The Wrong Girl

39

Kellianne’s dad called this the Afterwards “office,” even though it was only a corner of their old pine-paneled basement. Her mom had insisted on staying at the hospital with him, wouldn’t be home until whenever. Kev and Keefer were somewhere, who knew. Kellianne had privacy. Sitting at the battered desk, she stared at her reflection in the computer monitor.

She could see her hair, still all sucky, her skin, still sucky, her T-shirt with the same logo and title as the one on the computer screen. She’d sent for the “Ladies’ large short-sleeved black” a few weeks ago to see if the company she was interested in was a real place or a rip-off. She could risk ten bucks to find out.

A few days later, the T-shirt arrived. She’d been wearing it under her regular clothes so no one could see. She knew what it meant. It meant she could win.

Kellianne rested her cheeks on her fists and sounded out, silently, the name of the company she was about to e-mail. Mur-der-a-bi-li-a.

It was a funny name, but she’d typed souveneers from murders into her search thing, panicking she’d be stuck with a bunch of stuff she couldn’t get rid of. It turned out to be “souvenirs,” so she’d spelled it wrong, but the Internet found it. As she scrolled through page after online page, she realized she not only wouldn’t be stuck, but that she was sitting on a gold mine.

Murderabilia. She whispered it, trying the word out loud. It seemed like there was a market for what she had. People were buying, like, the weirdest stuff. She leaned into the screen, clicking on the photos. That Unabomber guy’s letters. A lock of Charles Manson’s hair. Gross.

She looked at the teddy bears in the cardboard box at her feet. Next to them, the little rabbit bowl. Thing was, those didn’t belong to the “murderers.” What she had belonged to the victims. Would people buy those things?

She clicked through more photos. A drawing by the Son of Sam. A clown outfit worn by some guy in…

Shit, if people wanted stuff from murder cases, if they were that crazy sick, wouldn’t they just as likely-Souvenirs from murder victims, she typed it right this time. “Victims” was the important part. She clicked. She was right.

“From the New York Post,” said the first article on the list. The headline was, Murder Victim Relics Suddenly Hot.

Then in little letters, “Survivors powerless to stop commerce in notorious…”

She clicked through, trying to get the gist of the article, skipping some of the long words and what looked like boring parts. “The more personal the better,” someone said. “Despicable,” someone else said. Her eyes skidded to a stop at the word: legal.

One forefinger hovering over the screen, she read hard to make sure she didn’t miss anything. In only eight states is the sale of murderabilia prohibited. And those are-She kept reading the list of states, hoping. She could do it whichever way, but sure would be better if it were legal.

Massachusetts was not on the list.

The muscles in her back relaxed, and she looked down at the logo on her T-shirt again. Murderabilia. Freakin’ a.

Besides the bears and the rabbit bowl, she’d taken a candlestick from the Callaberry Street apartment. Silver, probably, which might bring a lot of cash. From the Margolin Street house-which her brothers said the cops were calling a homicide-she’d selected a pale pink silk nightgown and a shiny golden compact with raised flowers on the outside. She’d also snatched a tiny silver-framed photo of what looked like the dead woman and some man. That “personal” gem had been in the bedroom drawer under the nightgown.

Kellianne pulled the framed photo out of the cardboard box, rubbing one finger across the bumpy dots on the silver frame. The guy with her must be the woman’s father. He looked kinda familiar, but shit. He was old. All old people looked alike.

Putting the photo back in the box, she picked up another item she’d gotten last night. Keys with a fancy golden cross on the key chain. She’d taken off the keys, stuffed them under a couch cushion. But the golden cross was so pretty. She held it up to the dim glow of the ceiling light. Her good luck charm.

She saw a little smile reflected in the computer monitor. Well, why not smile? They’d heard nothing on the news about a dead guy in a car. They’d gone back in, gotten their stuff, and sealed some crime scene tape on the door like they’d been instructed.

She clicked to the Web site where she’d ordered the T-shirt.

NO questions asked, the red and black letters promised. She sure as hell hoped not. She reread the instructions on the company’s home page. Do you have items to sell? Click here to register!

“Don’t mind if I do,” Kelliane told the screen. And she clicked.

“Go,” Tuck said, unlatching her seat belt. “I’ll lock up and bring you the-”

Jane was already out of her car. She’d used frantic seconds finding a parking place on Corey Road, even jumped the curb as she wedged her Audi into a too-small spot as close as she could get to her apartment. Half a block away. Damn.

“Thanks,” Jane called over her shoulder. “I’ve got to-” She cut herself off, mid-sentence. It didn’t matter. She had to get inside.

Mom’s jewelry. Her silver. Her photos. Her computer. Her TV. What did people steal? Or were they searching for something else? Or hoping to encounter Jane herself?

Where was Coda?

A black-and-white Brookline Police cruiser, blue light whirling on the roof, seemed quickly abandoned, skewed half on the street, half on the sidewalk. A clump of people hovered on the sidewalk, watching, pointing, speculating. It all barely registered as Jane ran toward her front door. Eli, silhouetted in the open foyer entryway, waved at her, both spindly arms flailing in a too-big orange parka vest.

“They had guns out, Jane!” he called as she got closer. Eli’s puppy-brown eyes were wider than she’d ever seen them, and he grabbed her hand, dragging her inside. “The police had guns and everything, and they told Mom and baby Sam and me to stay out here, and they went upstairs really, really fast, and I heard them yelling really loud, and then they let Mom and baby Sam go back inside, but not me, because they told me to-”

“They had guns?” It mustn’t be anything too awful, Jane reassured herself, if Eli was still here.

“Jane, what on earth?” Mona Washburn came out of her first-floor doorway, a smudge of white flour on her face, wiping her hands on her striped chef’s apron.

“Sorry, Mo, I have no idea, I just got here.” Already halfway up the first flight, Jane clutched the banister, hauling herself up, two steps at a time. Mona was obviously fine, too, cooking as usual, so it seemed like everything was-

“Guns?” she repeated.

Eli, two steps ahead of her, jabbed one forefinger upstairs. “Come on.”

When she arrived at the first landing, a uniformed police officer blocked her way, all elbows and nose, one hand worrying the nightstick looped at her side, the other poised over her holstered gun.

“Ma’am? Are you Jane Ryland, the occupant of unit three?” The officer cocked her head toward the third floor, kept her hands at the ready. Not letting Jane pass. “May I see some identification, please?”

“This is Jane,” Eli stomped one supersized running shoe on the carpeted step, and pointed at the cop. “Like I told you!”

“Yes, ah, officer, ah, thanks, Eli.” Jane patted him on the shoulder, every fraying nerve in her body straining to get past this uniformed obstacle. Fine time to think about security. She scanned the officer’s plastic name badge. “Officer Guerriero. Listen. I’m Jane Ryland, I have my ID right here, I’m trying to dig it out of my bag now, as you see. Can you at least tell me what’s going on?”

“Ma’am?” Patricia Guerriero raised her chin. “We are still securing the scene, so if you would be so kind as to-”

“Jane!” Neena’s head appeared over the wooden railing of the next floor up. Baby Sam’s bright blue cap peeked out of the Snugli slung over his mother’s shoulders. “Officer Guerriero, that’s Jane, I can vouch, and your partner up here says it’s all good, send her up. You recognize her from TV. Right? Jane. Ryland. You know. The reporter.”

Officer Guerriero narrowed her eyes, wary, as if she thought Jane and Neena, and perhaps their nine-year-old accomplice, were trying to pull something sneaky on her.

“Here. See?” Jane waved her driver’s license at the cop, hoping it would allow her to get by this gorgon and into her own damn apartment.

Guerriero studied her license as if there was going to be a test.

Maybe she would panic.

“Officer? Can you tell me? Did someone break into my apartment?”

“She’s showing an ID, sir.” Guerriero ignored Jane, talked into the cigarette-pack radio velcroed to her uniformed shoulder. “Appears in order.”

Jane heard the crackling transmission from upstairs. In about ten seconds she was going to-

“Okay, ma’am. You’re clear.” Guerriero handed back her license and Jane grabbed it, already at full speed. Up the stairs, around the landing, past Neena, and up to the third floor.

Her door was wide open. Wide. Open.

She stood, paralyzed.

Eli grabbed her hand again, and Neena’s arm went across her shoulders.

“You okay, honey?” Neena smelled of baby powder. Sam gurgled, kicked his tiny foot into her side.

“Not so much,” Jane said.

Who’d been in her apartment? Why? Maybe was still inside, hiding. What if Jane had been home, instead of on that excursion with Tuck? Would the person have still come in?

“Miz Ryland?” The upstairs cop stood, arms crossed, in the center of the round oriental rug in her entryway. The top of his billed police hat almost grazed the dangling crystals of her mini-chandelier, and his size alone made Jane feel safer. He could crush the bad guy with one hammy fist.

If there was a bad guy.

“There’s no intruder in your apartment, Miz Ryland. We’ve checked thoroughly, and nothing appears disturbed. Now. We’d like you to take a look around and see whether anything seems out of place, even whether there’s something that’s here now that wasn’t when you-”

The cop’s voice was velvet, soothing, as he went on to describe how he’d checked every closet, every room, every possible hiding place. But now, for some reason Jane’s eyes smarted with tears. She was about to cry? Now? When this hunk of a cop was telling her it was okay?

“But, ma’am?” The officer adjusted the patent leather brim of his hat. “I need to ask you. When you left this morning? Are you certain you locked the door? If so, does anyone else have a key?”