Heart of Ice

Chapter Twenty-two

Tricia Wilson’s photographs were haunting. Emily had seen horrific images similar to them before, of course. As a Seattle cop working homicide or special victims, she knew firsthand what the brutal hand of an enraged man could do to the small bones of a child or a woman without the strength to fight back. She knew that when people indicated someone had been beaten “black and blue” that it was really a shorthand for a range of colors from indigo to red to blue to yellow, even green. Human skin could change hues nearly as fast as gasping fish on a riverbank. Just like that. From pink or brown to splash of hideous color that told the world the color of pain.

But Tricia’s photos weren’t like that. Emily looked deeper into the Polaroids. The colors were crisp, rather than muddy. Distinct, rather than blurry.

Something’s awry here, she thought. It passed through her thoughts that Tricia had said that she kept copies and returned the negatives. She figured that the woman, caught up in memories of the past, had made a mistake. Polaroid cameras didn’t use negatives.

Jenna caught her mom by the coffeepot, waiting to steal a cup before it finished brewing the next morning. It was clear that she was lost in thought, distracted by something.

“What’s bothering you, mom?”

“Honey, it’s the photos. Something isn’t right.”

“Mom, don’t get caught up in this one. Not like last time.”

In a way, the comment was sweet. Emily took it as such. Jenna was looking out for her mother. She knew how involved she could get when it came to abuse cases. The previous summer, thirty-one-year-old Maria Hernandez was beaten so badly by her husband that it took more than a hundred stitches and a metal plate to mend her injuries. Emily didn’t sleep for weeks when she worked that case, hoping against hope that by the time Maria was released she would agree to testify against her husband, Carlos.

But it never got that far.

Carlos was there to pick her up the day of her discharge. The family’s van was packed and headed south, out of town.

Family members in Cherrystone haven’t heard from either since.

Emily couldn’t get the photos out of her mind.

“I know. I know. But these are so graphic.”

“Just keep doing your best, Mom. You’ll get him.”

They talked awhile longer, Jenna saying that things at the sorority house were a disaster. The girls wanted to host a party—as another sorority had done the week before—but they were dangerously close to being put on probation.

“Stick to your guns, Jenna.”

“I will. Just like you.”

Emily poured some more coffee and searched for another container of creamer. She knew what it was that bothered her. It was the fact that Tricia’s injuries were so very visible. She hadn’t been beaten until her kidneys failed. She hadn’t been punched in the stomach. These were Nicole Brown Simpson–type injuries—visible and overt.

For a man who cares about what everyone thinks about him, she thought, you’d think he’d have punched her where it didn’t show. He wasn’t only a wife beater, he was a stupid one.

As they had since before they wore bras or even had a concept that they’d really like boys enough to touch them, Jenna and Shali retreated into her bedroom—a room that had once been her mother’s and might one day be the guest room for a little girl of her own. Jenna half-smiled as the thought came over her. If she found a decent guy, got a job, worked awhile, well then maybe.

Maybe not in that exact order.

In some ways, the room was a museum to her past. The old Mac computer that she’d used growing up was on the desk, a collector’s item, her mother mused when Jenna wanted to trash it. It had long since been replaced by a sleek new laptop. Next to a collection of dried corsages—from weddings, mostly—a framed poster of the cover of People magazine hung over the bed. The celebrity on the cover was Mariah Carey, but Jenna wasn’t really a Mariah fan. She never had been. Just below Mariah’s photo was a tagline that referenced when Jenna was held captive by Nick Martin, Cherrystone’s crazed kid. Jenna had initially thought she was helping the boy, but in the end, he taught her the greatest lesson of all: Not everyone wants to be rescued.

Date in a Dungeon—Girl Held Captive Tells Her Story

Shali looked at the magazine cover as she flopped on the bed. “Why do you keep that shitty magazine, Jen?”

Jenna sprawled out next to her friend, tilting her head way back to take in Mariah’s photo. “I don’t know. I guess to remind me how close I came to losing everything. Mom said that it was better to ‘own’ your past then run from it.”

“Your mom is a nut.”

Jenna laughed. “She is, but I love her. She’s my mom.”

“Better by far than mine.”

“No argument, there.”

Shali picked at a small blemish on her chin. “So tell me about this so-called consultant job. Is it as bad as we thought it would be?”

“Worse.” Jenna stopped herself. There were parts of the job she liked—meeting people and problem solving, to name two. But there was an overdose of self-pity and self-absorption that seemed to come with the chapter insignia.

“These girls have everything,” she said, “but they think they have nothing at all.”

Shali stopped picking at her pimple. “They sound like us, don’t they?”

Jenna shook her head, and the bed rocked a little. “Look, I was mixed up with a junior serial killer and I have a father that would rather align himself with his new wife and replacement kid than be a father to me. That’s me. Let’s talk about you, now.”

“Let’s not.” Shali sighed.

Jenna got up and retrieved a brush from the bedside table.

“I like your hair that way. Looks prettier than that goth shit.”

For a girl with pink hair, that was saying a lot and Jenna smiled. She’d dyed her hair black the summer before college, thinking that she needed a change. It also fit her mood at the time. She just didn’t want to look like the girl who’d been held captive. Eventually she let it return to her light brown. That fall, for the very first time, she colored it blond.

“Being a blonde isn’t edgy, but I think it suits me. It kind of makes me feel, I don’t know, a little invincible, when I go after what I want.”

Shali brightened. “A little blonde ambition is a good thing.”

“I guess.” Jenna set down the brush, pulling some long golden strands from the bristles and dropping them in the trash can. She thought about Shali’s “blonde ambition” comment for a second. It was a very good line. She’d use it in her next Beta Zeta blog post.

Jenna had no idea that a thousand miles away, a man in his basement office was eagerly waiting for her next blog post. He was counting on Jenna to be as thorough as ever—detailing where she was going to be, who she was going to see.

It was all about timing.