Chapter Twenty-seven #2
‘On behalf of the family, I want to thank everyone for coming. Feel free to stay as long as you wish. Zoe’s family has brought some memorabilia to share on the table to the side. Thank you again.’
Gentle music pipes through the sound system as people stand and begin to shuffle out. George pulls me close. ‘Can I bring over some Thai food tonight and we can watch that Godzilla versus King Kong movie? I know how the monsters soothe you.’
‘I think I just want to sleep,’ I say. ‘But rain check?’
‘’Kay. Well, I’m sending you a DoorDash gift card. Eat something yummy, take a hot bath – seriously. You have to be gentle with yourself.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’ I squeeze back.
She and Arjun head out. Colby finds me next and gives me a big hug.
‘Zoe would have loved your eulogy,’ she says.
‘Thanks.’
Her eyes are full of tears. ‘I don’t know if she ever told you this, but she was there for me when I was at my lowest.’ She inhales shakily.
‘Long story short, I was pregnant, and I developed this horrible condition, hyperemesis gravidarum. I was hospitalized three times, in constant pain – it was horrible.’
‘I’m so sorry. That sounds terrible.’
‘Yeah …’ She pauses to take another deep inhale and looks at the window, her eyes glassy, as if it’s too painful to keep eye contact with me.
‘I wanted that baby. But my body didn’t.
Zoe’s the one who took me to a provider on the West Side, because I couldn’t afford to do it in-hospital.
I’m an artist, you know? I’m uninsured.’ She has to pause again to get a hold of herself.
When her gaze returns to me, I can practically see the pain shining through.
‘There were protesters. Their signs … they were horrible. It was overwhelming. So—’ The ghost of a smile appears on Colby’s full lips.
‘Zoe pulled out her phone and started recording them.’ She presses her lips together.
‘I’ll text you the video, just so you can hear Zoe using that big voice of hers for me when I was at rock bottom.
Every now and then I go back and watch it, just for myself.
It was a horrible day. But it’s fucking moving, actually. ’
‘I’d love to see it.’
She pulls out her phone. ‘Here, I’ll AirDrop it.’
And then, as I pull out my phone to accept it, I have a eureka moment. Oh my God. The first painting in Zoe’s series; the one in Liam’s closet. Life. The monster-baby in the womb—
‘Zoe painted you.’ My heart is racing; I have full body chills. I’ve never been so certain of anything.
‘Did she?’ Colby frowns.
‘I didn’t realize it until you told me your story. I’ll show you.’ I pull up the photo Simon texted me of Life and hand the phone to Colby. ‘I mean – don’t you think? The baby, the woman? And that other figure – don’t you think she represents the protesters?’
‘Holy hell,’ whispers Colby, putting a hand to her chest as she looks. ‘This is powerful shit. Yes. Yes, this is that moment. It has to be.’
I swipe forward. ‘There’s another one called Skin. Is that one about you too, do you think?’
Colby sighs. ‘Oh my God, I remember that one. Not from sight, she was actually being super private about this series. But she did mention to me it was about BDSM – the spikes coming out were supposed to be like a halo of pain. Striking, right? Damn, my girl was talented.’
Crystal, my mind supplies even as I murmur my assent. Could this be a portrait of Crystal? Someone in the Reddit thread was asking if the women had ever met. At the time, I couldn’t figure out a connection. But if one of the paintings is depicting Crystal, that changes things.
‘Where’s the original, by the way?’ says Colby. ‘I thought all her art was stolen.’
‘The second painting is at a gallery. The one about you was bought by …’ I swallow. ‘This guy I met.’
‘Lucky him.’
‘Yeah,’ I murmur. ‘Lucky him.’
*
At one thirty, only Zoe’s parents are left.
We pack the memorabilia back into boxes together, but I stop when I pick up a small photo flip book with a hand-painted title ‘MY LIFE.’ This was obviously Zoe’s.
I thumb it open. The first pictures move quickly through Zoe’s childhood.
A baby with a bow in her hair. A toddler in a smocked dress and a big white straw hat, holding an Easter basket full of candy and grinning toothily.
A gangly preteen posing for a family picture at Disney World.
This doesn’t look like the miserable childhood she always described – though I get that pictures don’t reflect the truth of a life.
‘You can keep that,’ says Tim suddenly. ‘If you want.’
‘Oh … really?’
‘You cared for my daughter, I can tell.’ He offers me a wan smile. ‘Take it.’
‘Thanks.’
I help Tim carry the boxes back to their car, and then we return inside.
‘I really thought you were a pastor,’ I say.
‘Is that what my daughter told you?’
‘Yes,’ I say, feeling a little bit like a traitor. ‘I don’t understand why she’d say that.’
‘You met her senior year, didn’t you?’
I nod.
‘Did she tell you why she ran away the year before?’
My heart is pounding. ‘Just that she was miserable.’
Tim’s face is sad, but in a patient way, like he’s used to bearing this weight. ‘She told one of the teachers that her mother and I were locking her in the basement and leaving her without food for days at a time.’
‘What?’
‘Yes.’ He nods slowly, as if working the memory up from the depths.
‘I wonder if she was trying to get a pity grade bump, since she was failing that class. But of course the teacher reported it, and Child Protective Services came to investigate. Zoe should have thought twice about her story, though. Our basement is the entertainment room – you know, big TV, pool table. And there’s no door at the top of the stairs.
So the case was thrown out. We told her she had to start therapy.
That’s when she stole the car and ran away with her friend Deedee. ’
I’m literally speechless.
Tim smiles, but it’s not a happy smile. ‘When you have a child, you never imagine things will turn out this way. She was so little when we brought her home from the hospital, so perfect. We’d been trying to have a child for years.
We were overjoyed. And now—’ He inhales sharply, then purses his lips.
‘All that’s left is ashes.’ Tears gleam in his eyes. ‘I wish I could make sense of it.’
My heart lurches against my ribs. I want this man to be lying. But everything about him screams honesty.
Tim searches my face. ‘Was she happy, here in Chicago?’
Of course I want to tell him yes. Give him some kind of peace. But the words bunch in my throat.
‘We had some good times,’ is all I can manage. ‘And we had each other.’
He nods, then squeezes my hands. ‘Thanks. Thanks for that, Margot. I’m glad my daughter had someone nice like you in her corner. Well. I suppose I’ll go collect the urn, and we’ll be on our way.’
The urn. Of course he wants to take it. I’d imagined I’d be the one to keep it. But after hearing his story, in a strange way, I do want him and Sue to have it.
We head back inside.
As we enter the parlor, now empty, Tim walks right up to the urn while I stay in the back of the room. He drops his head, like he’s having a private moment of silence before removing it from the table.
I cast my gaze over to Sue, who’s seated in the back row. She catches my eye and beckons me over.
As I take a seat next to her, I notice she’s not looking so good. Her face has a sallow tint.
‘It was a lovely service,’ she says, reaching over and grasping my hand. Her hand is plump and a little sweaty. ‘I just wish we could have found her before she died. We were looking, you know?’
‘You were?’ I say.
‘Oh, yes. Ever since I got my cancer diagnosis.’
Whoa. This is new information.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I sit up a little straighter and squeeze her hand back. ‘I didn’t know.’
She shrugs, a cheerful smile fixed on her lips as if by habit.
‘It’s stage four. Of course, we’re not losing hope.
Miracles can still happen. Still, it would have given me some peace to set eyes on my daughter one more time.
’ When she purses her lips, little feathered wrinkles bunch at the corners of her mouth. ‘All that money, down the drain.’
Money?
My confusion must show, because she emits a sad little laugh.
‘Oh yes – we hired a private investigator.’ Her brows crease.
‘He found her, you know. When she was still alive. He had a meeting set up and everything, and he was going to tell her about my cancer and show her this video her father and I made, asking her to come home and reconcile with us before I … anyway. And then …’
The blood drains from my face.
‘… she didn’t show,’ I finish breathlessly.
Liam. Liam is the private investigator. Tim and Sue Dawson hired Liam to find their daughter. The dating app – the messages – he was trying to find her. For them.
Sue’s eyes widen a little. ‘How did you know?’
‘I met him. Liam Porter, right?’
‘Yes! Did he tell you?’ Her brows scrunch. ‘He was under NDA.’
I exhale. My body feels shaky. Not a serial killer. He was looking for Zoe too, just like I was. ‘No. He didn’t tell me. I just put it together now.’
‘Excuse me? I think there’s been a mistake,’ comes Tim’s voice from up front.
He’s holding the urn in one hand and the lid in the other with an expression of confusion.
‘What’s wrong?’ Sue calls out, her voice trembly.
‘There’s nothing in here,’ her husband calls back. ‘Where are the ashes? Where is my daughter?’