Envy (24 page)

Another article highlighted the joint memorial service held at Port Gamble’s church.

She recognized Kevin Ryan in one of the photos.

Finally
, she thought, as her eyes scanned the computer screen and the next article. The names of the survivors.

The last site Moira visited was one called Kitsap Kalamities, a forum devoted to—as its banner indicated—“happenings of the rotten kind, right here in our own twisted backyard.”

There was nothing really new on the site. In fact, after skimming it, it was apparent that all of the content had been copied and pasted from other websites. Moira sniffed at that. It was the fate of journalism today.
Why do any legwork when you can just cut and paste?
Not her. Not Moira. She was going to do whatever it took to create something original. Notice-worthy. Star-making. And if her tip paid off, the Ryan girls were going to get her just where she needed to be.

Kitsap Kalamities was created by someone named Maxi Taxi using a Word Press blog. Moira clicked on the comments field and scrolled through the missives people posted, mostly of the “that sucks” or “your blog is Maxi Stupid” ilk. A few were more thoughtful.

One was very, very intriguing.

Scary? Different? Babies?
Moira looked at the name of the online commenter. Sweet Data File 31. She typed it into Google, figuring that whoever used that handle had done so on more than one blog. Finding a person on the Internet was no different than going door to door asking for one little piece of information at a time. She likened it to digital legwork. One thing always led to another.

Moira sipped the dregs of her sparkling water and twisted the top of its understudy. She tipped it back and drank while her eyes studied the results of her search.

Sweet Data File 31 also posted on “More Than Words,” a site about slanguage and how words are evolving faster than ever.

Comments were closed on that site, so Moira moved on.

As the hands on the clock whirred around on her computer, which searched for more Sweet Data File 31 entries, the thought filled Moira’s brain:
What’s scary? Does it have to do with something I have been leaked?

A farm-to-table site popped up, and its feature article, “Our Valley Is Green,” was local, from the Kitsap Peninsula.

Moira thought about it a moment and then posted a follow-up comment on the same thread.

She added her e-mail address and waited. She figured anyone lonely or self-righteous enough to post a comment like Sweet Data did would answer her comment. People like that always wanted to be in the paper. It was only a matter of time.

She looked over at the TV and saw that the chef was making some deep-fried apple dumplings. They looked so good she could feel her stomach trying to eat itself. She got up, went to the freezer, pulled out two Lean Cuisines (Butternut Squash Ravioli and Apple Cranberry Chicken), and headed for her aunt’s obnoxiously large microwave.

Next, she looked up Sandra Berkley’s number. She’d waited long enough to make the call. With the microwave beeping that her meal was ready, Moira quickly left a voice-mail message.

“Mrs. Berkley, Moira Windsor calling from the
Herald
. I’m a friend of Kevin Ryan’s and I’m working on a feature story about the ten-year anniversary of the Hood Canal crash and its aftermath. Of course, my heart goes out to you because of your recent loss. I’d like to talk to you for my story.”

Satisfied that she’d sounded kind, authentic, and deeply concerned, she ended the call with her phone number.

I was made for this job
, she thought as she pierced a piping hot piece of cranberry chicken with a fork.
Just made for it.

chapter 37

SANDRA BERKLEY HAD TAKEN HER LAST DRINK. There was no point in it anymore. She went around the house and collected the partial-empties from their assorted hiding places. She recovered a bottle of vodka from under a stack of old towels on the bottom shelf of the linen closet. She found two—rum and whisky—in the pantry behind the basmati rice bag that she’d purchased in bulk and doubted she’d ever use up.

There were six bottles in total, and she took them to the sink and poured out the remnants of each one until nothing remained.

Katelyn was gone. Harper was next door at the restaurant. She sat down and wrote out a letter. It was something that she’d wanted to do for almost ten years.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she finished and signed her name. She folded the slip of paper and put it into an envelope.

IT WAS AFTER SIX THIRTY WHEN KIM LEE finished her work in the mill office and began her precise and ritualistic practice of tidying up her desk. That was just how she was. Always the same, every day. Kim kept most things in order. As an accountant, that pretty much was her job. She closed her drawers, turned the locks, and got up to leave. In doing so, she noticed a small envelope in her in-basket. It had been addressed to her, care of the mill.

She used the letter opener that Beth had made in middle school, a red Plexiglas shark with a menacing jaw that cut through paper like a razor.

Kim started reading, and before she was finished, she was on her way out the door. Beth always complained that her mother was a slowpoke. If she’d seen her right then, she’d never dare to make that claim again. Kim’s winter coat was left in the employee break room, but despite the cold wind off the water she didn’t even notice. Four minutes later, she was pounding on her neighbor’s front door.

“Open up!” Kim cried. “Please!”

No answer.

Kim went around the house, looking into the windows. The lights were on, but she couldn’t see anyone home, yet she was sure Sandra had to be there or at the restaurant. Sandra’s car was parked in back.

“Please! We need to talk!” Kim called out as she pounded her fist on the back door.

Footsteps! Good.
Sandra hadn’t done anything stupid. At least, not yet.

Finally, the door opened. Sandra Berkley stood in the doorway, her eyes outlined in red and her face blotchy. Her hands trembled as she let Kim Lee inside. She didn’t say a word at first. Instantly, she started sobbing—uncontrollably so.

“Sit down, Sandra,” said Kim, who was crying now too.

“I’m sorry,” Sandra said, “I couldn’t live with it any longer. I’ve never forgotten the screams.”

“I know,” Kim said, her own eyes welling with tears. “We all know.”

“I heard Christina cry out for me as the bus started to sink. I just stood there. I didn’t know what to do.”

“You were in shock.”

Sandra fought for some composure, but it was a losing battle. “I didn’t even try. I just …”

“No one blames you,” Kim said.

“I blame myself. I know what I did and didn’t do. I know how I felt after.”

Kim wrapped her arms around Sandra’s shoulders as she tried to console her. The sobs came in waves. Sandra tried to speak in the breaks between her tears.

“I was glad, Kim,” she said. “I was glad that Katelyn survived. I stood there listening to the screams, knowing that I had my daughter and that she was hurt but she was alive. She was going to live. And for what? She’s gone now too.”