Somebody I Used to Know (13 page)

If she were my daughter or sister or friend, wouldn’t I want as many people as possible to celebrate her life?

*   *   *

But once I was in the hotel room, I reconsidered. I felt more like an outsider, an intruder, than anything else, so I passed on the viewing and resolved to go back home the next morning. I ordered a hamburger from room service and watched a basketball game on TV. While I chewed and stared at the running and dribbling men on the screen, I wondered what Andrew was doing, and if he missed watching the games with me, or if he was content to watch with Dale Somners, the comfortable, easygoing guy in the Eastland polo shirt.

*   *   *

In the morning, I walked Riley around the back of the parking lot, letting him sniff every lamppost and car tire he could find. When I returned to the hotel, I saw a stack of local papers in the lobby. And on the front page of every one of them was a photo of Emily Russell underneath the headline
SAYING GOOD-BYE
.
Once I saw her face again, even just a picture, I knew I had to go to the church, and that’s how I ended up squeezed into the pew, my tie pinching my freshly shaved throat, my suit jacket riding up behind me.

Here, unlike at Marissa’s funeral, I remained clearheaded, noticing every detail. The somber organ music. The colored light streaming through the stained-glass windows. The devastated looks on the faces of Emily’s parents, who shambled behind their daughter’s coffin like shell-shocked refugees. They stared straight ahead, tears streaking their cheeks.

A lot of young people sat scattered throughout the church, classmates and friends of Emily’s, and during the quiet moments, when the music and the voices stopped, sniffles echoed throughout the cavernous building. My father had died five years earlier after a long illness, and my mom died not long after. I was prepared for their deaths well in advance, and while it affected me profoundly, I also saw it as part of the natural order of things. Children outlive their parents. Older people die. That’s the way the world worked.

Even at my own parents’ funerals I didn’t feel the same emotional pull as I did at Emily’s. I didn’t cry, but the sadness pushed against the inside of me, clawing to get out, and I bit back on it so no one would wonder who the strange man blubbering by himself in the back of the church was. I’d had enough attention drawn to me over the past few days. I didn’t need any more. And neither did the Russells.

For the most part, the priest avoided mention of the circumstances of Emily’s death. He spoke in general terms about the loss of a young life, about the promise that had been cut short by her loss. He reminded those who knew her—a statement that excluded me, of course—that Emily lived on inside all of us, that we carried her with us everywhere we went.

Only at the end of the homily did he make passing reference to the murder. He told us that while life on earth could sometimes seem terribly unfair, in God’s kingdom justice was always delivered.

His words gave me a cold chill.

And for some reason I felt like everyone in the church was staring at me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

W
ith the rest of the mourners, I trudged across the sickly brown grass to the graveside service, dodging the tombstones, watching where I stepped on the uneven ground. The weather had turned cooler as the morning progressed, and the rising wind cut through my light overcoat and poked at my body.

Again, I stayed near the back, letting people who had really known Emily have the prime spots closer to the grave. When the priest spoke, his words barely reached me, most of them carried away on the wind. I scanned the crowd, looking for . . . I didn’t know what. A familiar feature? A hint that would help me understand my connection to Emily Russell’s life and death?

No matter how many faces I saw, most of the heads bowed in prayer and meditation, I didn’t see anything that told me what I needed to know.

When the service ended, the priest announced that everyone was invited back to the Russells’ house to continue to celebrate Emily’s life. I knew I wasn’t going. Riley waited in the hotel room, and I needed to get back to my life and quit lingering on the edges of someone else’s. I started walking to my car.

“A hell of a thing, isn’t it?” a voice asked.

I turned. A woman about ten years older than me waited for my response. She looked a little rough around the edges—frizzy gray hair, crooked glasses—not at all like Emily’s parents, and she held a balled-up tissue in her hand, which she used to take occasional swipes at her nose. She wore white sneakers and black pants. Her heavy winter coat was zipped up to just below her chin.

I didn’t know what to say. Did anyone know the right words at a funeral?

“It is,” I said, acknowledging the universal awfulness of Emily’s death.

“She was such a beautiful girl,” the woman said. She held her hand out to me, the one that wasn’t holding the dirty tissue. “I’m Margie Rhineback, a cousin of Emily’s mom’s.”

“Nick.”

She stared at me expectantly. Then I understood what she wanted.

“I’m a friend of the family,” I said.

Margie nodded. “I hadn’t seen Emily since she was a little girl, but her mom used to send a Christmas card and letter every year. She always included a picture of the whole family, and I watched Emily grow up that way. I live over in Paducah. That’s three hours away. I just can’t imagine what they’re going through now. Are you heading back to the house?”

“I have to get on my way,” I said. “I’m from out of town.”

“Well, I’m going over there,” she said. “I just have to tell them all how sorry I am.”

We reached the road where our cars were parked. Doors opened and engines started, everyone eager to get out of the cold wind. But Margie seemed to want to talk more, and I just wanted to get away.

“It was nice meeting you,” I said. “Even though the circumstances are awful.”

“You know what I keep thinking about?” she asked. “Ever since they found that poor girl dead in that filthy motel room?”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I think about what her parents went through to get her.”

My hands were stuffed into the deep pockets of my coat, and I pulled it tighter around my body. “What do you mean? What did they go through to get her?”

Margie’s eyes opened wider. “You must not have known them that long.”

“I guess not,” I said.

“Why, they tried for years to get pregnant, and they just couldn’t. Believe me, they spent a lot of money on fertility treatments. They tried every trick in the book.”

“And it worked eventually?” I asked. “Apparently?”

Margie shook her head. “No, it didn’t. They were on a waiting list for years, and then it finally came through. That beautiful little baby girl. Emily was adopted.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“A
dopted?” I asked.

“You didn’t know that?” Margie asked.

“To be honest, I don’t know the family that well.”

Margie looked at me suspiciously, but she let it pass. We were stopped between two headstones, one of them decorated with a bouquet of cheap yellow flowers and the other unadorned.

“Did they adopt her when she was an infant?” I asked.

“They were living down in Tennessee then.” She lowered her voice, as though one of the sleeping dead beneath our feet might hear what she had to say. “As I understand it, they paid quite a bit of money. And then they adopted Kate as well.”

I must have worn a blank look on my face because Margie felt compelled to explain.

“Kate,” she said. “Emily’s sister.”

“Right. Of course.”

“You
don’t
know them very well, do you?” Margie said.

“I bet you’re in a hurry to get back to the house and see the family,” I said. “I’m sure they appreciate you being here to support them.”

“I try.”

“Can I ask you just one more thing?” I waited for Margie to object, but she didn’t. She waited patiently while the wind picked up and ruffled her hair. “Do you have any idea if Emily ever met her birth parents? Did she know who they are?”

Margie shrugged beneath the bulk of her parka. “I haven’t a clue.” She kicked at the ugly grass with her right foot. “But I’m not sure I would know something that intimate about the family. Like I said, it’s been a number of years.” She shrugged again. “Isn’t it awful the way it takes things like this to bring people closer together? I mean, here we all are, and we’re family, and we could get together anytime we wanted, but it takes someone’s death to make it happen.”

“You’re right. But I think most families are like that.”

“It’s sad,” she said. “All of it.”

Above us, the clouds shifted, and the sun broke through for just a moment. Margie raised her hand to her eyes, shielding her vision from the glare. I followed her line of sight and saw a crowd of people clustered around Emily’s parents and sister, hugging them and wishing them well.

“So you’re not coming back to the house?” Margie asked.

“I have to get home,” I said. “My dog is waiting for me in the hotel. If I stayed away another few hours, he might actually notice I was gone.”

“I’m going home tomorrow,” she said.

I reached out and shook Margie’s cold hand. “Thanks, Margie. I’m sorry we met under these circumstances.”

Margie nodded. “I know what you mean. I really know what you mean.”

*   *   *

I sat in my car while the small crowd pressed around the Russell family. I felt certain the family was eager to get out of the cold and back to their house, where they could talk more easily with relatives and friends. I remembered how desperate and miserable I had felt at Marissa’s funeral. We didn’t go to the graveside for her. Instead we all packed into a small chapel on the cemetery grounds and stood around staring at the shroud-draped casket.

But I needed help believing that nightmare was real. I wanted to throw open the lid and see her, to somehow try to face and accept the reality of what had happened.

The cold of the car brought me back to the present just then. I leaned forward and placed both of my hands on the steering wheel, even though the car wasn’t turned on yet. I needed heat and warmth, but something prevented me from moving or stirring.

Emily was adopted. And she looked exactly like Marissa.

I knew that many, many babies were given up for adoption every year. Being adopted in and of itself didn’t make Emily Russell unique. But couple that with her resemblance to Marissa and her apparent desire to locate me, and . . .

As Laurel had pointed out, though, Emily was born months after Marissa died. So how did any of it add up?

How?

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

T
he crowd around the Russells was finally breaking up, so I started the car and put it in gear. I had exaggerated when I told Margie that Riley wouldn’t notice I was gone. He would. He always acted happy to see me, as though he was counting the minutes until I returned home. I knew he didn’t really count, that time wasn’t the same for him as it was for me. But I think he really did miss me, and I felt bad about leaving him in a strange place for an extended period of time.

I started moving forward, slowly. There were people on both sides of the little road through the cemetery, talking in small groups and getting into their cars, hugging and commiserating. I knew none of them, so I rolled on by, trying not to interfere with their grief.

On my left, I saw two clusters of people. There were four mourners in one group and five in the next. Middle-aged, well-dressed. I gave them a quick look.

In the daylight between them at a short distance, I saw a woman striding away from the service, head down, moving quickly. The way she walked, her posture . . . it struck the same chord in me as the night in the grocery store when I saw Emily. The familiarity was too much, too powerful.

She had red hair, thick and pulled back. I’d know her anywhere.

“Marissa!”

I hit the brakes. Hard.

The car stopped, and my body kept going, snapping my head forward and then back, the seat belt restraining me even though I hadn’t been going more than twenty miles an hour.

I put the car in park and unbuckled, fumbling for the door handle. I looked up one more time, and I saw the woman—
Marissa?
—moving farther and farther away. As I pushed the door open, a horn honked behind me.

I turned around. A car sat right behind mine, and it wasn’t just any car. It was the police cruiser that had escorted the funeral procession from the church to the cemetery. I saw the officer behind the driver’s seat, the rack of lights on top. At first, I thought he wanted to question me about Emily again, but then the cop pointed at me, his hand encased in a black leather glove, and he made a shooing gesture, telling me to get out of the way.

The people to my left, the ones who had originally caught my attention, were staring at me, probably wondering who the idiot was who had decided to stop his car in the middle of the tiny cemetery road.

“Shit,” I said.

I pulled the door shut again and put the car in drive. I twisted the wheel to the right and quickly eased over to the side of the road, my tires crunching the already dead grass. I turned the car off and waited. The police cruiser eased past me, and as it did, the officer turned his large head in my direction, his giant aviator sunglasses making his face look like an insect’s.

I pushed the door of my car open and stepped out into the road.

I hustled in the direction I had seen the woman walking, moving through the two groups standing on the side of the road. A few of the people looked at me as I passed, their heads swiveling to follow me, but I didn’t care.

For a moment, I lost sight of her. The road where my car was parked, the main one through the cemetery, intersected another road just about fifty feet past where Emily’s service was held, and that’s where I saw the woman I was looking for. She was on that other road, a good seventy-five feet from my spot, and she was opening the door of a car and getting inside.