Chapter 48 #2
Cam? And shut up? Cole is not imagining it; there’s a definite vibe between the two of them. Are they dating? Because if they aren’t, it’s pretty clear that the detective would like to. Based on the way his eyes light up every time Barb looks at him, he would very much like to.
She has to admit it’s a strange feeling to be in the same room with Barb and a handsome man, and not be the one he’s interested in. It’s not jealously, exactly. More like . . . envy, that Barb is able to attract a decent person.
Barb’s waiting for her to answer.
“I’m pretty sure Kylie was coming to Seaside when she disappeared,” Cole says.
“I don’t like to talk about my family or where I’m from on the show, but I told her about Seaside after filming, when we were drunk.
I should have realized she was eager for a second season storyline.
I would bet money that she was on her way here to dig up dirt on me. ”
“That’s not a very nice friend,” Detective Wallace says, coming to a stop. He double-checks the case number in his hand, then reaches for a box on the shelf.
“Well, the show isn’t nice,” Cole says with a shrug. “We’re actually paid to be assholes to each other.”
“Did you find Lorelei’s case file?” Barb asks him as he opens the box.
He nods and carries it back toward the small table near the entrance of the archives. “I can’t let you take anything out of it, but you can look through it as long as you want. Want me to stick around?” he asks, and Cole picks up on the hopeful note in his voice.
“We’re good,” Barb says. “Thanks, Cam. We shouldn’t be too long.”
After the detective leaves, Cole takes a seat across from Barb. “You know he likes you, right?”
“We’re just friends,” Barb replies, but there’s a slight flush to her cheeks that wasn’t there a second ago.
“Uh, it’s pretty obvious that he’d like it to be more than that,” Cole says.
“Maybe at one point.” Barb begins sorting through the contents of the box. “But he has a girlfriend now.”
A teenage Nicolette would have pushed, prodded, teased, and snarked, anything to get Barb to open up. But adult Cole has no desire to do anything to antagonize Barb, or anyone else, for that matter. She lets it go.
“Autopsy report,” Barb says, inhaling sharply as she holds up a green folder. She places it on the table between them. It’s appallingly thin. “Oh god. I don’t know if I can do it.”
“I hate that I’m saying this, but my father was right. Whatever Jana’s going to find, we’d better find it first.” Cole takes a deep breath of her own. “We’ll do it together.”
* * *
Lorelei’s school photo, a headshot with the standard blue portrait-studiolooking background, is the first thing Cole sees when she opens the folder.
While she can’t personally recall anything about the day their tenth grade photos were taken, she instantly remembers the exact shade of light frosted pink lipstick Lorelei is wearing.
MAC Angel. Cole had asked to borrow it so often that year that Lorelei had finally told her keep it.
Staring down at the face she hasn’t seen in twenty-five years, it’s easy to understand why she’d constantly compared herself to Lorelei growing up.
With her golden blond hair, soft hazel eyes, and a smile that always made her look as if she were keeping a juicy secret, Lorelei drew people in without even trying.
She had that thing you couldn’t fake, an X factor, a natural charisma that was both intimidating and addicting.
Back then, Cole couldn’t quite articulate it.
But she understands now that what she envied about her friend Lorelei was her fearlessness.
She was always willing to take things on, to start trouble, to fight for what she believed in.
Cole traces Lorelei’s face with her finger, then moves on to to the next photo. It’s a Polaroid, the one that was found in Samuel Figg’s ridiculously huge car. She’s gorgeous in this one, too, even though she was annoyed that Marty had snapped it without her permission.
But the rest of the photos are terrible.
They’re all from the crime scene and subsequent autopsy, and in them, Lorelei is bloated and gray and unrecognizable.
One of the photos shows her floating face up in a man-made sea of bright red cranberries, her hair fanning around her face, like something out of a horror movie.
Cole can barely look . . . but yet she can’t look away.
“These are bad,” Cole says, her voice choked. “I mean, I knew they would be, but it’s . . .”
She passes the photos to Barb, who’s been sifting through the rest of the contents in the box.
It isn’t much. There’s Lorelei’s clothing from that night, the plaid skirt and T-shirt.
Her small purse, containing a dried-out pack of Wrigley’s Winterfresh gum, a lip gloss, a hair tie, and a mirror compact.
Barb’s face crumples when she looks through the photos, but she manages not to cry.
Samuel Figg’s confession is next. Cole reads it out loud. It’s only one paragraph, handwritten on a sheet of lined yellow notepad paper.
Me and Lorelei Glass started arguing after we left the drive-in. I pulled over and yanked her out of the car. I bashed her head against a rock and choked her. When I saw she was dead, I buried her body in the field. I solemnly swear this statement is true.
Samuel Figg
“This confession is pathetic,” Cole says when she finishes reading. “It’s only five sentences long. Would this even hold up now?”
“It never should have held up then,” Barb says, frowning as she scans through the autopsy report.
“But they wanted a conviction. They already had a serial killer in custody who could be tied to Lorelei on the night she disappeared. They had a prosecutor who didn’t want to go to trial, and a deputy police chief whose main job was to protect Seaside’s reputation.
They were eager to pin it all on Figg so it would all go away. ”
“Sometimes I can’t decide if Figg confessing was the best thing or worst thing that could have happened to us,” Cole says, the lump in her throat growing larger. “Had we turned ourselves in, I think they would have believed it was an accident. Lorelei was fifteen, but so were we. So why didn’t we?”
“I don’t know,” Barb says, still focused on the autopsy report. “Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything. But if anyone had done any real investigative work, they would have figured out it was us—” She gasps, a hand flying to her mouth. “Holy shit.”
“What?” Cole asks. “What does the report say?”
Barb doesn’t reply, her gaze fixed on whatever she’s reading.
“What is it?” Cole says again, alarmed.
Barb slides it toward Cole. “See for yourself.”
Lorelei Glass’s official autopsy report is only two pages long, and Cole has no idea if that’s typical or not.
Unsure what she’s supposed to be looking for, she reads the section where the coroner describes the condition of the body.
A significant head contusion due to blunt force trauma is noted, as well as damage and bruising to the ligatures in the neck.
The ME also discovered swelling in the brain, but could not confirm that this was specifically caused by the head trauma, as the postmortem exam also noted petechial hemorrhaging, facial swelling, and an unusual fluidity in Lorelei’s blood.
The official cause of death: asphyxiation.
“Asphyxiation?” Cole says, looking up at Barb in shock. “She was strangled? I don’t understand. But we didn’t . . .”
“No, we didn’t.” Barb’s face is grim.
“She hit her head on the toilet seat,” Cole says. “She had a head wound.
She was bleeding.”
“Yes, she was.”
“And when we left the bathroom, she was dead.”
Barb is quiet for a moment. And then she asks, “What if she wasn’t?”
Cole stares at her, not comprehending.
“Remember, when we left the bathroom, we didn’t leave her there alone.” Barb speaks slowly, patches of red blooming on her cheeks as her jaw tightens. She’s angry. No, scratch that. She’s enraged. “We left her there with Hawk.”
“Because he told us to,” Cole says, still unsure what Barb is getting at. “He told us she was dead and that he’d take care of it . . .” Suddenly it hits her. “Oh my god. He lied. Hawk lied.”
“Figg said in his confession that he strangled her afterward,” Barb says. “When you were reading it, I wondered why he’d even write that. But it’s because he had to. Otherwise his confession wouldn’t have worked.”
They stare at each other.
“We have to talk to Hawk,” Cole says, standing up.
“No,” Barb says, packing the box back up. “Fuck Hawk. He’ll just lie again. We need to talk to Marty.”