What Doesn’t Kill Her

Chapter Five

Jordan sat barefoot in the lotus position on the hardwood floor in the middle of her studio apartment. Wearing a plain white T-shirt and gray sweatpants, black hair ponytailed back, eyes shut against the sun filtering through the venetian blinds, she endeavored to clear her mind.

The past two weeks had blurred by, leaving the young woman exhausted, and not just physically. So much had been heaped upon her since seeing that news broadcast in the Dimpna dayroom that she had been able to do little more than simply cope.

Dr. Hurst had been a big help, especially those first few days, going well beyond doctor/patient counseling and group therapy — no denying that — even driving Jordan to see her parents’ attorney.

Family friend Stephen Terrell might have been intimidating with his barrel chest, Brooks Brothers suit, and severe gray-framed glasses. But the warmth of his smile and that sprinkling of salt in his pepper-colored hair made him at once accessible. Of course Jordan remembered him younger, though the twinkle in his brown eyes made him seem like your favorite uncle.

When Jordan had first entered St. Dimpna’s, Terrell had visited frequently, but that trailed off due to her lack of communication. His last visit had been probably eight years ago. Now, as his secretary opened the door for Jordan and gestured her in (Dr. Hurst waiting in the outer office), the attorney beamed in a manner usually reserved for long-separated family members.

It touched Jordan so much that she actually smiled at him.

But when he came around the desk with his arms extended for a hug, she backed away, smile vanishing. The attorney clumsily held out a hand for her to shake, as an alternative, and when she didn’t take it, he clasped his hands at his chest and bowed slightly. Such a big Buddha of man, making that little awkward gesture, made her smile again. Briefly.

“Jordan, wonderful to see you,” he said, as he nodded toward one of his two client chairs. “I think of your folks every single day.” He got himself seated behind his big mahogany desk. “It’s a tragedy that none of us will ever get over.”

What could she say to that?

“But I was thrilled to learn,” he went on, “that you’re out under God’s blue sky again, ready to meet whatever life brings.”

That had a rehearsed sound and she couldn’t compete with it. So she just gave him a curt nod.

He raised his eyebrows, and his smile asserted itself for just a moment before disappearing, as if to say, So much for small talk. Down to business.

Flipping open a waiting folder, he said, “I don’t have to tell you that your parents were good people.”

Then don’t.

“But more than that,” he said, “they were conscientious people. Jordan, you should be proud — your mom and dad, they provided very well for you.”

She said nothing. This was his show.

The attorney’s forehead frowned while his mouth smiled. “Jordan, what I’m trying to say is... you’re a very wealthy young woman.”

Her eyes tensed. “My parents were doing all right, Mr. Terrell. But we sure weren’t rich.”

“Jordan, your father carried extensive life insurance policies on himself, your mother, and both of you kids.”

“News to me.”

“It’s not something he would have talked to you about, not until you were a little older.”

“I was in high school.”

“Your grandfather on your dad’s side died of heart disease in his early sixties. And your grandmother, your dad’s mother, died at fifty-seven of breast cancer. That family history made your father, an insurance man himself, cautious.”

She said nothing.

He plowed on. “With the payouts for your parents and your brother, the interest accrued over the last decade, and the sale of the house—”

She sat forward and sharpness entered her tone. “Our house was sold?”

He swallowed and nodded. “With you in St. Dimpna’s, in a state of mental health that precluded your participation, I — as executor of your parents’ estate — had to act in your best interests. I had no way of knowing when... or even, if... you would ever get out of that hospital.”

“So you sold our house?”

“Maintaining the place was a financial burden you didn’t need. Indicators were that housing values were going down, so I acted while you could still benefit from a relatively friendly marketplace.”

“You sold it.”

He nodded. “At almost twice what your father bought it for. And the mortgage had already been paid off. Your dad had a windfall about fifteen years ago—”

“I can’t go back to my room.”

Do I want to?

“With taxes and insurance, and utilities, Jordan, it was a financial drain. I discussed this with Dr. Hurst and she agreed that the money could be better used for your future, whether in St. Dimpna’s, or... out in the world. And, frankly, I didn’t imagine you would want to go back there.”

“It was our home.”

The intruder had taken their lives. Now added to that was their home.

Terrell looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I apologize if I have done anything that contradicts your wishes. But, frankly... and I mean in no way to be unkind, Jordan... but for two years I came to visit you, and you never made eye contact with me, let alone expressed yourself in words. As someone entrusted, by your father and mother, with your welfare, I had to use my own best judgment.”

Tears were flowing, warm and wet on her cheeks. Damnit!

Terrell opened a drawer, produced a tissue, and half rose to hand it across the expanse of the desk.

“Thank you,” Jordan said, dabbing her cheeks.

“I know this is difficult,” Terrell said. “It’s difficult for me, too. Is it all right to discuss the specifics of your financial situation?”

Jordan nodded.

She had never really thought about having a “financial situation.” Never even wondered who had paid the freight at St. Dimpna’s — the state, she supposed. Now she realized it was more like her parents’ estate.

The attorney, who looked as shaken as she felt, was saying, “Your parents left you in a very comfortable position, monetarily speaking.”

Not really caring, wanting to hurry this up so she could get out of this office and be anywhere else, she asked, “How so?”

“Well,” Terrell said, “your net worth is not quite three million dollars.”

“... What?”

“You heard right, young lady.”

“But how?”

“Mostly insurance,” Terrell said, glancing at the folder on his desk. “A million-dollar policy on your father, half a million on your mother, plus another hundred thousand on James. Just under four hundred thousand, after closing and various other costs, on the sale of the house. The rest is from interest and dividends from existing investments. With no other relatives, it’s all yours now.”

Jordan shook her head slowly. Though the money meant nothing to her — she would gladly trade it to have any one of them back, Dad, Mom, Jimmy — the size of the sum was staggering.

“I would not blame you,” Terrell said, “if you considered me negligent for not maximizing these funds. I am not a financial planner, and your parents obviously could not have anticipated a situation where they would be gone, and you would be hospitalized and out of communication for a decade.”

She stopped listening. He was saying something about having put the funds into CDs at an unfortunately low rate, and how after all this time, her father’s investments would need a hard look from a financial advisor for updating, and that he hadn’t felt he had a right to gamble with her money without her input, and so on and so forth.

“I know it’s a lot to digest,” Terrell said, wrapping up.

“No shit,” she said.

The attorney’s eyes widened. “Ah... a very understandable reaction. I have all the materials here, bank books, stock certificates, everything...” He handed a packet across to her. “... We can go over that now, or—”

“Or later,” she said, getting up. She nodded at him. “Thanks, Mr. Terrell. I’ll do some digesting.”

And try not to choke on the way down.

“Good, Jordan. Thank you. Really glad to see you looking so well. So fine. A regular young woman.”

She was a young woman — that much she knew. Not a girl anymore. Not a high school girl with hopes and dreams, but a woman, a young woman.

Just not a regular one.

Now, still in the lotus position, as she opened her eyes to look around her efficiency apartment, she knew she could live in a condo or a house at least as nice as their old one, but what good would it do? Funny thing was, when she began thinking about the possibilities of a new, nicer, much bigger place, right away she knew that Jimmy would be the perfect guy to help her pick things out and really decorate the place.

Jimmy, who she appreciated a lot more now that he was gone. At St. Dimpna’s, thinking about her family, it was Jimmy who she had missed the most, surprisingly. How she wished she could tell him what a really good older brother he’d been.

But there would be no bigger, better living quarters for her. She had only a GED earned in a mental institution, but she knew how to do this math: the less she spent on herself, the more she’d have to track down the killer of her family.

Dr. Hurst had helped her find this simple single-room apartment, not far from St. Dimpna’s. Blue-collar, ethnically diverse, the historic Ohio City district was far removed from her experiences in suburban Westlake. She might have been dropped on Mars. But she had already adjusted.

Getting this apartment meant she was an easy walk from St. Dimpna’s — she not only had no driver’s license, she hadn’t even finished driver’s ed yet when her life was yanked out from under her. This way, she would be close to her support group, and Kara.

The white-walled apartment was as spare as it was small, its kitchen little more than one wall with a few cupboards, an apartment-sized refrigerator, a small stove, a minuscule microwave, a single well sink, and a black-topped table with two chairs. This galley setup should be more than sufficient. Her mom had been a terrific cook, and Jordan had picked some of it up; but her menu would be salads and fresh fruit supplanted by microwave and boiling-bag cuisine.

The wall opposite was home to a laptop computer (the newly rich girl’s first major purchase), which — with its Internet connection — was the closest thing to a luxury in her monk-like existence... and even that was a tool for her investigation.

Under the windows, near the door to the tiny bathroom, a mattress and box spring crouched on the floor. She would never ever hide under another bed.

No television, no radio, no pictures on the wall. The only personal item was a photo of her family on a small plastic table near the head of the bed where it shared space with an LED alarm clock. An artist’s sketch pad on the dining table rested next to a box of colored pencils.

She had always been good at sketching. In another life, drawing had been a release, a simple pleasure — now it was a skill to be utilized. Just this morning, she had begun drawing. When she was finished, she would have a distributable picture of the man she sought. Recalling him vividly was not difficult — those ten years could be blinked away.

The alarm clock beeped. She uncurled, rose, and strode over to turn it off. Two hours until her next meeting with the Victims of Violent Crime. Funny — she would have expected a politically correct euphemism for the group — Survivors’ Support Group maybe. As if they’d all been on a dumb reality TV show and got voted off.

No, somebody at Dimpna’s, maybe Dr. Hurst, understood that what she had been through, what David and Phillip and the rest had experienced, would not be soothed by soft language.

Just enough time to dress, get to St. Dimpna’s, then visit Kara beforehand. Normally, she would walk, but today, she would take her little green-and-white Vespa scooter (her other big investment), the only thing she could legally drive to get around. That way she could spend some extra time with Kara.

In the week since her first group meeting, Jordan’s existence had been almost as silent as before she’d seen that newscast. She left the apartment only to go to the grocery store. Her kung fu exercises were a twice-daily routine.

This was a self-taught, largely self-created form of martial arts training built upon what she’d learned five years ago from a Chinese kid who’d had some kind of breakdown. On his road to recovery, he shared with her what he called “the beneficial health maintenance” of Tai Chi. No one at Dimpna’s had objected, because she and her friend — one of the few friends she’d cultivated other than Kara — were really just pursuing an alternative form of exercise.

Upon this she had built a self-defense system amplified by books and videos she’d been able to obtain through inter-library loan. Whether its application would be practical or not remained to be seen.

Her modified Tai Chi and yoga kept her centered and calm. She had a goal and was working toward it. She was, however, wrestling with the contradictory nature of two promises — one to Dr. Hurst that she would participate in group, and the other to herself — that she would never tell the intruder’s story.

She would not give her attacker that satisfaction, even in the relatively private forum of the support group. Still, Jordan felt that she owed Dr. Hurst something. She had promised to talk, but about what? This distracting thought was not enough to interfere with her mission, and merely provided a backdrop to her digging.

The Google search started simply enough, Jordan typing the phrase family murdered. That got her eight million hits, some of which had mentions of her family. Adding quotation marks narrowed the scope to 731,000, but by adding the phrase Cleveland, Ohio she knocked the total down to zero. Removing the quotes sent the total back up to over six million. Two steps forward, one step back...

Her Net search was less a simple linear progression and more a process. Each step was more about trying something that got her more information without overwhelming. In this endeavor, patience wasn’t just a virtue, but a necessity. And it had been a slow go, at first, since she’d had no access to computers at St. Dimpna’s, and had to get computer literate on her own and in a hurry.

She hadn’t read any of the copious Internet stories about her family — she just couldn’t make herself go there. Not yet. That would be easy enough to track and no doubt there was information that would be new to her. She had no knowledge of the police investigation. Just an intimate acquaintance with what had happened in that house on that night...

And, so far, there was precious little information online about the newscast murders, the slain family in Strongsville. She had learned the names of the family members, but not much else.

Looking into the Elkins case gave her an uneasy feeling — David had shared the tragedy with the group last week, freely; but as Jordan read articles from the Plain Dealer and other Internet sources, she felt somehow that she was invading his privacy, viewing pictures of his wife Belle and daughter Akina.

Belle had been a beautiful African-American woman, and — though Jordan had never heard of her — was evidently a well-known writer herself.

Jordan could see similarities between the crimes, but not between her family and the Elkinses’. The writer was almost wealthy, the family lived in a different part of the metro area, the couple only had the one child (although Mrs. E. had been pregnant), and Akina had been much younger than either Jimmy or Jordan.

When Jordan entered the disinfectant-scented sunroom, Kara was already sitting on the couch.

As they bumped fists, Jordan said, “You’re looking good, girl. Healthy, even.”

“You, too.”

Jordan shrugged. “Stepped up the workouts a little, but what’s your excuse?”

Kara yawned, stretched, fists clenched, giving Jordan a glimpse of her friend’s scarred wrists. “Haven’t been having nightmares lately.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah. Haven’t dreamed about my stepfather fucking me for weeks now. Just him trying to fuck me.”

“Well, it’s a start.”

“Plus, I’ve been talking to Dr. Hurst. Doubled up on the sessions. Kind of... opening up a little. You must be a good role model.”

“A role model for opening up? Maybe not.”

Kara lifted a lecturing forefinger. “ ‘The secret to life is not surviving the storm, but learning to dance in the rain.’ ”

“This is the kind of bullshit Dr. Hurst is telling you?”

Kara shook her head. “Fortune cookie. They ordered takeout for us last night, special treat. Kinda seemed like good advice. How is your rain dance goin’?”

“If you mean me and Mr. Google, I’m mostly getting my toes stepped on.”

“How so?”

She told Kara about the first meeting of the group and how afterward she had added the Elkins case to the Net search mix.

Kara frowned. “You aren’t reading up on your own case?”

“No. That’ll come.”

“Okay, baby steps, I get it. But look how you’re limiting yourself, honey.”

“I just got out,” Jordan said defensively.

“Yeah, I remember. Who sprinkled the Dimpna Dust on who, anyway? Have you talked to this Elkins dude yet?”

“No.”

“Well, you must know that everything the cops have on a crime like that isn’t gonna be on the web. They always hold back some shit. Like maybe they’re working on how these two family killings are linked.”

Jordan frowned in thought. “I guess that is something they might keep back.”

“Damn straight. So the only place you might find out what the cops already know is—”

“By talking to them?”

“The cops? Hell no!”

“Oh.” Jordan nodded. “Elkins, you mean.”

“Actually, there’s one other place.”

“Yeah?”

Kara tapped a finger on Jordan’s forehead. “You, sweetie. How long have we known each other? And you never talked about what happened. Granted, you were playing mime games most of the time.”

“Mime games. Bad joke.”

“Good advice, though. Comparing notes with Elkins? Couldn’t that maybe get you someplace?”

“You mean... those similarities between the cases that the cops held back?”

“Like they say in the geezer wing, bingo! Plus, it might jar some stuff loose from the back of both your brains.”

“Huh?”

Kara shook her head and her pink-and-blue bangs bobbed. “It’s like my therapy with Dr. Hurst. Some things that I remembered, I only thought I remembered. When the doc and me started digging into it, she found what she called false memories.”

“Yeah?”

“It was my mind trying to protect me from something even worse than what I remembered.”

Jordan shook her head, once. “Believe me. I’m not doing that.”

Kara held her hands up, and the scars showed again. “Okay, but the only way to really find out is to start looking at what’s going on under all that black hair.”

Jordan’s eyes tightened. “Trust me, Kara, I know enough already.”

“You think so? You’re probably right.”

Jordan forced a smile as she got to her feet. “Appreciate the advice. Gotta get to group. I was late last week.”

Kara ignored that, looking up at her, a child with an old woman’s eyes. “Why did you suddenly want to get out of here? What made you finally break your... your vow of silence?”

Jordan pointed toward the nearest door and spoke evenly, softly, wanting no one but her friend to hear. “There’s a monster out there killing families. And if I don’t find him, and stop him, he’ll kill again and again.”

“You’re gonna stop him.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re gonna... kill him?”

“Oh yeah.”

Kara studied her for the longest time. “Nothing means more to you.”

“Nothing.”

“Honey, it sounds to me like you haven’t really broken that silence at all. Time to look back, and speak up. To yourself.”

“... Not that easy.”

“Hey, it’ll be easier on you than the next family that butcher singles out.”

Then Kara bolted to her feet and hugged her friend, so quickly there wasn’t anything Jordan could do about it. Then Kara was gone from the sunroom, as if Jordan were the one still imprisoned here.

Glancing at a wall clock, Jordan realized she really was almost late, and headed downstairs, fast as she could without running. When she arrived at the classroom-like space, most of the group was already seated. Luckily for her, David Elkins was still over by the coffee urn, chatting with last week’s late arrival. What was that kid’s name?

Levi, Dr. Hurst had called him. Like last week, the youngish man wore jeans and the holey Chuck Taylors. This time, the Hives were in for the Foo Fighters on his T-shirt, while the thriller writer had exchanged a black polo for last week’s navy one.

As she approached, Jordan ignored the younger man, hoping he would take the hint and buzz off, and said, “Mr. Elkins — I just wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss.”

He gave her a slight nod. “And I’m sorry for your loss, too. We all have that in common here. Expressions of sympathy are appreciated, but not required.”

Jordan wasn’t sure how to interpret that — had she committed another breach of protocol?

Still, she risked saying to him, “If you don’t mind, Mr. Elkins, when we’re through here? Might I have a moment of your time?”

“Certainly. And it’s David.”

She nodded. “And Jordan, please. I would like to talk to you.”

Levi, who hadn’t taken the hint, interjected, “And I’d like to talk to you, Jordan.”

Spinning to the guy, she said, “Really, jackass? Lookin’ for a date at group therapy? Pathetic.”

David stepped between them.

“It... it’s not like that,” the young man said.

Her teeth were bared. “You just keep your distance or we’re going to have a problem.”

David, still standing between them, held up a hand like a referee and said to her, “It really isn’t like that.”

“Jordan,” Levi said gently, a little afraid but summoning strength, “there’s no problem, really. I’m gay, all right?”

David turned to her and his eyes held hers. “Levi wants to talk to you for the same reason I want to talk to you... and you want to talk to me. His family was murdered, too.”

“Everything okay over there?” Dr. Hurst called from her seat in the circle.

“Just fine,” David said. “We were just making plans for some after-group socializing.”

“Well then,” the doctor said, “if you’ll join us, we can get started.”

Jordan turned her back to David, and to Levi, to the whole group. Flushed, she worked to hold back tears. She had just unleashed some of her rage on some poor gay kid, who, like her brother Jimmy, had already suffered way enough shit in his life. What was wrong with her?

Like she didn’t know.

She turned to the refreshment table, selected a chocolate chip cookie and a napkin, and went over and took the seat next to Levi. She gave him the World’s Record smallest smile and a nod that was smaller than that. And he grinned and nodded back.

David was next to her on the right. Across the way, Dr. Hurst was flanked by Phillip and an attractive but dowdily dressed middle-aged redhead — the woman who’d come in with David last week.

Glancing around the circle, Dr. Hurst asked, “Who would like to start this time?”

No one said a word.

Turning to the redhead, Dr. Hurst asked, “Kay?”

Before Kay could speak, Jordan heard herself say, “I’m Jordan Rivera, and I’d like to talk about what happened to my family.”