“Gotcha.” The photographer took off his cap, tipped it, then replaced it with the bill in the back as he headed toward the van.
“Go Celtics,” Jake muttered after him. He had to get to Jane. “Bethany? Sorry.”
“That’s okay. But I think you should know. Phillip was putting one of the dolls into a little white wooden cradle, and burst into tears. He’s not sleeping well, and the poor thing has been removed from the environment he’s used to. Still, in my assessment, that reaction was not quite normal.”
Jake aimed his keys at the cruiser door. Clicked. “But you told me ‘said’-”
“Exactly, Jake. When I asked him, ‘What’s wrong, honey?’ Phillip said, clear as day, he said, ‘Baby. Where baby?’”
Jake stopped, hand poised on the door handle. “Where baby? Are you sure?”
“Where baby,” she said. “I’m sure.”
39
Kellianne’s dad called this the Afterwards “office,” even though it was only a corner of their old pine-paneled basement. Her mom had insisted on staying at the hospital with him, wouldn’t be home until whenever. Kev and Keefer were somewhere, who knew. Kellianne had privacy. Sitting at the battered desk, she stared at her reflection in the computer monitor.
She could see her hair, still all sucky, her skin, still sucky, her T-shirt with the same logo and title as the one on the computer screen. She’d sent for the “Ladies’ large short-sleeved black” a few weeks ago to see if the company she was interested in was a real place or a rip-off. She could risk ten bucks to find out.
A few days later, the T-shirt arrived. She’d been wearing it under her regular clothes so no one could see. She knew what it meant. It meant she could win.
Kellianne rested her cheeks on her fists and sounded out, silently, the name of the company she was about to e-mail. Mur-der-a-bi-li-a.
It was a funny name, but she’d typed souveneers from murders into her search thing, panicking she’d be stuck with a bunch of stuff she couldn’t get rid of. It turned out to be “souvenirs,” so she’d spelled it wrong, but the Internet found it. As she scrolled through page after online page, she realized she not only wouldn’t be stuck, but that she was sitting on a gold mine.
Murderabilia. She whispered it, trying the word out loud. It seemed like there was a market for what she had. People were buying, like, the weirdest stuff. She leaned into the screen, clicking on the photos. That Unabomber guy’s letters. A lock of Charles Manson’s hair. Gross.
She looked at the teddy bears in the cardboard box at her feet. Next to them, the little rabbit bowl. Thing was, those didn’t belong to the “murderers.” What she had belonged to the victims. Would people buy those things?
She clicked through more photos. A drawing by the Son of Sam. A clown outfit worn by some guy in…
Shit, if people wanted stuff from murder cases, if they were that crazy sick, wouldn’t they just as likely-Souvenirs from murder victims, she typed it right this time. “Victims” was the important part. She clicked. She was right.
“From the New York Post,” said the first article on the list. The headline was, Murder Victim Relics Suddenly Hot.
Then in little letters, “Survivors powerless to stop commerce in notorious…”
She clicked through, trying to get the gist of the article, skipping some of the long words and what looked like boring parts. “The more personal the better,” someone said. “Despicable,” someone else said. Her eyes skidded to a stop at the word: legal.
One forefinger hovering over the screen, she read hard to make sure she didn’t miss anything. In only eight states is the sale of murderabilia prohibited. And those are-She kept reading the list of states, hoping. She could do it whichever way, but sure would be better if it were legal.
Massachusetts was not on the list.
The muscles in her back relaxed, and she looked down at the logo on her T-shirt again. Murderabilia. Freakin’ a.
Besides the bears and the rabbit bowl, she’d taken a candlestick from the Callaberry Street apartment. Silver, probably, which might bring a lot of cash. From the Margolin Street house-which her brothers said the cops were calling a homicide-she’d selected a pale pink silk nightgown and a shiny golden compact with raised flowers on the outside. She’d also snatched a tiny silver-framed photo of what looked like the dead woman and some man. That “personal” gem had been in the bedroom drawer under the nightgown.
Kellianne pulled the framed photo out of the cardboard box, rubbing one finger across the bumpy dots on the silver frame. The guy with her must be the woman’s father. He looked kinda familiar, but shit. He was old. All old people looked alike.
Putting the photo back in the box, she picked up another item she’d gotten last night. Keys with a fancy golden cross on the key chain. She’d taken off the keys, stuffed them under a couch cushion. But the golden cross was so pretty. She held it up to the dim glow of the ceiling light. Her good luck charm.
She saw a little smile reflected in the computer monitor. Well, why not smile? They’d heard nothing on the news about a dead guy in a car. They’d gone back in, gotten their stuff, and sealed some crime scene tape on the door like they’d been instructed.
She clicked to the Web site where she’d ordered the T-shirt.
NO questions asked, the red and black letters promised. She sure as hell hoped not. She reread the instructions on the company’s home page. Do you have items to sell? Click here to register!
“Don’t mind if I do,” Kelliane told the screen. And she clicked.
“Go,” Tuck said, unlatching her seat belt. “I’ll lock up and bring you the-”
Jane was already out of her car. She’d used frantic seconds finding a parking place on Corey Road, even jumped the curb as she wedged her Audi into a too-small spot as close as she could get to her apartment. Half a block away. Damn.
“Thanks,” Jane called over her shoulder. “I’ve got to-” She cut herself off, mid-sentence. It didn’t matter. She had to get inside.
Mom’s jewelry. Her silver. Her photos. Her computer. Her TV. What did people steal? Or were they searching for something else? Or hoping to encounter Jane herself?
Where was Coda?
A black-and-white Brookline Police cruiser, blue light whirling on the roof, seemed quickly abandoned, skewed half on the street, half on the sidewalk. A clump of people hovered on the sidewalk, watching, pointing, speculating. It all barely registered as Jane ran toward her front door. Eli, silhouetted in the open foyer entryway, waved at her, both spindly arms flailing in a too-big orange parka vest.
“They had guns out, Jane!” he called as she got closer. Eli’s puppy-brown eyes were wider than she’d ever seen them, and he grabbed her hand, dragging her inside. “The police had guns and everything, and they told Mom and baby Sam and me to stay out here, and they went upstairs really, really fast, and I heard them yelling really loud, and then they let Mom and baby Sam go back inside, but not me, because they told me to-”
“They had guns?” It mustn’t be anything too awful, Jane reassured herself, if Eli was still here.
“Jane, what on earth?” Mona Washburn came out of her first-floor doorway, a smudge of white flour on her face, wiping her hands on her striped chef’s apron.
“Sorry, Mo, I have no idea, I just got here.” Already halfway up the first flight, Jane clutched the banister, hauling herself up, two steps at a time. Mona was obviously fine, too, cooking as usual, so it seemed like everything was-