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The hum of Blanca’s vacuum in my ears, I returned to my room and put on sweats, a hoodie, and my Crocs. The toast and tea left by my mother now cold, I went downstairs to make some breakfast. Over a mug of coconut milk and a bowl of granola, I contemplated my day. There were three things I urgently needed to do.
The first took me less than a minute. I stopped following Tanya and Lance on Instagram, but decided to keep my @SpyGirl2 handle, just in case I changed my mind. I was weirdly attached to the avatar I’d created.
With that done, I moved on to task number two and headed out the side door to my father’s nearby tool shed. He was the least handy man in the world and had succumbed to asking our handyman to assemble it. He could barely change a light bulb, but he had a set of tools because it’s what all guys did. I undid the latch, pulled open the door, and instantly found what I was looking for hanging from the pegboard.
An axe.
Armed with my weapon, I felt like Thor as I marched to my studio. I swung the door open and, without stopping, I charged to my worktable. On it stood the statue of Lance posed in a runner’s stretch that I’d planned to give him at Christmas. Wasting no time, I wrapped both hands around the wood handle of the heavy axe and slammed it down on the statue. Thwack. The sculpture I’d worked so hard on for over a month split apart in mere seconds.
I wasn’t done.
With a maniacal smile, I bashed the ceramic pieces over and over until they were dust. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Lance was officially dead to me. And I was officially an axe murderer.
On to task number three. The photo. That Indio High class photo I’d discovered in Tanya’s suitcase. I needed to scan the copy I’d made, send it to Mary, and ask her if she recognized the sad-looking girl circled in red.
After taking Bear for a short walk around the block, I returned to my now very tidy room, thanks to Blanca, and grabbed my phone. As if I couldn’t be in a better mood, I had dozens of shouty texts from Tanya. Most of them to the tune of:
You cretin! Where’s my computer?
ANSWER ME!!
You’re in big trouble!
ANSWER ME!!!
Your life is over! Just wait!
YOU BETTER ANSWER ME!!!!
I wasn’t going to answer her. Let her fume! Shit was going to hit the fan when she came home from school, but I was actually looking forward to it. I’d simply tell my mother I was napping all day and had my phone turned off. I even had an explanation if she accused me of stealing or hiding her laptop, but let’s not jump the gun.
First things first. My phone in hand, I texted Mary Burton and asked if she would be willing to help me identify someone. I explained the Indio High class photo I wanted to send her. She was more than happy to help and already had her computer hooked back up to her Wi-Fi provider. She gave me her email address.
Expecting to get a text or email back from her later in the day, I was surprised when my phone rang thirty seconds later. It was Mary. I picked up on the first ring. It was nice to hear her voice again. And see her when we agreed to FaceTime.
“Hun, I recognized the circled girl instantly and had to call you.”
My heartbeat sped up. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Billie Rae Perkins.” She paused. “Or should I say was Billie Rae Perkins. She was in my homeroom and I had her in a biology class I taught. She was quite bright but barely said a word. Kind of a loner. Always had her nose buried in a book—some fairy tale or classic. I never saw her hanging out with the other kids. Not even one. She was rather pretty but always looked so sad…like in this photo.”
I dwelled on Mary’s use of the past tense. “What happened to her?”
“It’s a terrible story.”
My curiosity piqued, I was all ears and let her continue.
“The poor thing. She lived in the Shadow Hills trailer park with her mother. The girl was skinny as a rail…always came to school with the same thing. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a brown paper bag. Once she came with no lunch, so I lent her a dollar so she could buy a hot one, which she wolfed down like there was no tomorrow.
“A couple of times she came to school with a black eye. Another time with a split lip. And one time she showed up with a cast on her wrist. Each time when I asked her what had happened, she said she’d bumped into something or fallen. I suspected something else. That her mother was abusing her. I contacted social services, but they didn’t find any evidence of parental abuse. Plus, I met the woman and she seemed nice enough.”
“What did her mother do?” I asked, reaching for a notebook and pen from my backpack. I needed to take notes so I wouldn’t forget anything.
“Based on the information we had on file, she was a homemaker. But I’m not sure. One thing, though, she was a smoker. Billie Rae’s clothes, well, the few she had, always reeked of cigarette smoke and tobacco.”
“What about her father?”
“According to school records, her parents were separated. His job occupation was listed as None of Your Business.”
