“Oh, please. You just glommed onto her because your parents couldn’t be bothered with you.”
“Well, yeah.” She looked around at the circle of judgment. “What? You thought I’d deny it? I barely knew them, and they were, y’know … my parents. I loved hanging out with Danielle. She remembered my birthday, at least. Sometimes…”
Sometimes I wished I was her. Sometimes I deeply envied her. Sometimes I took a class just because she did. Sometimes I dressed like her and we got our hair done at the same place and she never laughed and she never judged so you can all fuck right off.
She couldn’t argue with these people. So she just scratched her arms
(oh, sure, furtively scratching and being unable to keep still and avoiding eye contact isn’t shady AT ALL)
while her mind emptied itself of any useful rebuttal. Say something, Tom! Tell a horrible story or come up with a spirited defense. Just say anything!
“Post hoc ergo propter hoc.”
Ava swallowed a groan. It’s my own fault. I did say “anything.”
“It’s a logical fallacy,” Tom explained, looking earnest and yummy. “After this, therefore because of this. There were many reasons for Ava to leave town. It’s hardly definitive.”
Well, not the impassioned defense of her honor she was hoping to hear, but “hardly definitive” still beat “we think you’re a well-moisturized killer with good taste in clothes.”
“If you think I killed her, why haven’t you said anything to the police? Then or now? I’ve had more conversations with my union rep in the last three days than any of the local cops.” And surely Tom would have said something if she was a—a suspect? Person of interest? Would-be psycho of interest?
Dennis’s mother ignored the question. “As soon as I saw you,” she said in a thready voice, “it was the nightmare all over again. You don’t come back for ten years—”
“I’m in Minneapolis all the time!” she protested. “I hate it! The goddamn runway always forces me to crosswind taxi!”
“—and within hours someone snatches Dani’s ashes and desecrates the place and nothing—not the police, not prayers—nothing, nothing will bring her back. But you, you’re back. You brought all that with you. You brought it back on all of us. Again.”
“Wait, so am I bad luck or a harbinger of doom or a vandal or a killer?”
“You’re the angel of motherfuckin’ death!” Xenia shrilled.
At last, Ava thought, still having trouble believing this was happening. A title for my autobiography.
“We should go,” Tom murmured into her ear, and truer words were never etcetera.
Ava tried to gather her tattered dignity around her, drew herself up, and took a firmer grip
“Ouch.”
on Tom’s arm. “If you’ll all excuse me, I’d like to go back to my hotel room and burst into tears and then maybe eat more bread pudding. Come on, Tom.”
“Excellent. That will give me a chance to check your feet for plantar fasciitis.”
“Great, Tom.” Still scratching, she led him out.
Twenty-Three
THE LIST
Kill everybody who thinks I’m a killer
Prove I’m not a killer
Rinse
Repeat
“I don’t believe it,” she snarled, stomping toward her car. “I don’t believe it.”
“Nonsense. We pulled it off perfectly. All those people actually think I have a doctorate in podiatric medicine!” Adding an extra surreal touch to the evening, Tom sounded downright giddy. “I know this isn’t an appropriate reaction given what just happened, but I’ve never successfully portrayed a podiatrist before.”
“So you’ve unsuccessfully portrayed podiatrists before now? Congrats. Make sure to update your résumé accordingly. Meanwhile, all the living Monahans think I murdered the dead one. This is why I don’t go to memorials, Tom!”
“Understandable.”
That was vague enough to give her pause. Did he mean it was understandable that the Monahans put her in their burn book by implying she was a murderess vandal
(Wait, that would be murderous vandal, right?)
or was it understandable that she was annoyed about the (theoretical) burn-book placement?
Never mind. Back to the rant. “How, how can they think that about me?” Ava, too worked up to get behind the wheel, began pacing back and forth while Tom tracked her like he was watching a slow tennis match. Back … and forth. Back … and forth. “Have they been stewing over this for a decade? What the hell just happened in there?”
“If I were to guess, the Monahans may be wondering at the coincidence of you running into Dennis all these years later.”
“Oh, please. The planet only looks big. People run into old friends and neighbors all the time—I see it almost every week in every airport.”
“Yes, but … on a significant anniversary? And just in time to attend a significant event?”
“Yeah, well, as you said: a coincidence.” But a horrid thought struck her: if she hadn’t gone to Danielle’s memorial, would someone still have trashed the place?
That way lies nuttiness.
“A terrible, shitty coincidence,” she continued. “And they must know that, or they’d have told the cops they suspect me.” She stopped in midpace. “Have the cops said anything to you about me being a psycho of interest? And before you play more devil’s advocate, that’s something an innocent person would want to know.”
“The police are pursuing all leads.”
“Great, you sound like a press release.”
“The lead detective believes your version of events—”
“My version?”
“—partly because Mrs. Monahan did not indicate, then or back then, that she thought you killed Danielle. But I believe some of them wondered if you might have guilty knowledge.”
Guilty knowledge. A phrase that never failed to make her shiver.
“Partly, huh?” She threw up her hands. “Well, I’ll take what I can get. So why would they spring this on me? Why even let me come back here tonight? Why not disinvite me, or stop me from going inside? There’s enough of them; they could have posted a guard at every entrance. And at my hotel. And in every parking lot between here and my hotel.”
“Perhaps for the same reason you and I attended: to see if we could spot a killer.”
“Yeah, except we know it’s not me.”
Silence.
She turned to face him full-on. “Uh. Tom? We know it’s not me. Right? We know that? That’s not the royal we, by the way. That’s the plural we, as in the you-and-me we.”
“Anyone looking at you for this would have to admit any evidence is entirely circumstantial.”
Good thing she’d stopped pacing, because she would have walked right into a car: bam! Instant bruises. Instead, she stared at him in his immaculate dark suit, his immaculate face, his immaculate skull, his immaculate brain, which she didn’t understand but liked enormously.
“You … think I’m the killer, too?”
“Well—”