Pray for the Girl

by Joseph Souza

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Lucy Abbott never pictured herself coming back to Fawn Grove, Maine. Yet after serving time in Afghanistan, then years spent as a sous chef in New York, she's realized her only hope of moving on from the past involves facing it again. But Fawn Grove has changed.

When a Muslim teenage girl is found murdered along the banks of the river, difficult memories of Lucy's time overseas come flooding back. At first glance, the tragedy looks like an honour killing. But the more Lucy learns about her old hometown, the less certain that seems.

There is menace and hostility here, clothed in neighbourly smiles and a veneer of comfort. And when another teen is found dead in a cornfield, Lucy must confront a truth more brutal than she could have imagined....

Release date: April 30, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 358

Sample

THE GIRL’S BODY WAS FOUND AFTER A DAYLONG SEARCH, HER FRAIL corpse discovered not far from the banks of the Alamoosa River. She was nestled between two unmovable boulders rising up out of the ground. I heard my sister say that a kayaker paddling down the river saw what looked to be a body protruding from the ground and called the police. The girl, later identified as a refugee from Afghanistan, was fifteen at the time of her death. Rumor had it that she’d been buried up to her chest and then stoned. Wendy said that the trauma to her face was so devastating that she was almost unrecognizable to her family and friends.

The news of the girl’s death startled me when I first heard it. Things like this didn’t happen in Fawn Grove. Or at least they didn’t happen when I grew up here. Then again, I left this place fifteen years ago—and I’ve seen a lot of bad since.

I’d roused myself from a long bout of self-imposed hibernation when I heard the news. My sister and her husband were discussing it at the dining table over lunch, although it could have been breakfast for all I knew. I was standing upstairs and holding on to the railing for support, unsteady and fighting off a stubborn case of vertigo. Time had lost all meaning to me. It seemed not to exist in the sorry state I had gotten myself into.

To say that I was in a bad frame of mind during this conversation was an understatement. My current woes included PTSD, anxiety, and depression, and they were all acting in unison to cloud my thinking. I hadn’t experienced such helplessness in a long time. As much as I tried to disassociate myself from the conversation my sister was having with her husband, I ended up hearing every last word of it.

I stumbled back to my room, numb, narcoleptic, not wanting to hear any more of this. Depressing news seemed to be all I ever heard while living in New York City. Murders, rapes, greedy Wall Street types ripping off investors, stabbings, shootings, terrorist attacks, to name just a few of the heinous crimes that occurred there. The sound of police sirens became like elevator music to my ears. But now that I was back home in Fawn Grove, I just didn’t care. Hope seemed like some long-lost campaign slogan from a bygone era. I’d lost track of my med schedule and started taking whatever pills lay in front of me that day. Sometimes the shape or size appealed to me. Other times a certain color reflected my ever-changing mood.

Whatever I took, it wasn’t helping the situation.

On the bureau sat a vial and next to it a syringe wrapped in plastic. I was supposed to administer a shot to myself every day. I ripped the syringe package open with my teeth and gazed at the troubled woman staring back at me in the mirror. The eyes were accusator y and judgmental. In another time I would have run from this red-haired witch, but instead I drew the liquid into the syringe and stared back at her with an adversarial snarl.

It infuriated me that my mirror image couldn’t or wouldn’t share in the emotional pain I was feeling. But the shell she wore that day was certainly beautiful. Or had been beautiful at one time. Maybe she still had the capacity to be beautiful under the right conditions. I pulled out the bottom drawer, rested my toes on the wooden lip, lifted the robe up to my waist, and plunged the needle into my scarred thigh. The quick burst of pain never failed to thrill me, and I shivered with excitement as the juice wormed its way into my system. It was the one time each day that I felt alive, and it made me envious of the addict’s ritual.

But back to the girl’s murder. I’d allowed a girl to die while serving as a combat medic in Afghanistan, and I vowed never to let that happen again. Not on my watch, anyway. It still weighs on my conscience. It’s part of the reason I left New York City and returned to Fawn Grove. The pain of that memory lingers long after I left the battlefield. Healing both body and mind takes time as well as effort. I thought if I could only confront my past and let it go, everything would be better. But I found that I couldn’t. It was too painful. There’s a toxic hostility seeping through me that I can’t quite cast out.

Something has to give.

Here’s the deal. That Afghani girl is a part of me now. Forgetting her death, as well as the voices that continue to cry out in my head, would destroy me far sooner than coming to grips with their existence, especially now that a girl has been killed in my hometown. I feel compelled to act, or it’ll eat away at me until whoever committed this crime is caught.

They say everything happens for a reason. This must be the reason I wigged out one night in my bug-sized efficiency and returned to Fawn Grove: the veritable armpit of Maine. I feel I was brought back here for a reason.

To find out who killed this girl.

WHEN I LEFT NEW YORK CITY, I LEFT WITH A SUITCASE FILLED WITH my best clothes (admittedly, not many), some personal stuff, a canvas roll of professional knives, and my ego in splinters. Heather was not exactly a happy camper when I gave my notice, which took effect immediately after saying “I quit.” She was eight months pregnant at the time but looked ten, and most of her line cooks were junkies, alkies, or whack jobs. I felt bad about leaving like that. But shit happens in this business. I tried not to stare down at her pumpkin belly as I said the dreaded phrase. I tried not to dwell on the fact that her body would soon burst with life, something mine would never do. She was already short-staffed on the line, and the restaurant was packed to the gills night after night.

Heather was a victim of her own success. If I could have stayed and helped her until she found a replacement, I would have. But in the fragile state I’d descended into, I knew I wouldn’t last another minute in that place. Dropping the ball in that fashion was a terrible thing to do, and considered one of the worst offenses in our profession. But what choice did I have? When the inner demons awaken from their deep slumber, there’s not much one can do but let fate run its course.

So I returned home to Fawn Grove, a town best known for two things: its paper mill and the plane crash that occurred there in 1975, which took the life of hard-partying rock star Angus Gibbons and all his band members. They were on their way to Bangor for a concert when the Convair they were flying in ran out of fuel. Sensing a financial opportunity, the town quickly erected a memorial at the sight of the crash, and just like that, a small cottage industry was created, celebrating the life of a guitar god taken too soon.

Returning to Fawn Grove was never in the cards for me. Then again, not much in my life has gone as planned. It’s been a little over fifteen years since I’ve been back here, and every day that went by I missed this town a little bit less, until one day I forgot it ever existed.

I stare at myself in the bureau mirror, under the soft light of a faux Tiffany lamp my sister has a fondness for collecting. The skin over my face appears remarkably smooth, considering all that I’ve been through. I lift the brush and dust a light smattering of rouge over my cheekbones. Putting on makeup is something I’ve become quite adept at. I pencil in black eyeliner, apply a swathe of lavender across my lids, and then draw a thin sheen of glossy pink over my lips. A quick pucker and I’m ready to go.

But go where?

It’s three-twenty in the morning when I look up. The old Victorian is deathly quiet at this hour. I swear it groans under the considerable weight of my family’s history. I move gingerly through the room, the floorboards warped and weathered with wear. Being nocturnal has its advantages. It also has its downside, and considering that I’ve barely left my room in the last few weeks, I’d say everything’s evenly matched.

I’m all skin and bones. Lying in bed for over a week tends to do that to a girl. Still, most women would kill to have my svelte figure and razor-sharp features. I know this because many women have come up to me on the street and said as much. I’m not trying to brag by saying this. In fact I’ve never had much in my life to boast about. But women definitely yearn for the smooth skin along my cheeks; my long, thin legs; and my perfectly shaped nails. If they only knew what I had to do each day to look this beautiful, maybe they wouldn’t feel so envious. If they only knew about the capricious panic attacks that strike out of nowhere. The constant anxiety I experience over my weight. Or the fact that I eat like a hummingbird on an Atkins diet, despite being an accomplished sous-chef in New York City. But worst of all is the insomnia.

The main reason I can’t sleep is because of the voices. They fill my head when I least expect it, beseeching me for help. They cry out for me to do something. Anything. They plead for me to save them from the terrible fate that awaits them. But I don’t know how to help them. I’m forced to listen to their high-pitched pleas with a hopelessness bordering on resignation. I hear chains scraping and pulling from their mooring. I hear men’s stern voices. And screams. It’s one of the reasons I became a chef, so I could avoid them by working late into the night. Then stay up until dawn when the light rectifies the anxiety and puts the voices to bed. I’m a vampire infected by my own past.

But today I’m up and about, casually outfitted in a sleeveless white sundress imprinted with a pretty floral pattern. It’s the first day since I’ve arrived that I feel good enough to leave the house. It’s time I do something productive. Like find out more about that dead girl.

I unfurl the canvas bag and run my hand across the collection of knives I’ve amassed throughout the years. After caressing the black walnut handles, I slide a finger over a razor-sharp blade until a papery layer of skin splits apart like a white rose in bloom.

I traipse down the stairs, trying not to make the floorboards groan. Holding the polished rail for support, my eyes struggle to adjust to the dark. I see photographs of my family on the wall as I descend. Near the bottom, there’s a portrait of Jaxon taken in his high school days. In it he looks serious and reflective, which is completely different from the Jaxon I remember. The sight of him hiding behind that long mane makes me want to cry. Despite all the years that have passed, and my conflicted feelings about him, I still miss that boy.

I make my way into the kitchen and see the keys to the ’94 pickup hanging by the light switch. Before grabbing them off the hook, I slip into my sweater, checking to make sure my sunglasses are still in my pocket. Then I make my way into the darkness.

Not a week after I’d arrived in Fawn Grove, the girl was found dead. At the time, I was in no condition to reflect on this crime. I had my own problems to deal with, and it took all my energy just to care for myself. I buried my head under the covers, hiding out from the world, and stayed in that state for over a week. During this period of self-imposed isolation, time ceased to have any meaning. Two weeks could have been two days. I staggered out of bed for minutes at a time to nibble on stale toast left over from the previous day’s breakfast. I ignored whatever dish happened to be brought up to my room. All I could stomach was toast, charred and tasteless, in nibbles that fooled my stomach into believing it was full. And sips of water. Or else plain tea, in order to swallow the random pill I had chosen that day.

But today I feel more like myself. Not 100 percent, but better.

I leave the house and climb inside the pickup my sister has allowed me to use during my extended stay here. It starts without hesitation, and the engine has a nice rumble to it that travels up my spine and warms me with a nostalgic glow. A chill hangs in the air this morning, my breath visible like powdered sugar flung haphazardly in the air. I let the engine idle. After a few minutes, the steady stream of defrosted air clears the fogged windshield and allows me to see the road ahead. The inside of the cab is warm and cozy as I punch the clutch and shift into first. The truck jerks forward, tossing my head back.

Now to see what’s become of my old hometown.

It never occurred to me that I would in any way miss Fawn Grove, or accept the fact that it had changed during the fifteen years I’d been away. There’s the paper mill on the north side of town, still hanging on by a thread. At one time, the mill employed half the town, providing good wages for the people who lived here. Not so much anymore, as their line has shrunk down to producing one specific product: catch-and-release papers. On the south side of town, up on the hill, sits Dunham College for the Deaf. The school is, without a doubt, the quietest forty acres in Fawn Grove. In the event one ever needs a bit of solitude, Dunham is the place to go. On the western part of town, by way of the grubby train terminal, is the development of townhouses where the Afghani immigrants have settled. This is where the murdered girl lived.

I drive past the mill, smoke billowing out the tall brick stack. Even with the windows up, I can still detect the sour stench of rotten eggs, a natural by-product of the papermaking process. My grandfather always said that smell was a good thing. The smell of money, he’d announce with pride. A skeletal crew works around the clock struggling to produce these catch-and-release papers, which are used to create synthetic textured finishes for certain manufactured goods. These skeletal crews keep the plant afloat one ream at a time. I try not to stare at the plant as I pass, but the smokestack has become somewhat of a landmark in these parts. Mention Fawn Grove to anyone outside of the town, and depending on who you ask, they’ll either mention Angus Gibbons or the paper mill.

The mill has taken up a good chunk of real estate in my mind. Even when it’s not in sight, it looms large in my consciousness. My dad worked there for over ten years, as did his dad, overseeing the lines of print news, when print news was the shits. Newspapers put a roof over our heads and food on our table. These days no one my age reads newspapers.

I turn off Mill Road and head back to the main artery that cuts through town. Past the grimy strip mall with the sad bowling alley, the Bennie’s Original Steak Burger, and the town’s lone movie theater. Taking a right on to Beardsley Road, I drive toward the townhouses where the new arrivals have settled. Even in the dark, I can see that they’re poorly constructed. Officially, they call this neighborhood Blueberry Hill, but I heard from my sister that some people in town refer to it as Mecca. The rows of drab gray townhouses run up and down and along the back side of the hill. An aerial view might mistake it for a series of Marine barracks. At one time this area was populated with trees and brooks and places for townie kids to play. Everyone came here to pick the wild blueberries that grew naturally. We used to race bikes up and down the dirt paths, making ramps out of discarded plywood boards, and cutting trails through the woods so that we could get from here to there. We’d play Relievio, hide-and-seek, and any other adventurous game that could occupy us until dinner.

I cruise slowly through the narrow streets, mindful of the speed bumps, eying the broken-down cars and porches littered with junk, wondering which unit the missing girl had once lived in. The shabbiness of it all depresses me. It makes me wish they’d just kept it the way it was. It’s a reminder that not all change is for the best.

But who am I to say what’s best? To the refugees who’ve settled here, this town might seem like paradise. Or hell. I can’t imagine escaping from some shitty war-torn parcel of dust only to be moved halfway across the world to Fawn Grove. To arrive upon our frigid Maine shores and realize that in many ways America is a more dangerous and depressing country than the one they left. A place where children die for no good reason.

Not a soul is out at this ungodly hour, and so I cut short the tour and head back to the center of town. Surprisingly, I discover that I’m famished, which is a good sign. I haven’t been this hungry in weeks. Maybe such hunger pangs are a sign that I’m finally getting better and will soon be able to face my sister and her family.

I glance at the clock and notice that it’s almost four A.M. I’ve been driving for nearly forty minutes. It’s way too early to return home and start chopping potatoes, frying bacon, and scraping sweet cream butter across slightly charred squares of toast. My only hope is that The Galaxy is open at this hour.

Back in the day, when the mill was going full steam, The Galaxy used to be open twenty-four seven. You could find people in there at all times, especially on weekend nights after the local bars and pubs let out. It was a place for workers to go after a long night toiling in the mill. At one time it boasted about having the best corned beef hash in Maine. Come fall, there would be lots of burly, bearded men dressed in camouflage, oftentimes a freshly killed moose or deer lying bloodied in the bed of their pickup.

The road I travel on is dark and surrounded on either side by woods and gentle hills. As I speed past, I see a police cruiser hiding between a grouping of trees. A quick glance at the speedometer tells me I’m doing nearly seventy in a forty-five mph zone. Lights flash and the siren blips. I peek in the rearview and see a cop car racing in my direction. I pull over and watch as the cruiser comes to a stop behind me. The officer steps out of his car and ambles toward the truck, one hand on his holster (this never used to happen here). I place both hands on the steering wheel and pray that I’ve never crossed paths with this cop. My long blue nails tap nervously on the hard plastic. I admire their shape and hue as he approaches, but I try not to focus on the many scars and burns dotting the back of my hands. Women who make their careers in kitchens rarely have smooth skin.

A knock on the window and I roll it down by hand.

“Good morning, ma’am. Out for a drive?” he asks in a low voice that sounds vaguely familiar. He leans forward so that his face can be seen through the open window. I continue to look straight ahead. A distrust for authority once ran strong through these veins.

“Something wrong, Officer?”

“You tell me.”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a drive.” I turn and notice that it’s Rick Dalton. How could I forget those magnetic blue eyes and butt cheek chin. Or the barest trace of acne scars over the lower half of his face. Pinned to the breast of his uniform is an American flag. Underneath it, it says AMERICA FOR AMERICANS.

“Going a little fast in this old truck, wouldn’t you say?”

“Honestly, I didn’t realize I was going so fast.” I stare nervously at the road ahead, praying he doesn’t recognize me. I’ve changed since those days. I’m not the same dorky kid he once bullied.

“What’s your name?” He breathes a cloud of smoke.

“Lucy.”

“Well, Lucy, I’m going to need to see your license and registration.”

I pull the registration out of the glove compartment, pluck my New York City license out of my purse, and hand them to him.

“Wow! All the way from New York City.” He stares at my license before breaking into his most charming smile. “Now, don’t go away, Lucy. I’ll be right back.”

I’m a wreck and can barely hold myself together. As I wait patiently for him to return, I pray he doesn’t make the connection between my current and former self. But how could he? I’d changed my name and my appearance since moving away. After a few minutes pass, he gets out of his car and walks toward me. I apply another shade of gloss over my lips, pop a breath mint into my mouth, and toss my hair back over my shoulder. I can’t help but notice that he’s aged well since I last saw him.

“Well, Lucy Abbott, it appears you have a very clean driving record.”

“Do I get a sticker for that?”

He laughs. “Not quite.”

“I’m sorry if I went over the speed limit, Officer. Honestly, I didn’t intend to.”

“No one ever intends to. But the law is the law.”

“I’ll make sure to pay attention to the road signs from now on.”

“Probably not the best idea to be driving around here at this time in the morning. Especially the way this town is changing.”

“Changing?”

He leans in a bit closer. “You haven’t heard?”

I shake my head.

“Just passing through town, are we?”

I laugh. “Something like that.”

“Where’re you staying?” He leans on my door a bit too close for comfort.

“Is this an official interrogation?”

“Just making polite conversation.”

“Good, because for a moment there I thought I might need to call my attorney.”

“This used to be a good, law-abiding town. Unfortunately, a girl was recently kidnapped and killed here. I’m concerned for your safety.”

“Don’t go worrying your pretty face, Officer. I know how to take care of myself.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? A girl was murdered.”

“Girls are murdered all the time in New York City. That doesn’t stop me from going out and living my life.”

“Fawn Grove is definitely not New York City,” he says, laughing. “I’ve always wanted to visit that place.”

“You definitely should. The restaurants there are to die for.”

“Listen to me, Lucy. This girl’s murder was different than most murders you hear about.”

“Are you trying to purposefully scare me? Just because I went over the speed limit?”

Dalton stares at me for a few seconds before breaking into laughter. “Maybe I am.”

“What’s so funny?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Big-city girl like you cracks me up.” He reaches for something down by his pocket. “You plan on staying long in Fawn Grove?”

“I’m not sure just yet.”

“Well, whatever you decide, I hope you have a pleasant stay here.” He rips off a pink sheet and hands it to me. “Today’s your lucky day. I’m letting you off with a warning. So take it easy on the gas, okay?”

“Trust me, you won’t catch this girl speeding through town again.” I laugh in spite of myself.

“Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Not if we’re meeting in this fashion.”

“Something tells me that with a lead foot like yours, this speeding thing could be habitual.”

“Habitual,” I say. “Good word.”

“Never underestimate the intelligence of a Mainer.” He raps his knuckles against his temple.

“I would never.”

“Maybe we can grab a coffee sometime.”

“Did you become a police officer to spice up your love life?”

“A guy like me doesn’t need a badge to get a date in this town.”

“Maybe we’ll run into each other one of these days.”

“I’d like that,” he says. I start to roll the window up, but he stops it with his fingers. “My friends call me Rick.”

“You have friends?”

“I have one now.” He winks at me. “Have a great day, Lucy.”

I watch as he walks back to his car. The headlights in the rearview flash in my eyes, momentarily blinding me. I sit quietly, overcome with emotion, trying to keep my hands from shaking. A fine line exists between police work and criminality, and Rick Dalton is no exception to the rule. I half expected to learn that he was behind bars or out on bail. Or that maybe someone had killed him in a fit of rage. Nothing would have pleased me more than to have spit in his face and sped away.

His car does a U-turn and heads back down the long, dark road. Thankfully, he won’t be following me back into town. He’ll be setting a trap for some other poor sap.

By the time I get to the diner, I’m in a much better space. My stomach growls for pancakes, sausages, and bacon. Or maybe a cheese omelette as plump as a princess’s pillow. There’s only a few cars parked in the lot. I pull up in front of the stainless steel caboose, remembering all the times I spent here in my youth. A dilapidated sign over the caboose says THE GALAXY DINER in neon pink lights. It’s the same sign from my youth.

I walk inside the brightly lit dining room, slipping on my sunglasses as I make my way to the counter. My heels click loudly against the chipped and moldy tiles, announcing my presence. The sun will soon start to rise, which will cause me to retreat back to the safety of darkness. If I fail to return to my room by then, the headaches might return with a vengeance. Then I’ll be right back where I started when I first arrived here.

I FOLD MY DRESS UNDER MYSELF AS I SIT AT THE COUNTER. APART FROM an elderly man sitting in one of the tattered leather booths, I’m the only person inside the place. The Galaxy looks almost the same as when I left, just rattier and more run-down. Hung on the wall are dusty photographs of Angus Gibbons despite the fact that he never set foot in The Galaxy. Those are new and probably put there to attract the occasional tourist who wanders in. Water stains are splattered across the drop-down ceiling like a Pollock canvas. Tiles along the floor are chipped and dirty. The smell of grease and mold is quite strong. It’s a scent any chef worth a damn can detect. Working in a pit like this would send me over the edge, which is why I was always fanatical about keeping my kitchens clean.

In my floral sundress and gradient cat-eye sunglasses, I feel completely overdressed for this place. My unease will become more profound in an hour when the mill’s shift workers storm in ordering pancakes, bacon, sausage, and eggs.

I grab the weekly rag sitting on the counter and begin to read about the dead girl. She was fifteen when she was killed and lived in this country less than two years. There’s a black-and-white photo of her wearing a hijab and staring into the foreground. Her face is placid, and there’s virtually no expression over it. I wonder how her family is dealing with this tragedy. They’d barely escaped the devastation in their own country only to come to America and experience the senseless murder of their daughter.

“Coffee?” the girl behind the counter asks. Her splotched nameplate says STEF and she has the complexion of a Mediterranean princess.

“I’d love some,” I say, folding the paper in half. She pours me a cup as I glance at the plastic menu spattered with grease and dried food. “I’ll have the Western omelette while you’re here.”

Frowning, she snatches the menu out of my hand and goes back to the kitchen. She shouts my order to the cook and then returns to the breakfast bar. “I’ve never seen you in here before. Passing through town?”

“I suppose you could say that.” I pour cream and sugar into my coffee. Yellowing grains of salt ball up near the middle of the dispenser.

“You don’t look like anyone from these parts.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The flowery dress and fancy sunglasses at four in the morning. Who in their right mind does that?”

“I like to look my best when I go out.” I sip this dreadful coffee and try not to show my displeasure. “And the glasses are for light sensitivity.”

“For real?”

“Would I lie about something like that?”

“How would I know? I don’t even know you.”

“Trust me, I wouldn’t.”

“I noticed you were reading about the murder of that immigrant girl.”

I stare in irritation at this busybody. “Shouldn’t you be in school or something?”

“School doesn’t start for a few more hours.”

I look around the near-empty diner, not in the mood for conversation right now, especially with a moody teen asking me a lot of useless questions. Ripped leather stools to the left of me. Empty stools to the right. Where’s all the paying customers?

“Where’s Harry?” I ask.

“Who?”

“Harry Baker. The old guy who used to run this place?”

“So you do know something about The Galaxy.” She looks surprised by this. “He died and his kids sold it to my papou. He’s been running it for the last eleven years now.”

I push the paper aside as an elderly couple settles into a back booth. Stef shrugs so that her black hair cascades down around her shoulders.

“You can’t be much older than this dead girl.”

“She was in a few of my classes, but I didn’t know her very well.” She walks away as if that’s all she’s going to say on the matter.

The girl is limber and quick, and moves gracefully around the counter with coffeepot in hand. She reminds me of someone I once knew but can’t quite place. I hear her take the elderly couple’s order. When she returns to the counter, she stares at me wearing a goofy smile.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

“Those two old-timers asked about you.”

“Why would they do that?”

She rolls her eyes and laughs. “Are you that clueless? Someone like you stands out in this town. They think you’re famous.”

“Me?”

“With your fancy hair, sunglasses, and dress. And wearing all that goopy makeup.” She laughs. “Of course I told them you weren’t anybody worth staring at.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Despite the obvious sarcasm in her voice, I find her rather amusing. The irony is that she’s likely more striking than any other girl in town. If she looks this way now, how will she look in five or six years? Back in New York City, no one raised an eyebrow at me on the streets, especially after I’d spent twelve hours toiling in a hot kitchen, my grease-laden hair up in a bun, sweat dripping down my oven-blasted fa