“I was just trying to find something on your friend’s death and all this sh . . . popped up.” Harley handed over the phone.
Jamie scrolled through the article. A local reporter had clearly pulled archives on the two babysitter deaths that had occurred around the same time as Emma’s attack. Emma’s name was published, along with a sketchy but lurid account of someone sneaking into the house, catching her unawares, and then silencing her screams with a knife. No one knew exactly what had happened at the Ryerson house that night but this reporter wrote as if he’d been there. There was mention of Emma’s head hitting the mantel and her compromised cognitive state “that affects every moment of her life.”
Jamie’s blood boiled. “It’s this kind of half-truth bullshit that drives me insane,” she hissed. “He doesn’t know Emma. He doesn’t know what she’s like, what she’s been through. She’s just a story to him! And those two other deaths? One was definitely an accident and the other one was by her boyfriend, according to the victim’s dad.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Besides rip this guy a new one?”
“You’re not going to do that.” Harley gave her a come-on, look.
“I know. I want to, but I know I won’t. I just want the truth to come out.” Jamie thought about it for a minute, knowing she was too upset to think straight, but not caring. “Maybe I should ask Emma.”
“About that night?” Harley asked in surprise. “She doesn’t remember. You told me she doesn’t remember.”
“She remembers some things. We just don’t want to upset her.”
“But you’re going to now?”
Jamie was torn. The last thing she wanted to do was cause Emma anxiety or fear, but she also wanted to help in some way. She couldn’t help Gwen. She didn’t know how to help Bette other than to offer support. What she wanted was for whoever was doing this to get caught.
“Emma . . .” Jamie walked into the living room, standing at the end of the couch, looking down and across at her sister. Harley slid off her stool and moved into place beside her.
Emma glanced at her briefly, then looked back to the TV. “This is an Italian salad served with Italian dressing. It goes with manicotti. They stuff the manicotti with cheese. I think it’s mozzarella, no, no, ricotta and Parmesan . . .” She trailed off, absorbed.
“Emma, the night you were attacked. You remember?”
She cocked her head, but didn’t take her eyes off the television.
“You remember the man who attacked you?”
She looked away from the screen to a spot in the middle distance between Jamie and the television but didn’t speak.
“Was he wearing a ski mask?” Jamie asked her.
Her hands came up to cover her ears. “I see his eyes,” she said.
“In a ski mask?” Jamie moved forward.
“He has a knife!”
“Stop, Emma. Stop!” Emma began rocking back and forth, moaning. Her hands moving from her ears to over her eyes. She made a low, keening noise that had Harley hyperventilating behind her.
“You stop it, too,” Jamie ordered, whipping around to look at her daughter. She then turned back to Emma. “Emma, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
“I see his eyes!”
“I know you do. But you’re safe now. Safe with me and Harley. In Mom’s house. You’re safe.”
Her moaning tapered off and slowly ended in a sigh. She lifted her hands from her eyes and blinked. In a more normal voice, she said, “Mom keeps me safe.”
“Yes, Mom kept you safe and we’re here for you, too.” Jamie reached a hand back for Harley, motioning her forward.
After a half beat, Harley moved to Emma, squatting down next to her. “I’m here,” she said.
Emma bent her head forward and nodded slowly. She patted Harley on the shoulder, heaved a sigh, then picked up the remote and ran the episode back to the beginning. “I’d like to make manicotti next, Jamie,” she said.
Jamie exhaled on a half laugh. “Okay. I’ll go to the store.”
“You need to make a list. Ricotta and Parmesan.”
“I will,” Jamie assured her.
Emma looked at her straight on and added, “I don’t like ski masks.”
* * *
The Logger Room was rough wood floors and long tables made of great slabs of wood from old-growth trees, their age putting them some fifty years before or more, when large boards were plentiful. The walls were also rough wood and covered with pickaxes, saws, and beer signs. There were no booths, just tables, about one third of them in use on a Sunday afternoon.
Cooper decided to wait for Campion to find out what she’d like before ordering. He stood at the end of the bar. Her Neon had looked like it had been driven hard. He was half-worried she wouldn’t make it to the bar and was kicking himself at not offering to pick her up.
But then the door opened and she walked in. She was more cleaned up than the last time he’d seen her, in a black sweater and blue jeans. He imagined if she worked in the back of a restaurant, she’d have to present herself better for work, but then, he didn’t know what kind of establishment had hired her.
She lifted her chin when she saw him and came his way. “You buying?” she asked Cooper and he nodded.
“Straight vodka. Grey Goose.” She grinned at him, thinking she’d gotten one over on him. But the grin faded immediately. “You know Deke was pretty okay except when things got bad. Then he’d fall off the wagon and . . .” She shook her head. Her hair was brown, streaked with gray, straight as a sheath. It was newly washed, he
