“My partner and I were out at the farm this morning.” Bible paused. “We saw your daughter.”
Andrea looked away from the albums. Tears had sprung into Melody’s eyes.
“Is she—” Melody’s voice caught. “Is she all right?”
“She’s alive,” Bible told her. “I didn’t speak to her, but—”
His work phone started ringing. He checked the caller ID.
“Mr. Bible,” Melody said. “Please don’t answer that.”
“It’s just my boss. She can wait.” Bible silenced the ringer. “Oliver, show her the photograph that Star took with your phone.”
“What?” Melody stood up. “How did Star get your phone?”
“I left it for her on the counter.” Andrea tucked the album she was holding under her arm so that she could retrieve her iPhone. “You can take a photo without the password.”
“Yes,” Melody said. “The button is on the lock screen. Can you hurry, please?”
Andrea tapped in her code and swiped through to the photo.
Melody gently took the phone away from Andrea. Her hands were trembling. She zoomed in on the word Star had drawn in the flour.
Help.
Melody’s throat worked. She didn’t wipe the tears streaming from her eyes. Andrea assumed that after everything Melody had survived over the last four years, she was no stranger to crying.
Melody asked, “Was she okay? Did she—did she speak or …?”
Andrea looked at Bible. “No, ma’am. We didn’t speak. She was very thin, but she was moving around. The flour was on the counter because she was baking bread.”
Melody’s tears kept flowing as she stared at what was probably her only recent proof that her daughter was still alive. “She’s done something like this before. Once, she passed a note to a delivery driver. A few months ago, she called me in the middle of the night and told me that she wanted to come home.”
“What did you do?” Andrea asked.
“I got Jack involved. To his credit, he went out both times and tried to make a stink. But Star wouldn’t cooperate. She never cooperates. I think she likes it—the attention. My therapist says she must be getting something out of it. People don’t do things unless there’s a reward. Even if there’s negative consequences. There is comfort in the familiar.”
“What about—” Andrea didn’t know how to frame the question, so she was blunt. “You tried to kidnap her and take her to a deprogrammer?”
“I did.” Melody’s smile was weak. She slid the album out from Andrea’s arm and used that as an excuse to change the subject. “Jinx at Monterey Live. Stéphane Grappelli sat in for ‘Daphne’. Are you a jazz fan?”
Andrea shook her head. “My father loves it.”
“Sorry, ladies.” Bible was looking at his personal phone. “That’s my wife. Can’t ignore her. If you don’t mind, I’ll take it outside.”
“Help yourself.” Melody placed the album on top of the shelves as Bible left through the kitchen. She stared down at Star’s flour photo again. Before Andrea could stop her, she had swiped to the previous picture.
Alice Poulsen’s concave face filled the screen.
Glassy eyes. Sunken cheeks. Dried foam around pale blue lips.
There was no exclamation of horror.
Melody swiped back again, then again. She seemed impassive as she stared at the bright red bedsores on Alice Poulsen’s shoulder blades. Her stark ribs. Her brittle fingernails. The light bruises ringing her wrists.
Melody asked, “Do you know that a bruised or sprained wrist is one of the most common signs of domestic violence?”
Andrea felt herself wanting to cradle her wrist again.
“My therapist told me that,” Melody said. “There are so many nerves and ligaments and bones in that one small space. They grab you there, and you do whatever they want.”
Andrea was familiar with pain compliance, but she hadn’t considered it in the context of domestic violence.
“That’s how it started with Star. She came home with her wrist wrapped in a bandage. She was so deep into her addiction. I didn’t want to know how it happened. I was so caught up in Mother’s estate and trying to figure out what to do with my life.”
Andrea didn’t try to make excuses because she knew that Melody wouldn’t accept them.
“Dean is an animal—any man who abuses a woman is. They have an instinct that tells them to start off slowly. Grab her wrist and see if she lets you get away with it. Then her shoulder or her arm. Then, before too long, their hands are around her neck. They’re so good at knowing who will keep their mouths shut and put up with it.”
Melody’s gaze was on the phone again. She had found the first photograph Andrea had taken of Alice Poulsen lying naked in the field. Melody’s tears had never really stopped, but now they formed a river down her face, welling into the collar of her shirt.
She said, “This is going to be Star one day, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”
Andrea gently made to take back the phone, but Melody finally let out a cry—not from horror, but from surprise. She’d swiped one last time and discovered the photograph of the mixtape liner notes Andrea had taken of Judith’s collage.
“My God, I’d forgotten all about this!” She wiped her eyes. “Where did you find it?”
Andrea protected Judith by instinct. “In a box of Emily’s things at the Vaughns’.”
“Of course.” Melody easily accepted the explanation. “I wasn’t allowed to talk to Emily, but I put mixtapes in her mailbox every few weeks. This is the last one I made for her before she was murdered. Look at my silly handwriting. I was trying to disguise my identity in case my mother somehow found out I was disobeying her.”
Andrea pretended to look at the text, but she already knew it by heart. “Did you know Emily well?”
“Not as well as I wanted to. She was an amazing girl, but she had her group. We shared a love of music. It’s such a tragedy that she’s gone and Dean Wexler is still walking the face of this earth.”
Andrea said, “I’ve heard a lot about Emily’s drug use.”
“Oh, that’s bullshit.” Melody finally handed back the phone. “Don’t get me wrong—none of us Just Said No to drugs, but Emily was never into the hard stuff. I hate to sound like my mother, but she hung around with a bad crowd.”
Andrea couldn’t agree more. “Do you have any theories about who killed her?”
“I mean—” Melody sputtered air between her lips. “Everybody seems to think it was Clay. And look at what he did after he left town. If that’s not a pattern, I don’t know what is.”
“Ricky Fontaine had a theory.” Andrea noted Melody’s arched eyebrow when she’d heard Ricky’s name. “She thinks that Jack Stilton did it.”
“For fucksakes!” Melody’s booming laugh filled the room. “Ricky is such a lying cunt. They always hated Jack. We’re talking all the way back to kindergarten. Nardo in particular took a sick joy out of torturing him. Emily hated him for it. She always took up for Jack. There’s no way he would’ve ever hurt her.”