer in charge and—”

“He’s dead.”

Gifford stumbled, her shoulders stiffening. “Excuse me?”

“Officer Louis McNab was killed just before Christmas. Surely you read about it.”

Hearing the name, Briggs remembered the story. It had been all over the news. A dedicated policeman, killed in service.

“They didn’t find the killer,” Bolton expounded, though there was no need.

“Who was the second officer on the case?” Gifford, brusque but never disrespectful, had left an appropriate moment of silence before asking the question.

“There wasn’t one.”

“Excuse me?” she asked for a second time. She lifted her chin now in a gesture of disbelief and contempt. Briggs cleared his throat in a gesture of his own, hoping she would catch his drift and back off. This man, after all, was not being interrogated. Head officer or not, he was not at fault for divergences within his department of which he knew nothing about.

“There was only one guy on the case,” he shrugged. “The woman who filed the report was a bit bonkers, if you want the truth. It just didn’t seem like a major situation.”

80

She sat nursing a mug of coffee, breathing deeply to inhale the fresh aroma, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. She wanted to sleep but there would be time for that later. She had more important things to worry about now that she’d arrived. It’d been a long haul and though they weren’t quite so pressed for time now, there was still a sense of urgency that hung in the air between them.

He lounged on the couch across from her rocking chair, chewing mindlessly on his bottom lip. She’d finished filling him in on the details of the past few days and was giving him a few minutes to let the information settle but in the meantime her coffee was getting cold and she had to use the washroom again.

“Did you leave the hair in the drain?” he asked before she could excuse herself. A ploy he’d concocted to lead the police off track, though she’d had a niggling feeling since she’d left the hotel that it might backfire. She’d done this sort of thing enough to know that sometimes it was best not to overthink things. Clean and run, her father had told her when she’d first gotten herself into trouble. The more underhanded you tried to be, the less room there was for success.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Good,” he smiled, kicking his feet up and dropping them heavily down on the coffee table, rattling the clutter scattered across it. “They’ll never find you. They’ll be looking in all the wrong places.”

“Hopefully.”

“What do you mean, hopefully? Did you fuck up?” His feet were planted back on the floor and he was leaning forward, his eyes wide and threatening.

“No,” she said, straightening. She hated it when he tried to bully her, hated the power he still held over her. “I did everything right. Trust me.”

He softened again, his mouth pursed as he studied her, unsure. His gaze fell to her stomach. “How much longer?”

“Depends,” she shrugged. “Could be a month, could be days.”

“Days?”

“I don’t know,” she said slowly, emphasizing each word. “There’s no exact timeline for this sort of thing.”

He took a deep exhale, drawing the air deep into his lungs and then exhaling slowly, with control. A meditation technique, she knew, that he’d learned from his doctor to keep his blood pressure low.

“Okay?” she asked, eyeing him.

“I’m fine.”

“I have to use the washroom,” she said, standing to her feet. “Then I need to sleep.”

He nodded once, not meeting her eyes. She waited a moment, giving him the opportunity to say something kind. That he’d missed her, perhaps. That he was proud of her for everything she’d done for them.

79

“There are no listings with the last name Devlin.”

Bette set her phone down in her lap and squeezed the small space between her eyes. She was frustrated and felt as though they were on some sort of wild goose chase with no real destination in sight.

They’d arrived in Moose Lake over half an hour ago and had been driving around in mindless circles. Though they’d managed to get a decent lay of the town, they hadn’t a clue in which part they should begin their search. It had a population of just over fifteen hundred people, so while their task at hand wasn’t impossible, it certainly wouldn’t be easy.

“What are you doing?” Bette asked as Violet veered into the parking lot of a convenient store, braking hard and slamming the car into park.

“Asking somebody,” she said, snatching the keys out of the ignition and climbing out. “You coming?”

The door slammed shut and Bette scrambled to follow.

The store was small and dingy. It certainly didn’t seem like the type of place one would come to gather information, but it was worth a shot. The two men of Indian descent behind the counter appeared friendly but not at all as if they might hold information about the residents of the entire town. As they finished cashing out the man in line ahead of them, Violet stepped up.

“Hi,” she said politely. “Do you live in this area?”

They met her question with blank stares. Not thwarted, she tried another approach.

“I’m from out of town visiting a friend but I seem to have lost her address. The last name is Devlin.”

The cashiers glanced at one another, shaking their heads in a synchronized motion.

“Sorry,” one of them said. “We don’t know everyone in the town.”

“Do you know if there’s anyone else I might be able to ask?”

Having grown up in Northern Canada, Bette knew as well as Violet did that in small towns like this, there was always at least one resident who knew most of the others.

“I don’t know,” the first man shrugged again.

“Okay,” Violet said. She grabbed a pack of gum from off the shelf in front of her and slapped it on the counter. “I’ll buy this, thank you.”

When they were back in the car, Violet drove off nearly as hurriedly as she’d arrived.

“Where are we going now?” Bette was well rested from their brief stint of time at the hotel, but every new effort they exerted made her want to close her eyes for another week.

“The salon,” Violet retorted, scanning the plazas as she sped by them.

Bette smiled to herself. Having grown up in small towns, yes, they knew that there was always at least one resident who knew most of the others. That person, Bette mused, was the town hairdresser.

78

Gifford let her eyes fall to the folder as Briggs held it out for her, nodding toward it in a gesture of encouragement. She snatched it out of his hand and opened it, scanning the few documents within. When she was finished reading, she glanced back at him, her expression altered.

“Am I crazy?” Briggs asked.

She shook her head slowly. “No,” she said, her voice low. “Not even a little bit.”

“I’ve tried to get a hold of Camilla Devlin just to ask her some questions. I know it goes against protocol but—“

“Whatever,” Gifford said dismissively. “Did you talk to her?”

Briggs shook his head. “The cell number listed is no longer in service and there was no answer at her house. I might be way off base but—”

“—You usually aren’t,” Gifford finished, her nose buried once again in the folder. “Why is this case marked as closed? It looks to me like nothing was ever resolved.”

Briggs shrugged. “Figuring that out is next on my list.”

“Fishy,” Gifford said, narrowing her eyes.

“I thought so, too.”

“Shall we?” His partner snapped the folder shut and made for the door. Briggs snatched the Steele case off the counter and followed close behind.

Briggs drove. As they headed down the highway toward McKenzie Falls, Briggs tried to come up with a game plan. Their first stop was the police station and though he couldn’t be sure, he had a pretty good feeling that they’d be making a second stop at the university.

“Just so we’re on the same page,” Gifford said, taking a break from reading and staring straight ahead through the windshield at the icy landscape, “this Camilla Devlin woman is the one we want to talk to.”

“I’d say so.”

“And Violet Stark, too. We figure out whether or not she has some history of mental illness that isn’t documented here. They wrote her off completely,” Gifford shook her head. “Small town cops, man. I get that I’m one of them but the politics...” she trailed off.

“Sometimes it’s all about who you know,” Briggs finished for her.

“You think she’s crazy? For the sake of this department I really hope that she is. She accuses someone of stealing her unborn child and they close the case without as much as a DNA test?”

Briggs wasn’t sure what to say. It had seemed odd to him too, which is why he’d even considered sharing his findings with his partner in the first place. That being said, he didn’t like to jump to conclusions before he had all the facts and in this case there were minimal.

Scanning the case a final time, Gifford let out a loud huff. “Prepare yourself,” she said, her voice tense. “I’m about to give the officer in charge of this case a piece of my fucking mind.”

77

The basement was damp and less than welcoming. Though it was supposed to be cleaned and organized on a regular basis, Briggs’ guess was that it had been several months since anyone had given it any attention, and cobwebs had gathered in the corners amongst thick layers of grime. Gifford shivered and rubbed her arms briskly, letting out a deep cough as dust clouded up around the file Briggs tossed on the counter.

“What’s that?”

“The Steele case,” he said. There was no need to remind his partner of the specifics. They both remembered all too clearly the gruesome murder of the twenty-four year old pregnant woman from their first year on the job. Cases like that weren’t easily forgotten.

Gifford opened up the file and flipped through it, her face draining of colour as she gazed upon the series of photos from the crime scene.

“Why am I looking at this?”

“I think it may be related to what we’re dealing with now.”

Gifford looked skeptical, as she always did when Briggs presented one of his outlandish ideas, but she cocked her hip and crossed her arms, an open invitation for him to elaborate.

“I got to thinking,” he began, “that whoever we’re dealing with seems to be an extremely calculated person who makes a hell of a lot of errors.”

“The hair in the drain? I thought we decided she planted that on purpose.”

Briggs shook his head. “I’m not talking about that. I think the murders at the Wingfield farm may have been a slipup, not part of the original plan.”

“Another hunch?” Gifford mocked.

Briggs ignored her. “This woman is smart. So smart, in fact, that it’s very likely this isn’t her first time. I started looking at old cases, trying to find patterns, and after a while it just started to seem strange that someone with experience would make a mistake that led to killing two extra people. You know as well as I do that serial killers don’t often stray from their plan, and the Wingfield murders were more than just a minor speedbump. So I started thinking that maybe this is a first timer after all or maybe,” he paused for emphasis, “it’s an experienced killer who just isn’t thinking straight. Someone who was being run by her emotions rather than her head.”

Gifford raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. It wasn’t uncommon for killers to slip up when their emotions began to override their plans. He certainly hadn’t broken any new ground.

He held up a finger. “Hear me out.” She complied, folding her lips together, summoning patience. “I couldn’t stop thinking about the Steele case. You don’t need me to remind you that the killer in that situation was a deranged woman who had just endured multiple miscarriages in one year. She cut the fetus from Ms. Steele’s uterus with a paring knife.”

Gifford swallowed her emotion.

“I made some calls to neighbouring precincts to see if I could track down recent situations involving babies,” Briggs pressed on. “Newborn kidnappings, incidents involving pregnant or new mothers, that sort of thing.” He pulled a second file off the shelf. The folder, unlike most of the others, was in pristine condition. “I found this.”

76

“I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

I hung my head. This was a dead end. The only person at the university I could think to contact was a professor who had worked there for upwards of thirty years, a sweet older woman who specialized in Shakespearean literature and who I knew had collaborated with Camilla on multiple occasions, but it was obvious she didn’t know enough about her personal life to provide me with the information I needed. Bette watched me from her chair, her knuckles white around her tea mug as she waited anxiously for good news.

“I’m a friend of hers from a long time ago,” I explained for the third time. “I’m in Minnesota on business for the week and I remembered Camilla mentioning that she visited here on occasion. I was just wondering if you or one of your colleagues might know where I could find her. I’d very much like to drop in on her for a surprise visit.”

My plea was met by silence on the other end of the line. I held my breath.

“Roger might know something,” she said finally. I closed my eyes and exhaled quietly, relieved. “Let me pass you through to him.”

“Thank you,” I told her. “Thank you so much.”

“What’d she say?” Bette asked, leaning so far forward I feared she might fall to the floor.

“I’m on hold,” I whispered.

After a few moments, a male voice answered. “Professor Willard speaking.”

“Hi there,” I said, trying my best to sound casual. “Is this Roger?”

“Yes,” he responded with suspicion.

“Hi Roger,” I chirped. “I’m a friend of Camilla Devlin’s and I was told you might know the address of the place she often visits in Minnesota.”

“Why are you asking?”

I gave him the rundown.

“She visits her brother,” he said shortly. I sat up a little straighter, my spine pinned to the headboard of the bed.

“Her brother,” I said, praying he knew what he was talking about. “That’s right. I remember her mentioning that now. Would you happen to have a name or an address?”

“Well I would assume the last name to be the same as hers,” he said. He wasn’t overly polite, but I didn’t blame him. I was sure he had better things to do with his time.

“A town name, perhaps?” I probed.

He let out a long exhale. “Moose Lake, something like that? I could be wrong.”

“Moose Lake,” I repeated. Bette instantly jumped to action, punching things into her phone. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate this.”

“Good luck,” he said, ending the call.

“Moose Lake,” Bette said, meeting my eye. “It’s only thirty kilometers from here.”

75

“You just seem strangely optimistic, that’s all.”

“Must be the tea,” Bette said, handing me my own mug full of the steaming liquid. “Drink up.”

I glanced at it warily. “Is it laced with poison?”

She laughed. “Yes, I saved your life twice so that I could kill you.”

I frowned. “I’ve seen stranger things.”

“Just drink the tea.”

Bette wandered back to her chair and tucked her legs beneath her, setting the magazine aside in lieu of studying me, as if waiting for me to jump to action.

“I don’t know what’s next, if that’s what you’re going to ask.”

“No plan?”

I shook my head. The tea, hot and potent, warmed my queasy stomach. “All I know is that Camilla used to visit someone in Minnesota. Every other weekend, I would say. I only remember because it was always difficult for me to reach her a few times a month when I had questions about my thesis.”

“You think she has family here?”

I shook my head. “She doesn’t have any family.”

“That you know of.”

“I would know, believe me.”

“Did you know she would steal your baby?”

That made me pause. I thought for a minute, staring into the dark water in my mug.

“It’s possible she has family I don’t know about,” I admitted.

“Not that it matters,” Bette countered. “I don’t know how we’re going to find her. It’s not like we can just start asking people on the street.”

“No.”

Here we were yet again, with no idea what move to make next. An idea struck me.

“I could call the school. She has colleagues there, people who might know who she visits when she comes here.”

I located my cell phone in my bag next to the bed. I had to search for the number, but it wasn’t hard to find. I hit the contact and pressed the phone to my ear.

“What if she’s not here at all?” Bette asked in a whisper as I waited for the phone the ring.

“She’s here,” I answered calmly. “She has nowhere else to go.”

74

“No more going unconscious, you hear me?”

I blinked, trying to make sense of my surroundings, but everything was unfamiliar aside from Bette’s fragile face. We were in a hotel room, it appeared, a comfortable, spacious joint with two double beds – I was in one of them now, propped up on a pile of plush pillows cased in crisp, white cotton—and a large window with the blinds half drawn, allowing slits of sunshine to illuminate the clean space. A strange sense of vertigo alerted me to the fact that we were up very high which comforted me, as if our little fortress in the sky would protect us from harm.

“Where are we?”

“Minnesota,” Bette said, sipping at a steaming mug as she sat in a lounge chair across from the beds, flipping through a magazine and seeming right at home in these unfamiliar quarters.

“We made it?”

“A few hours ago.”

I shifted, felt a stinging in my left abdomen, lower than I was accustomed.

“Did I get shot again?”

Bette laughed, her cheeks rosy with warmth. She looked healthier and more at peace than I’d ever seen her. This was somewhat unsettling. “No,” she answered. “You had a cyst on your ovary that burst. I had to cut into you again.”

“Jesus.”

“Tough week.”

It was my turn to laugh. I let the air settle between us for a second before speaking again, wondering how on earth we’d made it this far, and what had happened to make Bette so uncharacteristically good-humoured.

“What are you drinking?”

“Orange pekoe. You want me to pour you some?”

“Please.”

She stood slowly, up-righting a second mug on a small tray of provisions which included four bottles of water. She caught my eye and tossed me one. I chugged thirstily.

“Is this the plaza?”

“Not quite.”

“Nice though.”

“I figured we deserved it.”

“Is everything okay?”

She glanced at me now, smiling as she poured boiling water into the mug.

“Everything’s great,” she said with a grin.

73

“Violet, please wake up.”

Bette was in tears, praying that adrenaline would subdue her emotion as she shone the light from her phone onto her friend’s wound, searching for signs of internal bleeding. There was nothing apparent, no symptoms that were noticeable at first glance, and this worried Bette more than if she’d found something fatal. What if she wasn’t a good enough doctor to find anything at all?

“There has to be something,” she said aloud to the dark car, touching Violet’s cheeks every few seconds with the hope that the clamminess of her fingers might jolt her awake. But Violet remained motionless, slumped in her seat with only the seatbelt keeping her from collapsing forward into her own lap. Bette unclipped it now and eased her down gently, probing around on her lower back to search for discrepancies in that region. Not to her surprise, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

No cars had passed since she’d pulled over. Bette was both discouraged and grateful for this, as even though help might prove lifesaving, she had no idea what she might say to anyone who stopped. She worried, admittedly, that this was all her fault, and that if someone found them like this, she risked being put away for life. Though she continued her physical scan, Violet’s dire situation was put on the backburner in her mind momentarily as she imagined spending the rest of her years in prison, her entire life ruined as a result of her own stupidity. But she realized, disgruntledly, that she would stop at nothing, not even the prospect of arrest. Stupidity at its finest disguised as ultimate human kindness. She was no saint, that was for sure, but she’d saved Violet once and she would do it again at any cost, because though it hadn’t started out as such, this had, somewhere along the way, become her problem to fix, and she had no choice but to see it through to the end, whatever form that end might take.

Sheer stupidity.

Her hand fell across a protuberance, a small lump in the left lower quadrant in the same area as the incision. Bette pawed at it blindly, reaching with her right hand to click the overhead light. It illuminated things enough that she could set her phone aside, but it was barely enough to allow foggy visibility. She would have to go by touch.

“Stay with me,” she said. Violet remained unconscious as Bette continued her examination. The lump wasn’t close enough to the original wound to be directly related, she realized with confusion. On top of that, there wasn’t much she could do from the outside. Either Violet needed to get to a hospital, fast, or another incision would have to be made right here and now.

Bette nearly broke down, backing away for a moment and taking a few deep gulps of the cold night air. She kicked angrily at the small stones along the shoulder of the highway with resentment, all but cursing the heavens for creating yet another obstacle. For the first time in her life, she questioned why she had ever gone to medical school. Secretarial work required so much less stress.

She dove back into the car, grabbing Violet’s waist and rolling her toward her. When she was propped up, wedged between the seat and the frame of the car, Bette went to work, carefully tearing out the stitches, praying she would be able to access the bulge, whatever it was, through the original incision. Perhaps luck would choose to be on her side for once. It certainly owed her.

72

“Tell me you haven’t been here all night.”

He woke to the distant sound of a woman’s voice and for a split second he thought it was his wife, leaning in to stroke his hair as he slowly stirred. It soothed him, if only momentarily, and as he opened his eyes he realized it was just Gifford, that he’d fallen asleep at his desk late the previous evening. Disappointment coursed through him like ice through his veins. He sighed long and deep, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and shaking nostalgia, yet again, from his tired head.

“I fell asleep,” he said to his partner as she slouched into her own chair, waiting for her computer to fire up as per their morning routine. Unlike most mornings, however, Gifford looked rough. Her hair was dishevelled and dark circles pooled beneath bloodshot eyes.

“Wish I could say the same,” she yawned.

“Out all night?”

She nodded as Briggs tried to remember the last time he’d spent an entire night partying.

Desperate to change the subject, he decided to get down to business. This was a place of business, after all. “I was right about the wig.”

Gifford perked up, her tired eyes widening a fraction. “You got confirmation from the woman in Ohio?”

Briggs nodded.

“Well done,” she beamed. Then she slumped again, heaving out a weary exhale. “That doesn’t change the fact that our killer could be anywhere between here and Antarctica by now.”

“I know.”

“What are we gunna do?”

“I think continuing a search for DNA would be a dead-end. We know this girl is smart.”

“Right.”

“We have no other leads. No sightings or even a clear description now that she’s changed her appearance.”

“Right.”

“We need to look at motive.”

“I disagree.”

“I thought you might,” Briggs said with utmost respect for his partner’s confident sense of judgement. He was well aware that in cases like this, searching for motive often led to a downward spiral of hopelessness – serial killers took years to understand. But in this case, he’d had a hunch that it wasn’t a string of serial murders with which they were dealing, but a killer with very narrow and specific intent. He told his partner as much.

“Prove it,” she jeered, a running joke they shared when they knew proof was next to impossible to attain. In this case, however, it hadn’t been entirely impossible. His hunch, as was not uncommon in their line of work, had developed into something much more tangible.

“Follow me,” he said.

71

Bette hated driving in the dark. A minor late night collision in her teenage years had instilled an irrational fear deep within her that she’d never been able to shake. On top of that little incident, she’d read enough studies in her medical career to know that sleepiness and motor vehicles simply didn’t mix. Too many people died from car wrecks due to decreased visibility, and she worried that she would be one of them if she didn’t hold tightly to her awareness now as she proceeded cautiously down the freeway, waiting desperately for dawn to arrive.

They’d made it through the border without incident, but it had shaken Bette’s nerves and sent her plummeting into a decreasing state of edginess in which everything that moved including her own hands made her jump, another less than ideal condition that made driving risky. But as much as she wanted to, she knew she couldn’t pull off the road. Not now, when there were only three hours left until they reached Minnesota. With Violet fast asleep in the passenger’s seat, delivering them to their destination rested solely in Bette’s hands and, as always, she was determined to succeed.

They’d rung in the new year tamely, too lost in their own personal reflections to even bother with a mere exchange of pleasantries. But now, as it was the only method she found effective in fighting off sleep, she kept her mind busy by thinking about what this year might bring for her now that she’d veered so unexpectedly from her intended course.

She wasn’t keen on spontaneity. She needed to have a plan in place at all times in order to achieve the long list of goals she set for herself, and now that things had gone so drastically and unintentionally wayward, she found herself slipping into a state of what could only be classified as depression. Here she was, running from the law with a woman who could very well be, for all she knew, certifiably crazy. At that thought, she glanced over at Violet and wondered, not for the first time, if anything she’d told her had been true.

Trust was a funny thing. As a medical student, Bette had been taught both to rely on her instincts and to deduce based on logic, both very different methods of inference that sometimes worked together, but oftentimes led toward two very different conclusions. When such cases arose, she’d been taught her to err on the side of logic. Why? Because it was a lot easier to win a lawsuit, as a medical practitioner, if you could prove you made systematic decisions based on science. Claiming that you went with your gut didn’t make for much of a case within a court of law. So what the hell was she thinking, trusting every word Violet had told her and making illogical decisions as a result?

She took another quick look at Violet curled noiselessly beside her. She had questions that she wanted answered, and it frustrated her that up until this point, Violet had been slow to bring her up to speed, filling her in only when she felt it was the right time. Well, it was the right time now. If she was going to continue driving them to Minnesota, she had every right to know what they were going to find when they arrived.

“Violet,” she said firmly, “wake up.”

When there was no response, she reached out her right hand and gave her a shake.

“Violet.”

Her body was limp. Suddenly panicking, Bette felt around on the ceiling of the car for the light. The dull glow was enough to illuminate the blood seeping through Violet’s shirt and the greyish pallor of her lifeless face.

70

“Passport and driver’s license, please.”

She handed it over, a polite smile stretched across her face.

The guard in the border booth scanned the photos on the documents and then glanced at her. His eyes falling, as she’d hoped, upon her pregnant stomach.

“Congratulations,” he said, giving her a nod. “Where you two heading tonight?”

“Florida,” she lied.

He raised his eyebrows a quarter of an inch. “Quite the drive. You have family there?”

She nodded. “My Mom spends the winter there. We’re paying her a surprise visit.” She let her right hand rest upon her belly, giving it a little pat.

“How long you staying?”

“Just a few weeks.”

The officer handed back her passport and license. “You enjoy yourself, Miss Gibson,” he said. “Safe trip now.”

She thanked him and pulled away slowly, letting her mouth relax only when she was back on the freeway. Relieved, to say the least, she wiped her sweaty palms one at a time on her jeans. She could never be sure if a new fake identification would do the trick, but it looked like Emma Caroline Gibson was in the clear. This time, anyway. It was just as well that she wouldn’t be crossing any borders again in the foreseeable future.

The snow was just as heavy here, but the roads had been ploughed and the traffic was light. She picked up her takeout coffee from the cup holder and sipped slowly, shaking her head a few times to ward off sleep. She still had a long way to go and wasn’t about to stop just because she was a little tired. Caffeine and loud music would have to suffice. She cranked the stereo.

The bass vibrated in her low abdomen causing the baby to stir. She wriggled and clenched until it settled and then relaxed into her seat as best she could despite the pressure. Just a few more weeks, she told herself, as some new age rock band filled her consciousness.

She had bigger things to think about. Things that still had the potential to send this whole damn mission crumbling to the ground. Violet had been dealt with, so at least she didn’t have to worry about that anymore. But there was still the issue of the husband. She didn’t think he would be too much of an issue now that he’d gotten his money, but things always had a way of resurfacing at exactly the wrong time. Between that and the whole mess in Pinestead Hills that had spiralled out of control, she was still in over her head.

A sudden wave of nausea hit her. She veered off onto the shoulder, thankful that there were no other cars around, and threw open her door to vomit. She hung her head for minute, gathering herself before slamming the door back in place and guiding the car back into the lane.

She breathed deeply, letting the music calm her. Yes, she still had a bit of a mess to clean up, but Minnesota was only three hours away. She’d figure things out as soon as she arrived.

Then she’d worry about how to get rid of the baby.

69

“What happened between you and your Mom?”

I glanced at Bette through my peripherals. “If this is your idea of some sort of car game, I think I’ll pass.”

“No game,” she said, tucking one leg beneath her in a half cross legged position. “I’m just curious.”

Seeing no way out, I took a deep inhale. “Nothing happened. We grew apart, that’s all.”

“And your Dad?”

“He died in the spring.”

It was almost midnight, and though I couldn’t speak for Bette, I felt the impending approach of the new year deep in the cells of my body, pulsing like a caveat energy throughout my hands and feet. I’d always been somewhat in tuned to changes of season and weather, but never had I experienced such intense sensation upon breaching a new year, and the dull vibrating inside of me was creating a rather unsettled sense of approaching disaster. I wasn’t a big believer in fate or the cosmos or other such supernatural mumbo jumbo, but the premonitions, if you could call them that, usually didn’t lie.

“On second thought, let’s play a car game,” I said, knowing Bette would bite. “You know the license plate game?”

Bette hesitated, but eventually took the bait. “Yeah, I know it.”

We played a few rounds before her own annoying instincts, which I was growing privy to, shone forth.

“Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re shaky.”

“Am I?”

She waited.

“Call it a hunch,” I shrugged.

“A hunch about what?” she was suddenly nervous, as if anything I expressed translated ultimately into definite truth.

“The year,” I said. “This trip, maybe.”

“You think something bad is going to happen?”

“I think everything bad that could possibly happen already has.”

She slumped slightly, comforted rather than dejected by the words. After a moment, she spoke again. “My Dad died too,” she said softly, eyes steady on the road ahead.

We let that settle between us as the digital clock on the dashboard switched soundlessly to twelve o’clock.

68

We were back on the road, heading toward the American border. It didn’t strike me until we’d passed more than five limousines of the highway that it was New Year’s Eve. It was just past six o’clock, but people were already on their way out to celebrate the start of a new year—and for some, though I certainly wouldn’t be one of them, the passing of a successful one—on the town, party hats on and champagne glasses in hand. I glanced over at Bette in the passenger’s seat, her chin drooping ever so slightly toward her chest as she struggled to stay awake, and knew we wouldn’t be doing any celebrating.

How had I ended up here? I was sure many people had asked themselves the same question at some point in their lives, particularly at the onset of a new year. A new beginning, and here I was on my way to Minnesota to track down a woman who had stolen my unborn child. I was becoming almost sick of watching the many strings of possible circumstances play out in my head, wondering how I would react if this happened or if that happened. There was no proper conduct in the end. I was diving in completely blind, fingers crossed, hoping for the best.

Quietly, with the daintiness of a slumbering pixie, Bette began to snore. I reached over and nudged her toward the door, hoping it would shift her into a position less invasive on her vocal cords. She jarred slightly and then righted once again, inhaling sharply before recommencing the nasally drone. I stared ahead.

Last year at this time, I’d been snuggled up on the couch with my husband watching re-runs of Lost and sharing the remnants of a large pizza we’d order from our favourite local Pizzeria. Things were a bit different now, three-hundred and sixty five days in the future from that peaceful, easy stage of life before everything had been overturned. Mind you, things hadn’t felt so easy at the time. The reason we’d stayed in was because I’d been too depressed to go out, miserable over the fact that the only thing I’d wanted for Christmas was my god given right to get pregnant, and once again Santa Claus hadn’t delivered. Only in retrospect and by comparison to the horror of the current holiday season did that time seem simple. I shuddered to think what next year would bring.

A pothole in the road caused Bette to startle awake. She turned her head from side to side in confused panic, bypassing every exhale.

I waited for it to pass before speaking.

“What did you do last New Year’s Eve?”

She swallowed, still getting her bearings. As she realized why I was asking, a sad smile spilled almost subconsciously across her shadowed face. “Bermuda,” she said. “With my family.”

I nodded, picturing Bette sunbathing beneath a hot sun. Her parents and perhaps a sibling or two splashing around in the ocean, calling her name. Margaritas being sipped from coconut shells.

I wondered if she wished she were back there again instead of here, tangled up in my mess of a life. Once again, guilt flooded in.

“Well,” I said, pulling myself back to the chill of the North air, “I guess you’ll just have to look on the bright side. Minnesota is nowhere near that far of a trek.”

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

One page a day. 365 days.