Bad Memory Page 5

  As the song played, Lucas and Rue got even closer. Rue’s hips jutted suggestively from side to side, pink taffeta and satin swishing in time with the music, her eyes never leaving Lucas’s, and his eyes never leaving hers. By the time their bodies were pressed tight together, the heat was practically radiating off them.

  Megan could only look on in horror, already knowing what was coming even before it happened, and then the band’s singer reached the Ooh oh oh oh part of the song, and Lucas and Rue were kissing, and it was so much more than just a kiss. It was a kiss filled with the kind of passion and longing that said they’d been waiting for the moment to happen forever. The kind of kiss where you forgot the rest of the world existed. The kind of kiss where you forgot that other people were watching.

  But plenty of folks were watching.

  Two girls from Megan’s chemistry class sat across the table, eyes bulging, and mouthed the word wow to each other. Mrs. DePalma stood at the edge of the dance floor with her lips pursed and her arms crossed and threw a worried glance in the direction of Mr. Jackson, who just smiled and shrugged like it was no big deal.

  But it was a big deal. At least, it was to Megan.

  She looked at her hand, still holding the punch, and noticed for the first time how the pink wrist corsage gifted to her by Lucas clashed with her own dress but was a perfect match for the one Rue wore, and Megan knew his choice of color had been no accident.

  What else had she missed? Had there been stolen glances or light touches that lingered a little too long? Crackling electricity flowing between Lucas and Rue that she had been too stupidly oblivious to notice? Tears pricked Megan’s eyes as she realized, yes, the signs had been there for months, and she had just been too dumb to see them.

  She ripped off the corsage and threw it on the table. Fled the gym and kept running until she burst through the exit doors and was out in the school’s parking lot. Megan gulped down cool air and wiped hot tears from her cheeks. Doubled over and retched. Bile tasting of vodka and whiskey burned the back of her throat.

  She clutched her stomach and felt like she was actually going to throw up, and it dawned on her that there was something else, other than nausea, making her gut churn.

  Then she realized what it was.

  Jealousy.

  7

  JESSICA

  As she sat in the prison visiting room, Jessica pictured herself emptying all the dollar bills out of Rose Dalton’s brown envelope and watching helplessly as they swirled around in the breeze before being carried away, one by one, out of her reach.

  She knew now that she wouldn’t be getting her hands on a single cent of that money.

  Rue Hunter had as good as confessed to double murder once again, more than thirty years later, so there was no case here for Jessica. She was just glad she hadn’t yet told Ed about the unexpected windfall before it was snatched away from him. Hadn’t gotten the old guy’s hopes up for nothing.

  “So, what you’re saying is, you did kill Megan and Lucas? Okay, I think we’re done here.”

  Jessica began to rise from the chair.

  “What I’m saying is, it’s what I believed for a long time. Now? Now, I’m not so sure.”

  Jessica lowered herself slowly back into the seat, sat back with her arms crossed, and regarded Rue from across the table.

  “You’re not sure?” she asked. “How does that work exactly? Surely, you’re guilty or innocent. Which one is it?”

  Rue showed Jessica the upturned palms of her hands. “Honestly? I don’t know. Maybe I did do it. Maybe I didn’t. I don’t remember what happened.”

  “Why did you think you were guilty?”

  Rue laughed bitterly. “I guess that cop psychologist was pretty convincing. A daddy who split town and abandoned us before I was even born. A drunk for a mother who cared more about getting laid than her own kids. An older sister who was smart and conscientious and hardworking, whereas I was a hot mess. According to that head doc, I had a lot of rage inside of me just waiting to come out. It wasn’t my fault, he said, just a really shit set of circumstances that led to something bad happening. He also told me I’d feel much better once I confessed.”

  “And did you feel better?”

  Rue gazed around the stark cinder block room, at the paint flaking off the walls and the ripped chairs, and tried to make a sweeping gesture that was hampered by the metal restraints.

  “Oh sure,” she said. “Best thing I ever did. This place is just like Canyon Ranch.”

  “You confessed because a police psychologist convinced you that you were guilty?”

  Rue stared down at her hands, picked at a jagged fingernail. She shook her head.

  “It wasn’t just down to the things he said to me. There’s the flashbacks and the nightmares too.”

  “Tell me about those.”

  Rue nodded and looked up at Jessica. “Did you ever have one of those View-Master toys as a kid?”

  Jessica shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “The one I had was this red plastic thing,” Rue said. “I think my mom bought it for, like, fifty cents from a yard sale. It had a reel of seven or eight photos. You looked through it like a set of binoculars and clicked to see each image. That’s what it’s like whenever I close my eyes and think of that night. It’s like clicking through a bunch of images on a View-Master, only, instead of pictures of the Taj Mahal or the Eiffel Tower, I see snapshots of terrible things. Sex and violence. Blood and death. It’s the same when I go to sleep every night. I’ve had the same goddamn nightmare for more than thirty years.”

  Unbidden, terrible images flashed in front of Jessica’s own eyes. Her mom, Eleanor, lying on a cream carpet, surrounded by blood and red wine. Her dad, Tony, lifeless on the kitchen floor, his lips already blue. Both her parents taken from her more than two decades apart.

  “These images you see?” Jessica asked. “Are you talking about memories?”

  Rue frowned. “I think so. That’s what I always thought they were anyway. I mean, what else could they be?”

  “What do you see exactly?”

  Rue squeezed her eyes shut now, as though calling up the pictures on that imaginary View-Master. The one that held a gruesome gallery only she could see.

  “He’s wearing a black-and-white plaid shirt and blue jeans,” she said. “The jeans are down, around his knees, and his ass is exposed. He’s sweating. He’s on top of her, and her hand is in his hair.”

  Rue opened her eyes and stared at her. The woman’s eyes were dry, but Jessica thought they had a haunted look about them.

  “What else?” she asked.

  Rue paused a beat or two. Outside the visitors’ room, Jessica could hear cell doors slamming. Lots of yelling. A male voice told someone called Jenkins to settle down. Jenkins told the guard to go fuck himself. Jessica didn’t know how anyone could sleep long enough in a place like this to have nightmares.

  Rue said, “I see the knife in my hand. The blade tearing through the material of the shirt. There’s so much blood. Lots of screaming.” She swallowed hard. “Then I see Lucas and Megan’s faces. Eyes wide open and staring at me. Accusing. Like they’re saying, ‘Why did you do this to us, Rue?’”

  Jessica glanced up at Pedro. His eyes were fixed straight ahead at the wall above her head. He showed no reaction to Rue’s words. There was no shock or horror or disgust. She figured the guards in this place must hear, and see, a hell of a lot worse all the time.

  “What about the nightmares?”

  “The same kind of thing,” Rue said. “Except it’s like watching a movie instead of looking at pictures. It always starts in the car. It’s a hot night, but it’s cool inside the car because of the AC. I’m drinking beer and smoking weed and having a good time. I’m singing along to a song on the radio, a big hit that year. I found out later the song is called ‘I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight’ by Cutting Crew.”

  “How apt,” Jessica said. “You’re not driving?”

 
“No, I never got my license. Didn’t have a car.”

  “Whose car is it? Who’s driving?”

  Rue smiled sadly and shrugged. “I don’t remember. I think it was a guy. In the dream, I can hear him laughing.”

  “What about the cops? Did they try to find the driver?”

  “They seemed real interested at first,” she said. “Asked lots of questions. I told them what I told you. I couldn’t remember anything about the guy or the car. Except for a key chain, shaped like a four-leaf clover, hanging from the rearview mirror. Then, all of a sudden, the cops dropped their interest in the car and the driver. Later, they told the jury at the sentencing trial the driver didn’t exist, that I’d made him up in an attempt to have someone else to share the blame with.”

  Jessica frowned. “Seems pretty weird to me that the cops never properly followed up on this guy. That they wrote off the possibility of someone else being involved so readily.”

  Rue just shrugged.

  “Rose told me you’d been drinking in Cooper’s bar,” Jessica said. “Did you leave with anyone?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Did the guy in the car take you all the way to Devil’s Drop? Or did he drop you off someplace nearby?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “What about the stolen jewelry and cash? What happened to them?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Five more minutes,” said the female guard.

  Jessica sighed. “I think we’re pretty much done here.”

  Rue said, “I’m sorry, Jessica. My memory of that night is just so fucked up. That’s why Rose wanted to hire you. I guess she thought you might be able to find out the answers to some of those questions.”

  Jessica said, “What I don’t understand is how you can remember a key chain and a specific song and what Lucas was wearing, but you don’t remember who you were with? If you killed two people?”

  “Do you drink alcohol or get high, Jessica?”

  Jessica narrowed her eyes, wondering where this was going.

  “I like a decent Scotch. Drugs? No.”

  “I used to get drunk all the time,” Rue said. “I’d steal from my mother’s liquor stash, persuade guys in bars to buy me drinks. I suppose I was following in my mother’s footsteps in that respect. Plenty of drugs too. Weed, speed, even coke if I could get my hands on it. The path I was on back then, if I hadn’t been sent to prison, I’m sure I’d be dead by now.” Rue laughed. It was a sad, hollow sound. “I guess it’s ironic that being sentenced to death is what’s kept me alive for so long.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I guess what I’m trying to say is, have you ever been so blackout drunk that you don’t remember how you got home or who the guy lying in bed next to you is? Then, while your head’s down a toilet bowl, and you’re throwing up the contents of your belly, flashes of the night before come back to you? Maybe you got in a fight or thrown out of a bar and you don’t even remember until someone reminds you what happened.”

  Jessica had been in that movie more times than she’d care to admit, especially in the weeks right after her father’s death. Her eyes stung suddenly, and she told herself it was because of the strong disinfectant used to mop the room. The smell reminded her of public swimming pools she’d visited as a kid with her dad.

  “Sure, I’ve had the odd blowout,” she said. “Maybe once or twice when I was younger. Who hasn’t? But I think I’d remember if I killed someone.”

  Rue held her eye, a small smile playing on her lips.

  “But would you, Jessica? Would you really?”

  “Time’s up,” said the female guard. “Let’s go, Hunter.”

  Rue nodded and stood, shackles jangling, as Pedro opened the door behind her. As she turned to leave, she glanced back at Jessica.

  “What you do next is up to you,” Rue said. “But just ask yourself one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If I didn’t do it, who did? Maybe the guy’s dead or in prison or living in another state. Or maybe he’s still walking the streets of Hundred Acres among folks just like you, and you don’t even know it.”

  8

  JESSICA

  A home-cooked dinner and a glass of red wine at Pryce’s apartment were just what Jessica needed after a long drive back from the prison.

  Once the lasagna was eaten and the salad bowl was cleared, the detective popped open a second bottle of Barolo.

  “No more for me.” Jessica covered the rim of the glass with her hand. “Don’t forget—I have to drive back to Hundred Acres tonight.”

  “Why not spend the night here?” Pryce’s wife, Angie, said. “The sofa bed in the living room is pretty comfortable. Isn’t that right, Jase?”

  Pryce said, “Oh, sure. Like sleeping on a cloud.”

  Jessica laughed, wondering how many nights Pryce had spent on the couch when he’d been foolish enough to fight with his wife.

  “Yeah, stay over, Jessica,” said Pryce’s teenage daughter, Dionne. “It’ll be so much fun.”

  Jessica thought about the offer. She’d never spent the night at Pryce’s place before, but the wine was going down nicely, she was enjoying the conversation, and the thought of at least an hour’s drive ahead of her later in the evening didn’t really appeal.

  “Only if you’re sure?”

  “We’re sure,” Pryce said. “It’s decided. Top up?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Pryce filled the glass, while Angie looked at Jessica with a mischievous smile.

  “What?” Jessica asked.

  Angie said, “We thought you might have brought Dylan along with you tonight. We’re dying to meet him.”

  “Another time, maybe. It just feels a bit too soon to be introducing him to folk.”

  “Too soon?” Angie laughed. “Honey, it’s been six months.”

  Jessica smiled and shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Well, if things don’t work out with Dylan, there’s always Vic,” Angie said lightly. “He’s still single.”

  Vic Medina was Pryce’s partner at Hollywood Division. The two cops had worked together for more than a decade.

  Dionne scrunched up her face. “Vic? Oh, gross.”

  Pryce said, “He’s forty-three. He’s far too old for her.”

  Jessica said, “I’m almost thirty. I’m probably too old for him.”

  Dionne turned to Jessica. “What about Dylan? Is he gross too? Is that why you don’t want us to meet him?”

  “Dionne!” Angie said. “Don’t be so rude.”

  “It’s fine,” Jessica said. “And no, he’s not gross.” She winked at Dionne. “He’s actually pretty cute.”

  “Is he an asshole, then?”

  “Language, young lady,” Pryce chided.

  Dionne rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Daddy. I’m almost seventeen.”

  Jessica laughed. “He’s not an asshole either. He’s a nice guy.”

  It was true. Dylan McDonagh was good people, as everyone in Hundred Acres kept telling her. Thirty-three, definitely cute like she’d just told Dionne, no kids or previous marriages (just one crazy ex-girlfriend). Best of all, he owned Randy’s Diner, which meant free coffee and cheeseburgers whenever Jessica wanted them. Great on paper. Pretty good in the bedroom too. There was no doubt he checked a lot of boxes.

  But something was holding Jessica back—and she knew Dylan could sense it too. He was aware of her past, of how she’d been through a particularly tough time right before she’d arrived in Hundred Acres, how she still had problems trusting people. So he didn’t push her too hard on why it felt like there was such a distance between them even when their bodies were wrapped tightly together. About why she rarely spent the night. Why she never referred to him as her boyfriend. Why she didn’t invite him over to friends’ places for dinner.

  Then, about a month ago, he’d come right out and asked her if there was someone else. She’d told him no, absolutely not. Then she’d kissed him ha
rd to stop him asking any more questions. But, even as he was pushing up her dress and sliding down her panties, and she was climbing on top of him, Jessica’s thoughts had turned to a different pair of hands on her body, a different mouth pressed against her own. A late summer’s night in Hollywood not so long ago. A smile as dirty as a slow striptease that she couldn’t stop thinking about.

  Afterward, Jessica and Dylan had clung to each other, both of them slick with sweat and trying to catch their breath and shaking a little because of the sheer intensity of what had just happened. Later, when she’d drifted off to sleep, one of the few occasions she’d agreed to spend the night, Jessica had wondered who she was trying to convince—Dylan or herself?

  Her face flamed as red as the Barolo at the memory, and she took a long drink of wine. Angie noticed her discomfort and mistook it for embarrassment at Dionne’s questions.

  “Stop teasing Jessica,” she said to her daughter. “How would you like it if we quizzed you about your boyfriend?”

  Dionne shrugged. “Wouldn’t bother me.”

  Pryce said, “What boyfriend?”

  Dionne ignored him, nudged Jessica, and grinned. “I haven’t told you yet, have I? His name is Jayden, and he’s superhot. Not as hot as Justin Bieber, obviously, but still hot. I’ll show you his Instagram photos later.”

  “How long has this been going on?” Pryce asked.

  “About a week,” Angie said.

  “Why am I only hearing about it now?”

  Dionne said, “Because you’re always at work.”

  Pryce frowned. “You’re too young for a boyfriend.”

  “Seriously, Daddy? I’m almost seventeen.”

  “So you keep saying. And you’ll be grounded until you’re twenty-one if you keep up the attitude.”

  Angie said, “Okay, let’s save the boyfriend talk for another time. I’m sure Jessica doesn’t want to spend her Saturday evening listening to you two arguing over Jayden Schultz. This is supposed to be a fun evening.”