Bad Memory Page 2

  “You used to live in Hundred Acres?” Jessica asked.

  “I grew up here. My name is Rose Dalton, although I was Rose Hunter back then. My sister is Rue Hunter. We lived with our mom over on Perry Street.”

  Rue Hunter.

  The name was vaguely familiar, but Jessica’s brain wasn’t offering up the details.

  She watched Rose Dalton as her eyes took in every inch of the room, like a house hunter sizing up real estate. Jessica wouldn’t blame her if she walked out now and offered the gig to a fancy Los Angeles detective agency instead. Plumped for a penthouse rather than a basement studio.

  The office was nothing special and probably hadn’t changed much since the Hunters had lived in town. Five four-drawer metal file cabinets took up most of one wall. A long shelving unit housing stationery supplies, an office fan that no longer worked, and a fax machine that still spewed out cheap, shiny paper filled another wall. There were two big old wooden desks that had long since lost their luster, each with a battered leather chair on either side, a green-and-gold banker’s lamp on top, and in-boxes with not enough current case files for Ed’s liking.

  His desk was in the rear of the room so his clients had a good view of the framed certificates hanging on the wall behind him. Jessica’s was next to the picture window so she had a good view of the highway that would take her the hell out of this town one day.

  She took a seat behind her desk and gestured to the visitor’s chair on the other side.

  “Please, sit down.”

  Rose Dalton perched on the edge of the seat, one hand gripping the leather purse tightly on her lap. She used the other to slide the sunglasses on top of her head, pushing back thick bangs and revealing the deep frown lines of someone who spent a lot of time confused or worried. Her eyes were puffy and had dark circles underneath, like she hadn’t been getting much sleep lately.

  “I couldn’t believe it when I found out Ed Crozier still worked here,” she said. “He must be almost seventy.”

  “Yep,” Jessica said. “And still rooting around in folks’ garbage and exposing shocking infidelities in Hundred Acres, Shady Bluff, and Silverdale. In fact, anyplace where he can make a buck. What’s your problem with Ed, anyway? Why did you want to make sure he wasn’t here?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing personal,” Rose said quickly. “I’m sure he’s very good at his job. But he knew me, and he knew my sister. Not very well but well enough to say hello whenever he saw us around, you know? And, like everyone else in town, old enough to remember what happened back then—I’ve no doubt his mind would have been made up a long time ago about Rue’s guilt. I want someone who’s a familiar face in Hundred Acres, with some local knowledge, but who can look at the case with an objective viewpoint. I saw your photo on the agency’s website and figured you fit the bill.”

  “Oh yeah? How so?”

  “You’re too young to know my sister, for a start. Remember, we’re talking more than thirty years ago. Plus, you don’t look like someone who’s spent their whole life in Hundred Acres. Now that I’ve spoken to you, you don’t sound like you’re from around here either.”

  “I’m from New York. What does someone from Hundred Acres look like?”

  She watched as Rose sat back in the chair and appraised her. Jessica was slim, five-five, with peroxide blonde hair. Right arm covered in brightly colored tattoos, tiny diamond stud in her nose sparkling under the fluorescent lighting. Sweating in a pair of tight leather pants and a vintage CBGB tee.

  “Not you.”

  Jessica smiled. She wasn’t sure if the comment was meant as a compliment, but she decided to take it as one anyway.

  “Why don’t you give me the highlights, and we’ll see if we can do business?”

  Rose Dalton hugged the purse tightly against her body again, in the same way a toddler might cling to a blankie, and then she began to tell her story.

  The murders had taken place during the sweltering hot summer of 1987. Fourth of July, to be exact. It had been a Saturday night, and most of the young folks were exactly where they always were on a Saturday night—at Cooper’s bar on the edge of town.

  Jessica knew the bar Rose was referring to. The cinder block structure had been abandoned for years now, paint scabbing off the red-and-white exterior, weeds sprouting from what was left of the flat roof. A faded ghost sign was the only clue to the good times that had once taken place inside its now crumbling walls. It was situated on the city limits like an afterthought and had long since been forgotten. Jessica had been horrified when she’d first discovered the only watering hole in Hundred Acres was now a rotting carcass on a patch of sun-scorched land, where the only sign of life was a cluster of Joshua trees.

  She opened the top drawer of the desk and pulled out a yellow legal pad and pen so she could make some notes while Rose Dalton spoke.

  Rose had been at Cooper’s with a bunch of friends, spending the tips she’d earned during the week while waitressing at Randy’s. It had been a sultry night, and the place had been packed. Condensation steamed the bar’s windows and rolled in rivulets down ice-cold bottles of beer. Hot bodies were pressed close together. The place smelled faintly of sweat and cheap perfume and spilled liquor. A mix of blues and rock ’n’ roll pounded from the speakers. Everyone was having a good time. Some were getting a little buzzed, others totally wasted.

  Rose Hunter was in the first category; Rue Hunter was in the latter.

  Rose remembered spotting her younger sister among the crowd, over on the other side of the room, and thinking she was really going for it. Throwing back tequila shots and bottles of Coors like there was another Prohibition looming. Rue was underage, only eighteen, but the owners didn’t care as long as they were making money. And the cash registers were ringing all night long. Not with Rue’s cash—she never had any—but she always seemed to find someone willing to buy her a drink.

  The sisters didn’t hang out together at Cooper’s, Rose said. Didn’t speak to each other at all in the bar that night. The four-year age gap between the two seemed like a lot back then, and they moved in completely different circles. Rose and her friends had been in a couple booths in the back corner, away from the younger high school crowd. Far too cool to mix with the underagers. When Rose had looked over again a while later, Rue was gone.

  Jessica looked up from her notes.

  “Did she leave with someone?”

  “I have no idea,” Rose said. “That part of the evening remains unclear. Most of her crowd were still in Cooper’s. I remembered thinking I hadn’t seen Lucas or Megan, so I assumed she’d gone off to meet them.”

  “Lucas and Megan?”

  “Lucas James and Megan Meeks. Rue’s boyfriend and her best friend. The three of them had been inseparable since they were kids. In the last year or so, Rue and Lucas’s friendship had turned into something more, but the three of them still hung out together all the time. Lucas and Megan were the kids who died that night.”

  Jessica noted the older woman’s use of the word died, rather than killed or murdered, as though their deaths had simply been some terrible accident.

  “What happened?”

  Rose’s eyes dropped to the desk. Her knuckles were as white as the purse she held. Jessica wondered how many times she had replayed the events of that Fourth of July in her head in the three decades since.

  “It was early the next morning before I even knew anything was wrong,” Rose said. “I mean really early, before dawn. I was awakened by a loud banging on the door, which is never good news at that time in the morning. My first thought was that something was wrong with Rue. I jumped out of bed and ran down the hall to her room and opened the door. She was in bed, asleep. I noticed the room stank like a nauseating mix of vomit and bleach. I assumed she’d thrown up in the middle of the night and had tried to clean up the mess. There was another bang on the door. Much louder this time, more urgent. It was Sheriff Holten and one of his deputies. I could tell from the looks on their faces that some
thing terrible had happened. They both wore these really serious expressions and looked badly shaken. They asked if Rue was at home and if she was okay. Said they needed to speak to her right away.”

  “And was she okay?”

  Rose paused for a beat or two and then nodded.

  “Sheriff Holten’s deputy found the dress Rue had been wearing dumped in the laundry basket. It was soaked in blood, but it wasn’t Rue’s blood. She didn’t have a mark on her, except for some minor cuts and scratches on the soles of her feet and the red patches on her skin where she had scrubbed too hard with a nailbrush. The bleach was still in the bathtub. Then Sheriff Holten said Lucas and Megan were dead, that their bodies had been found at Devil’s Drop.”

  “Devil’s Drop?”

  Again, the name was familiar, but the tiny spark of recognition at the back of Jessica’s brain fizzled out before she could grab hold of it.

  “It was the local make-out spot,” Rose said. “They were in the back seat of Lucas’s car. They’d both been stabbed. Rue just sat there, shivering in a nightshirt despite the heat, not reacting, not saying anything. Kind of dazed looking, I guess. I was worried I was going to throw up or faint or something, but I knew I had to be strong for Rue. Our mom wasn’t at home—she was spending the night with whatever guy she was seeing at the time—so it was left to me to take care of Rue. I sat next to her on the couch and put my arm around her and stroked her hair, and I told her everything was going to be okay.”

  Rose’s voice broke slightly, and she looked at Jessica, her puffy eyes now wet with unshed tears. She swallowed hard a couple times, tried to compose herself before speaking again.

  “I was wrong,” she said finally. “Things were about to get a whole lot worse. Holten’s deputy found something else in the laundry basket, along with the dress.”

  “What did he find?” Jessica asked.

  A pause.

  Then Rose said, “The murder weapon.”

  3

  MEGAN

  1987

  Megan Meeks chewed the top of the pen while mulling over what to write.

  The next couple entries in her journal would be more important—more significant—than anything else she had ever committed to the scented pages. That’s how big a deal it was, so she had to get the words just right. Maybe one day, when she was old and married with kids, she would pull the diary from a box in the attic, carefully wipe the dust off the pink leatherette cover, reread these words, and reflect on one of the biggest nights of her life.

  The night when she stopped being a kid and finally became a woman.

  That’s it, she thought.

  Became a woman.

  It was perfect.

  She scribbled the words quickly, before she forgot them.

  July 3, 1987

  L is “The One”—I’m sure of it. We may only have been together properly for a matter of weeks, but, when you know, you know. I always wanted it to be just like the movies when it happened. And that’s exactly what it’s like. Butterflies explode in my stomach every time I see him, and I actually feel weak at the knees when he smiles at me. I just never thought in a million years that L would feel the same way about me. But he does! I’m surprised I’m not covered in bruises from pinching myself so often.

  Now I’m so glad I decided to wait for someone special, until the time was right. And tomorrow night will be the right time, with the right person. It won’t be L’s first time, of course, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is how we feel about each other.

  The only bit that sucks is all the lies—they’re tearing me apart inside—but I know he’s worth it. Anyway, the course of true love never runs smoothly in the movies, right? Boy meets girl, and boy and girl both have to overcome a bunch of obstacles before they can finally be together. For me and L, the waiting is almost over. Tonight, I’m still a girl. Tomorrow, I’ll be a woman.

  PS: I wonder if I’ll look any different afterward? Will people be able to tell just by looking at me?

  Megan read the diary entry again and felt a hot flush creep from her neck all the way up to the roots of her hair. Thank God for the tiny lock and key. She would absolutely die if anyone else ever read her journal.

  She opened the top drawer of the dresser and hid the little book under her underwear. Her face flushed hard again as she spotted the fancy black lace set she’d purchased a couple weeks ago in Silverdale, where she knew she wouldn’t be recognized. The price tag was still attached, a reminder of how much more expensive the lingerie was than her usual sensible underwear purchases. Most of her savings had been blown on the flimsy bra and panties, but, What the hell, she thought—occasions didn’t really get any more special than this one.

  Megan closed the drawer and dropped the tiny brass diary key into the jewelry box on top of the dresser, in among the cheap costume stuff and the diamond-and-emerald bracelet that had once belonged to her mother. It had been a gift from Megan’s father, and she decided she’d wear it tomorrow night too. She lay back on the queen bed and opened the latest copy of Seventeen magazine to where she’d folded down the corner of one of the pages earlier.

  Ten Ways to Make the First Time the Best Time.

  She’d gotten only as far as number four when she heard a soft knock on the door. Megan quickly shoved the magazine under the pillow, before her mom peeked her head into the room. Patty Meeks was wearing a ratty old bathrobe and big rollers under a hairnet, but Megan was struck once again by how pretty her mother was. She didn’t look anywhere near old enough to have a seventeen-year-old daughter. Megan just hoped she’d look half as good when she was her mom’s age.

  “I’m off to bed now, sweetheart. Don’t stay up too late.”

  “Just another half hour, Mom.”

  “Okay, but turn the music down.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Megan rolled off the bed with a groan and twisted the dial on the stereo, reducing the volume by a couple of notches.

  “Much better. Good night, sweetie.”

  “Night, Mom.”

  Patty pulled the door shut behind her, leaving her daughter with Jon Bon Jovi for company. Megan had spent ages making a mixtape, meticulously writing out each song listing on the glossy cassette cover, carefully choosing the music they would listen to in the car afterward. Now she was worried her selection was too schmaltzy. She wanted the mood to be romantic but not too romantic. She was considering whether to tape over “Open Your Heart” by Madonna with something else when the baby-blue Princess phone on her dressing table began to ring. She snatched up the receiver quickly before her mom heard it.

  “Hello?” she whispered.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Lucas!” she hissed. “It’s past midnight. My mom will go nuts if she knows you’ve called at this hour.”

  “Yeah, yeah. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “Uh, she could ground me for, like, the next month?”

  Lucas chuckled. “Relax, Megs. You’re practically a grown-up now. Speaking of which, you, uh, all set for tomorrow night?”

  “Um, I guess.”

  Megan suddenly felt shy and embarrassed, which was ridiculous because she’d known Lucas forever.

  “Hey, you know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do?” His tone was softer now. “No one’s going to judge you. I’m not going to judge—”

  She cut him off. “I want to, Lucas. I really do. I just hate all the sneaking around. All the lies.”

  “Yeah, I know. It sucks big time.”

  They were both silent for a moment, and Megan could hear the faint burbling of a TV in the background on Lucas’s end of the line. It sounded like commentary on a ball game.

  “What about Rue?” he asked eventually.

  “All taken care of.”

  “Where will she be?”

  “Cooper’s. Where else?”

  “Yeah, I figured as much.”

  “I’m worried about her.”

  “Me too.” />
  There was more silence on the line. Megan could hear the commentator picking apart the Dodgers’ loss to the Pittsburgh Pirates earlier in the evening on the late-night rerun.

  Lucas finally spoke again. “It’ll be fine, Megs. Don’t worry about it. It’s gonna be a blast. A night you’ll never forget. Let’s not allow anything to ruin it, huh?”

  “I know. You’re right. It’s just . . . not how I thought it would be.”

  “You’ll have fun. I promise. Pick you up around eight thirty?”

  “Yeah, sounds good. See you tomorrow.”

  “Night, Megs.”

  “Good night, Lucas.”

  “Oh, and Megan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you seriously listening to Bon Jovi?”

  “Asshole!”

  She laughed and replaced the handset in the cradle. She stripped off her jeans and T-shirt and pulled on her summer pajamas. Decided to leave the window open a crack to let the cool night air into the room. Megan turned off the stereo just as “Livin’ on a Prayer” was replaced by Glenn Medeiros. She’d definitely tape over that one, she decided; it was way too schmaltzy.

  As she climbed into bed, Megan glanced over at the Top Gun poster scotch-taped to the back of the bedroom door. A smug-looking Kelly McGillis was draped over Tom Cruise’s shoulder as he smoldered for the camera. Megan and Rue had gone to the movie theater at least ten times after its release last year.

  “Sorry, Maverick,” she said. “You’re only my second-favorite guy now.”

  Megan switched off the bedside lamp and lay there in the dark, wondering how long it would take to drift off to sleep. She felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, hoping Santa Claus would deliver everything she’d asked for.

  Only this time, as well as excitement, there were nerves and that niggling feeling that what she was doing was wrong. Megan shook her head in the darkness. How could it be wrong to be in love? Lucas was right, she told herself firmly. Everything was going to be just fine.

  Better than fine.

  This weekend was going to be one she would never forget.