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“No need. I was thinking the same thing myself.”
“Like they thought offing themselves would bring that guy Duffrey back.”
“Have you been following the case?”
“I’m from Cincy, man. It’s on the news all the time.”
“Maybe those two were trying to… I don’t know… make amends.”
“Like in AA?”
“Yes. Like that.”
Here is the rest area. It’s empty, but Trig passes by without slowing. Why would he murder this poor girl when he’s been given this incredible, unexpected gift?
“Suicide is a pretty radical way of making amends.”
“I don’t know,” Trig says. “Guilt can be powerful.” He enters the town of Crooked Creek and pulls into a slant parking space in front of Norm’s Shack. “What about those ribs?”
“Lead me to em,” she says, and holds up a hand. Trig laughs and slaps her five, thinking,You’ll never know how close you came.
They get a booth by the window and chow down on ribs and coleslaw and beans. The girl—her name is Norma Willette—eats like a starving wolf. They split a strawberry shortcake for afters, and then Trig drops her at the Creek, where the sign out front suggests that teens TAKE OFF YOUR WEARY BOOTS AND REST FOR AWHILE.
Norma starts to get out, then looks at him dead in the eye. “I been tryin, man. Honest to God. It’s just so fuckin hard.”
Trig doesn’t have to ask her what she means. He’s been there, done that. “Don’t give up. It gets better.”
She leans in and kisses his cheek. Her eyes shine with tears. “Thank you, man. Maybe God sent you to give me a ride. And a meal. Those ribs were some good.”
Trig watches until she’s safely in the door, then drives away.
8
The two weeping willows in front of the Willow Apartments are dying. The two men on the eighth floor are already dead, having ingestedmonster doses of a drug that will turn out, upon autopsy, to be synthetic Oxy—what’s known among users as the Queen, or the Big Dipper. No one will ever discover which of the dead men purchased it.
Jabari Wentworth was Juror 3 in the Alan Duffrey trial. Ellis Finkel was Juror 5. The apartment where they died was Finkel’s. The two men are in bed together, wearing nothing but underpants. Outside, the sun is sinking toward the horizon. Soon the coroner’s van will take the bodies away. They would have been gone hours ago, if not for the possible link to the Surrogate Juror serial killer case. The investigation is moving with careful deliberation. Lieutenant Warwick and Chief Patmore were both here; so was Ralph Ganzinger of the State Police. All the brass have since departed.
Watching the three-man forensics team (two investigators and a videographer), Izzy Jaynes takes a moment to consider the difference between fact and fiction. In fiction, suicide by overdose is considered the easy way out, often favored by women. Men are more likely to shoot themselves in the head, jump, or use carbon monoxide in a closed garage. In fact, suicide by overdose can be horribly messy as the body fights to stay alive. Ellis Finkel’s lower face, neck, and chest are plated with dried vomit. Jabari Wentworth has shit himself. Both stare at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes, as if considering a purchase of dubious merit.
The sight of them—and the smell of them—aren’t the things that will haunt Izzy as she lies awake in her own apartment that night. Whatwillhaunt her is the waste of them. The note they left behind, signed by both, was simplicity itself:We will be together in the next world.
Bullshit, Izzy thinks.You’re going into the dark, and unaccompanied.
One of them needs to talk some more with Ms. Alicia Carstairs, in 8-B. She found the bodies, was friendly with both men, and understood their “special situation.”
“You do it, Iz,” Tom says. “Woman to woman. I want to go through this place one more time. Especially Finkel’s little studio. But I think it is what it looks like.”
“Not guilt about Duffrey, you mean.”
“Guilt, maybe, but not about him. Go on and talk to the lady. I think she’ll tell you.”
Izzy finds Alicia Carstairs standing outside her apartment door, wringing her hands and looking at the pair of uniformed cops guarding the door to 8-A. Her eyes are red, her cheeks wet with tears. At the sight of Izzy with her badge hung around her neck, she starts crying again.
“He asked me last night if I’d check in on him,” she says. Izzy already has this in her notebook but doesn’t interrupt. “I thought it was work.” She raises her hands. The nails, Izzy notices, are beautiful. Otherwise, she has no idea what Ms. Carstairs is talking about.
“Let’s go into your place,” Izzy says. “Maybe you have coffee? I could use a cup.”
“Yes. Yes! Strong coffee for both of us, what a good idea. I’ll never forget the sight of them. Not if I live to a hundred.”