It Ends Here Read online

  "They found the body of a boy inside an abandoned house. They say he was killed in an accident, but…"

  "Ah here we go again," he said exhaling. "You don’t believe it's an accident, am I right?"

  "Listen to me, Sune. It's not just something I’ve come up with out of the blue. There was another boy. He was also found dead in the exact same spot forty years ago."

  "Geez, Rebekka, you think you see a story in everything. Can you never just let something go? It could be a coincidence and, once you realize that, you'll have wasted all this time and my time as well."

  "I don't believe in coincidences; you know that." I paused, feeling tired. I hated the way Sune and I spoke to one another now. I wanted to ask him how his training was going, ask him how he was doing, if he had enjoyed being out on his first photographer job again. I longed to connect with him, like really connect and talk about important stuff. Back in the day, we would work on a story like this together, and I could use him to bounce off my theories and ideas. How did that disappear from one day to the next? I hadn't just lost my boyfriend and the father of my second child. I had lost my best friend.

  You're the one who threw him out, remember? You didn't want him back. Even though he cried and asked for forgiveness. You told him to go be with Kim. You said that you and he were done. You practically threw him back into her arms.

  "Listen, I gotta go. Tell the kids I love them and that I'll call later."

  I didn't wait for his reply but hung up. I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye, then got out of the car, my stomach rumbling loudly.

  Adeline and her friend were still on the porch, chatting. I approached them near the door.

  "Ah, Rebekka," Adeline said. "How are you on this fine day?"

  "I’m well, thank you," I lied. I wasn’t doing very well, to be honest. I felt crushed and missed having Sune in my life. "I’m just about to grab something to eat."

  "Their cornbread is to die for," she smiled. "Rebekka is the reporter I told you about," Adeline said, addressed to her friend standing next to her. She had short curly hair that went down beneath her ears and very blue eyes.

  The woman smiled. "I see. How interesting."

  "I'm doing a story about Margot Addington, the author," I said. “I had an interview with her yesterday.”

  They both looked like they had no idea who she was.

  "She actually lives closer to Bushnell. On a farm about ten to fifteen miles from here."

  "What type of books does she write?" the curly-haired woman asked.

  "Mysteries," I said. "The latest, The Terrible Death of Angus McMannus, is currently number one on the NYT bestseller list. It's quite good."

  The women both shuddered. "I never read that stuff,” the small woman with the curls said. "It’s too realistic if you ask me. Gives me nightmares."

  "If she's a local girl, then maybe we should read it, just to say we knew her," Adeline said. "I’ve never heard her name before, though."

  "Well, she's a newcomer," I said. "Moved here only four years ago with her husband and daughter. He is a neurosurgeon at Leesburg Regional. Theodore Addington."

  Adeline shook her head. "Never heard of him either."

  The door opened, and a man stepped out. I recognized him as the mayor of Webster, Mayor Pickens. He was chewing on a toothpick and smiling a satisfied smile at Adeline and the curly-haired woman before lifting his hat with a sturdy, “Hello, ladies.” The smell coming from inside made my stomach scream for food.

  "Well, maybe you should check her out one day. She's quite good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get something to eat before I explode."

  "Get the fried chicken," Adeline said, holding my hand in hers briefly while smiling. I smiled back.

  "Will do. See you ladies later."

  24

  Stomach filled and feeling more at ease, I left the Farmer's Market, then drove back to the motel. I still had a lot of research to do and, even though everything did seem brighter after the big meal, I still felt a little discouraged. I didn't really know how to go about this story. How to get into it.

  As I parked the car, I received a text from Julie.

  HAVING A TERRIBLE DAY.

  Oh, no.

  WHAT'S GOING ON?

  I DON'T HAVE ANY FRIENDS.

  WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FRIENDS?

  THEY ALL HATE ME. NO ONE IS TALKING TO ME. I AM ALL ALONE.

  I sighed and rubbed my eyes in frustration. I hated that I couldn't do anything to help her. Middle school was just terrible.

  YOU'LL BE OKAY, I wrote back, not knowing what else to say. YOU CAN FIND NEW FRIENDS?

  I DON'T WANT NEW FRIENDS.

  I knew what she meant. She had one very good friend, Maggie, whom she always hung out with, but every now and then, Maggie would rather hang out with Kylie than Julie, and that left my daughter all alone. I didn't understand why they couldn't just hang out all three of them, but apparently, that wasn't a solution.

  SCHOOL IS OVER IN A FEW HOURS. TOMORROW, IT'LL ALL BE BETTER, I tried, even though I knew it wouldn't comfort Julie.

  I MISS YOU. WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME?

  And there it was. The nagging feeling of guilt. Not only did Julie have to deal with friend trouble but she also had to miss her mother and be with her ex-stepdad and his new girlfriend instead. I felt terrible.

  IN A COUPLE OF DAYS, I replied. I'LL CALL LATER. I LOVE YOU.

  LOVE YOU TOO.

  I exhaled and put the phone in my pocket. I got out of the car, then slammed the door shut when someone approached me, rushing toward me so fast I could barely react.

  "Who the hell do you think you are?" he hissed at me.

  "Excuse me? I don’t even know who you are."

  The man standing in front of me in cowboy boots was tall and intimidating. The shirt he was wearing was expensive. So was his leather hat. I recognized him from the photo I had seen in the newspapers.

  Mark Cunningham, Alexander's dad, aka the current Cucumber King.

  His red-rimmed eyes glared at me angrily. "Why would you do such a thing?"

  I stared at him, confused. I was pressed up against the car to keep my distance from him and his agitated hands.

  "Do what exactly? I’m not sure I follow.”

  "My wife. Why would you be putting those ideas in her head?"

  "I’m not sure I understand. What ideas?" I asked, wondering if I still had that pepper spray in my bag Sune once gave me for situations like these. I wasn't one to own a gun, so he told me always to carry that instead. Just in case.

  Mark Cunningham's nostrils were flaring. He pointed his finger at me, his eyes on fire.

  "I’m telling you…you…you stay out of this. Alexander's death was an accident. I don't need you comin' here and tellin' my wife otherwise; do you hear me?"

  He spoke through gritted teeth. I could see his jaw moving behind the skin. "I…I never meant to…"

  He stepped closer. I could smell his breath on my face. "I think it's best you leave town now. You hear me? We don’t want people like you here. You’re not welcome anymore."

  "Excuse me?" I asked, startled. “Are you threatening me?”

  He slammed his hand brusquely into the roof of my car. "We don't need no nosy little reporter comin' here and messing with our heads. You get out of here, now. You hear me? Pack your little things and leave."

  I couldn't believe my own ears. I stared at the man, my heart throbbing in my chest. He snorted at me, spat on the ground next to me, then turned around on his heel and trotted back toward his pick-up truck. Seconds later, the engine roared, and he drove out of the parking lot, his tires screeching as he turned onto the road and took off.

  I stood there, my heart pounding in my chest, staring after him, completely baffled.

  Once I couldn't see the truck anymore, I got back into my own car and took off.

  25

  Webster, Florida 1979

  Carol stood outside her sister's house when she heard something
fall and break. As usual, she hated coming to her sister's place. It was so dirty and disgusting; Carol tried never to touch anything. She never knew who was inside the house, if her sister was working or not, so she knocked and waited for her sister to open the door. She never just knocked and then walked inside, as most people did around there. Not in this house. You never knew what you'd find on the other side.

  "Joanna?" she said as she heard the loud thud. More bumps followed, sounding like someone was struggling.

  Carol swallowed and looked at the door handle. Did she dare to walk in? She had done it once before when she thought her sister was in trouble, then found her on the kitchen table, a strange man on top of her. Her sister had laughed when she saw Carol's terrified face.

  Was this like that time? If so, then she wouldn't go in. She'd wait outside.

  But what if she was really in trouble this time? What if she needed her help? What if Anna Mae did?

  She had come to talk to Joanna because she was worried about Anna Mae. They had called from the Petersons’ house and told her that Anna Mae had been standing outside of their house when the coffin of little Timothy was carried out. She had a grin on her face, Leanne had said. Leanne had tried desperately to get Anna Mae to stop coming by, to stop asking if she missed Timothy. Leanne had stopped opening the door if she knocked, but she still knew she was out there, ready to torment her. She couldn't take it, Leanne had said, crying.

  Carol had tried to make excuses for the girl. She said she was just fascinated by what had happened, that maybe you couldn't blame her for being a little strange with everything that went on in her own house.

  But now, Leanne was threatening to call the police, and that could turn out to be trouble for Anna Mae if she didn't stop it. She had to stay away from the Petersons’ house from now on. Carol hoped that by telling Joanna this, that maybe she might step up and be a mother for once.

  “Don't get your hopes up too high, Carol.” That's what John had said to her this same morning when she told him her intentions.

  Another thud sounded from behind the door, and then a small scream followed. Carol knew she couldn't just stand there anymore. She had to do something. So, she did. She grabbed the handle and turned it, then opened the door, bracing herself for what she'd find on the other side.

  But what she saw, she had no way of preparing herself for. No one would. Anna Mae was on the floor, a man on top of her, in this instant pulling his pants down to his knees. Anna Mae was trying to get out from underneath him, but he was holding her down. Meanwhile, her mother stood leaned up against the counter, smoking a cigarette, looking at them like she couldn't care less what happened to her daughter.

  "What on Earth…? Joanna?" Carol shrieked. Then she spotted a stack of money on the kitchen counter, and suddenly she felt like throwing up. "Did you…did you…?"

  She couldn't even get herself to say the words. She stared at Anna Mae crying on the floor. The big man on top of her wasn't getting off. He was trying to kiss her, forcing his stubbled face at her.

  "What are you doing to her?" Carol screamed. "What have you done?" She grabbed the man and tried to pull him off her, but he didn't move.

  Then she ran to the stove, grabbed a pan, and with a scream worthy of an Amazon warrior, she ran toward him. As the man saw her, he let go of Anna Mae. He got up and began to run, tripping on his pants that he fought to pull back up.

  "Crazy bitch," he hissed, then rushed outside and, seconds later, he was gone.

  Carol turned to look at her sister, trying to say something, but no words left her mouth.

  "You…you sold her?" she finally managed to ask. “You sold your own daughter like she was some…sex slave?”

  Her sister blew out smoke. "Yeah, well, I guess you just ruined that."

  "I sure hope so,” Carol said. She couldn't believe her sister's indifference. How could she not care what happened to her only child?

  Anna Mae was still crying, and Carol took her in her arms. She carried her toward the door.

  "She's coming home with me," she said, her eyes flat with determination. "And she'll be staying there. If you object, I'll tell the sheriff everything, and you'll be sent to jail."

  She didn't wait for her sister to answer. She turned around and carried Anna Mae out of there, her heart aching.

  26

  The sheriff's office was located next to City Hall. I found Sheriff Travers sitting behind his desk, eating—not surprisingly—a piece of pie, trying to keep in shape for the competition, I guessed.

  The door was open, so I just walked inside. His face grew gloomy as he spotted me. He leaned back and forced a smile.

  "You again? I’m surprised to see that you’re still around?"

  I lifted my eyebrows. "I would like to file a report against Mark Cunningham. He just threatened me in the parking lot in front of the motel."

  Sheriff Travers stared at me, his hands meeting at the top of his stomach. The cup in front of him read:

  BEST FRIGGIN' SHERIFF EVER.

  "He did, now, did he?"

  "He sure did. He told me to leave town."

  "Did anyone witness this threat being made?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And what exactly was he threatening you with?"

  "He didn't say," I said. "But he was being very aggressive toward me."

  The sheriff's leather chair creaked as he moved forward. "So, you want to report for him threatening you with nothing?"

  I exhaled. "He was being threatening toward me. He told me to leave town."

  The sheriff nodded. "Okay. Fill out the paperwork by the front desk, and I'll look into it. When I have the time."

  "Why do I have the feeling that won't be anytime soon?" I asked.

  He threw out his arms. "We're very busy. Lot's of paperwork recently. Some of it might even get lost. You know how it is."

  I clenched my fist, annoyed. I don't know what I had expected by coming there, but it was the best idea I had been able to come up with. I wasn't going to let some buffoon threaten me and not do anything about it, even if that buffoon did own half the town. I didn’t like this guy one bit. He was a man who looked like he had a lot on his conscience, like he was hiding something big.

  "Anything else?" the sheriff asked. He glanced at the piece of pie next to him, and I could tell he couldn't wait to dig back in.

  I was about to walk away when I stopped myself. "As a matter of fact, there is."

  The sheriff grinned. "Why doesn’t that surprise me?"

  I placed my hands on his desk, then leaned across it. "There was something that had me wondering. When I spoke to Mrs. Cunningham, Alexander Cunningham’s mother, she told me the boy died from falling, from hurting his head. But the autopsy report doesn’t mention any bruises to his head. According to it, he died from asphyxiation. Now, there were no bruises on his throat to indicate he was strangled, but he sure didn't die from falling. Why would you tell the parents that?"

  The sheriff went quiet, and his smile froze in place. He stared at me, his nostrils flaring lightly, a vein popping out on his throat.

  "And just how—pray tell—do you know what the autopsy report states?" he asked. "I don't recall you being next of kin or even requesting access to the report. Because I would have denied it to you."

  "Why did you lie to them? Why not tell the parents the truth?" I asked.

  The sheriff gritted his teeth. "I think it's best you leave now. For both of us."

  I didn't budge. "Why did you lie to them? Is it because you’re afraid the killer is back? Because you fear it’s the same person that killed Timothy Peterson forty years ago? Is that it?"

  The sheriff rose to his feet with a grunt. He pointed at the door.

  "GET OUT."

  27

  Most people didn't notice her, but she was used to that. As a homeless person, she was used to slipping in and out of places unseen. And so she did again on this late afternoon. She slipped unseen into the Circle K just
for a few minutes to cool down. It was so hot out that she felt like she was going to melt. She needed to feel the cold air on her face for just a second.

  She had left her belongings outside on a bench. There was hardly anything in them, so she wasn't afraid they would be stolen. But she couldn't take the bags with her since people would be able to tell she was homeless.

  Ah, the smell of hot dogs.

  The woman stared at the food by the counter, the hot dogs turning and sizzling. She felt the hunger nagging in her stomach, then turned away. She had no money. She had stayed at the intersection by Wal-Mart most of the day, but no one had mercy on her and slipped her any bills. She reached inside the pocket of her dirty pants that she had stolen from a guy who had been sleeping on a cardboard box under a bridge. He had a bag of clothes in a shopping cart next to him, and she slipped the pants out, not realizing they were way too hot for this weather. But in the wintertime, she would have good use of them, if they lasted that long. If you had to choose a place to be homeless, Florida was a good place since the winters didn't get very cold, but boy, the summers were tough when you couldn't find shelter from the sun and the heat.

  The woman closed her eyes and walked closer to the vent where the cold air came out. She let it fall on her face for a few seconds; then, when she opened them again, the manager was standing in front of her. She knew him from the many times he had thrown her out before. She wasn't allowed to use their restroom anymore since he said it was only for paying costumers.

  "You buying anything today?" he asked. “Did you bring any money?”

  She grinned. Then she held up the dollar in front of his young face. “I sure am. Can I get one of those hot dogs, please?"

  The manager looked displeased, then grabbed her dollar and walked behind the counter.

  "Give her a hot dog so she'll get out of here,” he said to the teenager behind it. The young man gave her a look of disgust, then grabbed a hot dog and put it in a bun. The manager put the dollar away, and the woman took the hot dog. She smelled it before taking the first bite, then gobbled it down.