The results came up empty—no court proceedings, marriage, no death.
I ran a few other searches until I was satisfied the two Melissas I was tracking remained the most promising.
Nine o’clock arrived. I ran two pretexts in my mind for the phone call to Melissa in Gilroy. Which scenario I used would depend on the sound of the answering voice. I picked up the phone to dial—and saw my hands shake.
Stupid. I’d done plenty of these calls in the past.
But my own safety had never before depended on finding a skip.
I replaced the phone, took a drink from the water bottle. Massaged my fingers. When I was sure my voice wouldn’t tremble, I dialed the number.
The third ring cut off in the middle. “Hello.” An older woman, certainly not in her younger twenties.
“Hi, my name is Mary Sawyer. I’m trying to find the florist Melissa Harkoff—who owns Bluefly Flowers and Gifts in Gilroy?”
“Yes, that’s me.” Her voice sounded pleasant, patient. It fit with the picture on her website. I felt myself relax a little.
“Oh, hi. Sorry to call you at home. I’m in the area and I need a bouquet for an event tomorrow morning. I saw from your website that you open at ten. If I came down then, would I be able to have something made up at your shop right away?”
“Sure. As long as you’re a little flexible and I can use things on hand.”
“No problem. Thanks so much, I appreciate your time. I’ll see you then.” I paused, then chuckled. “There’s another Melissa Harkoff in San Jose—do you know her? I almost called her first. Glad I didn’t.”
“Really? No, I don’t know her. No relation to me.”
Not surprising news. “Well, thanks again.”
I hung up and slumped back in my chair with a sigh. My heart beat too hard. But I’d done it. One lead eliminated.
On to the next.
A door slammed outside. I jerked toward the window. In my peripheral vision I caught movement in my driveway. I leaned forward, peering through the blinds.
Baxter Jackson headed toward my front door.
NINETEEN
JUNE 2004
Halfway down the Jacksons’ hardwood stairs, Melissa stopped to erase all suspicion and righteous indignation from her face.
From the kitchen wafted sounds of Linda. Making breakfast for her man.
Mouth firmed, Melissa continued on down.
Linda was fork-whipping eggs in a bowl. She stood at the counter by the refrigerator, her back to Melissa. Dressed in designer jeans and a satiny blue top.
Melissa padded up to the counter to stand on her right. “Good morning.”
“Oh!” Linda gasped, her fork halting midair. “Melissa. Hi.” She did not turn her head. “What are you doing up so early?”
Melissa examined her profile. Linda had already applied makeup for the day. Her one visible cheek looked normal. Melissa shrugged. “Just…couldn’t sleep, I guess. You want some help?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” Linda sidestepped to her left and placed the fork in the sink. She turned away from Melissa and busied herself at the cabinet beneath the cook-top island. Pans banged. She straightened, a small skillet in hand. With utmost concentration she placed it on a burner and turned on the gas. Reached for a spatula in the island’s top drawer and used the utensil to cut a slab of soft butter from a nearby dish. The butter went into the pan. She would not look at Melissa.
The
Melissa moved to the cabinet of plates and pulled one out. Selected a fork from the silverware drawer. “Here.” She set them on the counter beside the cook top.
Linda glanced her direction. Her eyes looked red. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” Melissa eased back to lean against the tile. Waiting. When the butter heated up, Linda would have to turn around for the whipped eggs.
Linda moved the butter around with the corner of the spatula. A hand-painted clock on the wall ticked in the silence. Melissa thought of her mother and all the heavy silences that had hung between them. Some angry, some despairing, some so full of Melissa’s will to not care that they practically dripped defensiveness on the floor. If you took all those moments and strung them end to end you’d have a lifetime. Melissa’s life.
“Hand me that bowl, would you?” Linda’s head moved slightly. She shuffled left as if to force Melissa to her right. But Melissa crossed behind to her other side. She set the bowl down, throwing a look at Linda’s cheek. Linda raised her hand, pretending to smooth hair away from that side of her face. But too late. Melissa saw reddened skin, in the shape of fingers.
She stepped away, then sauntered toward the table and sprawled into a chair. “So. What’re we going to do today?” She glanced at the newspaper, upside down to her.
Linda poured the whipped mixture into her pan. Sizzling arose, and the smell of eggs and butter. “I’m going to plan a dinner party for Saturday night.” Her voice lilted, ever so light. “Maybe you can help.”
“I thought we were going to see some play on Saturday.”
“Oh.” Linda raised a shoulder. “I asked some friends about it, and they didn’t have very good things to say. I just think you’d be bored.”
Melissa ran her tongue across her top lip. “How many people are coming? To your party, I mean.”
“I haven’t decided that yet.”
“Oh. Who are you thinking of inviting?”
“Haven’t decided that either. I’ll do that today.” Linda moved to the refrigerator and pulled out a container of orange juice.
If there had been one thing more prevalent in Melissa’s past life than silence, it would be the lies. So many lies. The world was a wretched place to navigate when you didn’t know false from real.
Melissa curled her fingers around the edge of the wooden table. “Think maybe the Weekses will come?”
“Probably not.” Linda grasped the pan’s handle and tipped it one way, then the other.
“I thought Joanne’s your best friend.”
“She is. But this dinner’s more for Baxter’s business associates.”
“You like doing that? Putting on business dinners for him?”
“Oh, it’s great. I love it.”
Not once had Linda looked up from her work. In a crazy second Melissa imagined herself stomping over to Linda, pointing at her reddened cheek. Screaming at her to “Stop lying!” Instead she sat in the chair, jaw working back and forth.
One truth about the world? If something looks too good to be true, it probably is. How naive she’d been.
Melissa focused on her pink nails. Linda had taken her to a beauty salon yesterday, and they’d both had manicures. Melissa’s nails looked so perfect. Long and painted, with flowers on her ring fingers. But her nails weren’t perfect. They were fake.
Linda concentrated on the omelet, carefully folding it over with the spatula. “There.” With a satisfied smile she flicked off the gas burner.
As if an omelet would change what had just happened in her bedroom.
Melissa rose and pushed the chair up to the table—just so, like she’d found it. Her eyes burned, but her insides burned more. How bad would this get once the Jacksons got tired of doing their “marriage made in heaven” thing? Would Baxter end up hitting her too?
