“Thanks.” Jenny battled the tears for a few seconds, then went on. “Her diary said something else too. She’d…she thought the only way to stop the abuse was to kill him. She was so young—she just wanted it to end. She—she thought it would be okay because he was a Christian, and that meant he’d automatically end up in heaven.”
Now I was crying too. Steam from our hot breath and tears crept up the windshield, closing us in.
“She did it on a night when she thought only Jerry would be home. Just waltzed right in and did what she thought she had to do. Only, Anne was home—Kristen too.” She wiped her trembling hand beneath her nose. “But Kristen saw her. Ran after her, all the way to our house, screaming. It woke me up, but I—I thought I was dreaming.” Her sobs shook the car as fog climbed into the windshield’s center, hazing out the hot world outside.
“I don’t know how to say this,” I ventured, “but I have to ask—are you sure it was Jamie and not Kristen who started the fire? If Kristen’s MO was accusing Jamie of things she did herself—”
“No. I read her diary. Jamie came up with it all on her own.”
“But if Kristen—”
“Kristen knew that Anne was home,” she cut in, hunched over like a teenager. “Jamie didn’t, but Kristen knew her mom had decided last-minute not to go away for the weekend. And Kristen would never hurt her mom. She loved her more than anyone in the world. When she—that night, when she gave up on Jamie and ran to Tabitha and Bill’s, yelling so loud she woke me up, she was screaming one word over and over: Mommy.”
“Oh my God.” It fit, but I wasn’t sure I could accept it—could Kristen, an agent of hurt and chaos, really have been adjacent to that tragedy and not directly involved? Or maybe her parents’ death was the spark that ignited her cruelty. Perhaps she’d then guilted young Jamie into killing herself, or blackmailed Jamie by saying she saw her start the fire, or…
I glanced over at Jenny. She was curled like a question mark, silhouetted in the window, and for a flash I saw what Jamie would look like now, button-nosed and pretty. My heart sank. Could another twelve-year-old, driven to desperation, really have behaved as destructively as Kristen?
Just look how far she pushed you.
Jenny sniffled. “So Kristen screamed all the way to Tabitha and Bill’s, and they called 911 and kept her safe. But she told them—she knew she’d seen Jamie in there, and though I never asked her, I bet she had some idea why Jamie would want her father dead. Oh God. Jamie used to go up to their cottage with them on weekends—I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself.”
A cry, then, so long and mournful I thought of the loon, its call echoing as if to channel all the pain of a broiling, dying Earth. I let my own tears stream over my neck, soaking into the collar of my dirty tank top.
“But we didn’t know. We had no idea!” She disgorged a few more sobs. “And when Bill didn’t demand an investigation, we thought what everyone else thought: The fire was an accident, a tragic, freak thing. But then Kristen rang my doorbell. God, I can remember it like it was yesterday. I opened the door to find her bawling. And in between sobs, she told me she’d seen Jamie leaving her house the night of the fire. She thought Jamie had started it. I didn’t believe her, of course. I told her to leave.”
She took a deep inhalation and pushed it out in a stream. Her breath was raspy, an odd accordion sound. “But then I read the diary. I couldn’t tell Tom. Tom doesn’t know—about the abuse, the arson, any of it. It would break him. Tom has no idea what that motherfucker did to our daughter. God, sometimes I wish Jerry wasn’t dead so I could burn him alive all over again.”
The fury wafted off of her like heat. Tears streamed down her face and I could see the veins banging along her throat.
I reached out and touched her hand. She jumped, then sagged a little.
“I tried to speak with Bill in private.” Her voice was furious and compressed, carbon pressed into a diamond. “He didn’t want to hear it. Any of it. He didn’t want to tarnish his memories of his son. I could have killed him then and there. He kept saying it was too late now, we’d both lost a child and accusing his son of pedophilia and my daughter of arson would only cause more pain. Plus, I’d have to tell Tom, and, and if we’d gone to the authorities to explain, the story would’ve been sensationalized in the press. The whole world would be looking at my beautiful daughter, pitying her, blaming her, calling her a victim, a murderer, looking for photos where she showed too much skin, picking her apart, tearing her to shreds. Tom and I were already at rock bottom—no way could we deal with that kind of pain. And for what? It wouldn’t bring my Jamie back. It wouldn’t undo what had been done. So we packed up and moved across the country, and…and tried to start over.”
My heart felt like a cello, groaning a long, mournful note. Poor Jamie, poor Kristen. Poor Jenny and Tom.
“Kristen went to a mental-health center after that,” I said, “an inpatient one, for minors. I thought it was basically in place of juvie for kids who’d done something wrong.”
Jenny shook her head. “I didn’t know that. But it doesn’t surprise me that she had a mental break after all that trauma. Oh, that poor girl. I told you I didn’t like how she treated Jamie, but…Christ, nobody deserves that. I can’t imagine how that screws you up, long-term.”
I nodded. “You didn’t hear from Kristen again after that?”
“She friended me on Facebook a few years ago. After she graduated. I always wondered about her, kept her in my prayers…Jamie loved her, you know. They were best friends. In a weird way, Kristen feels like the last connection to my Jamie.” Her eyes turned steely. “My heart stopped when Tom said that Bill was calling today. I hate that Bill even has Tom’s number.”
I gave her hand a squeeze, and she looked down at it thoughtfully. We sat in silence for a while.
“I’m sure you realize you can’t tell anyone what I told you,” she said. “Not anyone.”
“I know.” Sweat prickled on my forehead and dripped down my back. It felt like my whole body was crying.
“Emily.”
I looked up. “Yeah?”
“Why were you trying to get away from Kristen?”
The car was almost unbearably warm now, sun beating in through the back.
“I’m not sure I can tell you,” I replied. All the pieces were floating around now, swirling like dry leaves.
She swallowed hard, then bobbed her head. “Okay. But I doubt the Phoenix PD is going to like that answer.”
The penny dropped. Jesus Christ. I turned to her, eyes wide. “You think if Kristen doesn’t pull through, they’ll charge me with her murder?”
“No.” She clunked the car door open and the saunalike breeze mingled with our steam room inside. “I think they’ll charge your boyfriend.”
CHAPTER 44
Jenny’s husband called as we were up in my messy hotel room. I’d taken a quick shower, scrubbing dirt from my skin while Jenny waited on a stiff armchair. I was yanking out clothes for Aaron and stuffing them into a tote bag when she lifted her phone and ducked into the muggy bathroom. When she reemerged, her face was grim.