Ah, Laura with a chip on her shoulder, a sight I can’t say I’ve missed. Although usually it takes her half a bottle of cheap brandy to get to this point.
“And I’m glad they did,” I say. “This is information that should have been in the case file. Forty years ago.”
“Then maybe the police should have been handling it.”
“Well, the police didn’t handle it,” I say. “And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to continue working. I have to compile all this and take it down to the station to give to Frank.”
Laura laughs. It’s a bitter laugh, unattractive.
“He said he’ll give it to the SQ,” I say, feeling redundant.
“Like the SQ cares.”
After my phone conversation the other day, I have to admit she’s got a point. When I don’t immediately come up with a stinging comeback, she takes it as encouragement. “And what do you even care, anyway? Since when are you our very own brave warrior for the downtrodden? You don’t actually care about Michelle. You never cared about Michelle. Not two years ago, and not now.”
“Why would you say that?” I ask, vexed.
“Because it was obvious to everyone,” she crows. There’s a recognizable gleam in her eyes, that angry Laura gleam when she’s about to say something hurtful on purpose. “Why do you think no one talked to you? Because they seriously thought Michelle was lurking in the woods, ready to snatch their kids? Come on, Stephanie. The people in this town are dumb, but even they aren’t that dumb. No one wanted to talk to you because you breezed back into town after more than a decade, acting like you were doing us all some colossal favor just by being here. Staying at the inn and not even calling your own mother. Don’t you think people talked about that? Oh, let me tell you, they did.”
A little bit of heat rises to my face.
“And everyone knew you didn’t give a shit about Michelle. Why would you give a shit about some child from before you were born, when you don’t even give a shit about your own people? You think we’re all dumb hicks and you’re the cool city girl. Guess what, Stephanie, people do know what a podcast is. And they knew you were only here so you could exploit us for your own ends. That’s why nobody wanted to talk to you.”
“Well, they want to talk to me now,” I say.
“Oh, but that’s because the cat’s out of the bag either way,” Laura says with a shrug. “That won’t make much of a podcast, will it? Turns out you didn’t solve the big mystery—no one did. A flood happened, and there she was, Michelle Fortier. Right under everyone’s noses. So of course, now you, and those gossiping bitches, have to go and make it look like something it was not. Satanic sacrifices, demonic possession, witches in the woods. Do you even hear how ridiculous it all sounds?”
I must admit, she’s not wrong. It sounds ridiculous, but that’s what makes it absolutely perfect for my target audience. Sordid stuff no one can really prove but also no one can completely disprove.
So naturally, I go on the defensive.
“Mom,” I say, “it’s not ridiculous, and it’s not just rumors. That body in the wall could be someone Michelle lured in and killed. We have to at least find out who it is before we—”
“Are you out of your damn mind?” Laura explodes. “You, and everyone in this insane town. You’ve all completely lost your marbles.”
The outburst is unexpected. Laura is trembling, and her eyes look shiny—no longer with the evil glint but with what I suspect to be actual tears.
“It’s bad enough that you threw all common sense out the window,” she says, her voice verging on yelling, “but don’t any of you have a shred of compassion? Michelle Fortier was nine years old. She was a troubled little girl. And here you are, ready to accuse her of God knows what without any proof. Michelle is the victim here!”
I sit still, utterly stunned. My face must be deep red by now. I had no idea Laura ever held such sentiments. Hell, I’d never heard Laura utter that many coherent sentences in a row.
“Mom,” I say.
“Don’t Mom me. Did the city rot your brain? There’s nothing you won’t say for a little bit of attention, your fifteen minutes. Think, Stephanie. Ask yourself what sort of legacy you want to leave behind. Do you want to be the person who made her name on the misery of others? Do you think it won’t have consequences?”
She’s staring me down, her eyes dark and angry and sad. I have a whole hive of excuses and arguments and snappy retorts buzzing in my head, about Serial and My Favorite Murder and Unsolved Mysteries and how I’d hardly be the first and how digging into these old cases is good, actually, but in that moment, they all go silent.
Yes, it is good. Yes, it helped solve cases once or twice, but that wasn’t why I came here. I hadn’t been thinking about justice for Michelle. I’d been thinking about getting my life back and showing everyone—showing them what? That I was better than them?
But I supposedly knew that already, didn’t I?
And if not, whose opinion did I care about so much? Laura’s? Luc’s and Cath’s?
Meanwhile, nobody at my old workplace gave a damn. Not about me, and definitely not about Michelle. I was the epitome of replaceable. It was the reason I got fixated on the Michelle mystery in the first place. I had a personal connection, however tenuous, to something these bored, spoiled people might find interesting, and I decided to mine it for what it was worth before they got rid of me and hired one of their university friends in my place. Which they went and did anyway.
And the worst part is, it made all my efforts utterly pointless. Having made it out of Marly didn’t mean shit and having finished my degree while working two jobs also meant nothing, and whatever skill or talent I thought I possessed clearly wasn’t enough to impress anyone. I was only ever exceptional in any way in my own eyes. So I’d decided not to think about it too much.
I guess it took Laura to rub it in my face while I was having a rare moment of triumph.
I clench my fists at my sides. “Still better than drinking my entire life away in this shithole town,” I snap. “Or is that a better legacy? I guess I should have just stayed here my whole life too, smoking on the back porch, picking up other losers at the town bar.” Stayed here with Luc, a thought flashed through my head—a thought I did my best to shove into the back of my mind and ignore. “Done nothing with my life. Watched soy grow. It’s not much, but at least there are no consequences.”
Laura’s lips press together, deepening the smoker’s lines.
“You people,” I rant, realizing faintly that this is spinning out of my control, my anger escaping its confines. “You people deserve to be miserable. I don’t feel bad exploiting your little problems because that’s what you deserve. You didn’t have to be trivial and inconsequential, but you chose it.”
I expect her to blow up at me or to have a fit of rage and throw something. But instead, she’s quiet. She stays that way for a few moments. Then, just as quietly, she turns around. There’s a pair of shoes by the entrance, and she slips them on and then grabs her coat and puts it on right over her pajama top.
“Where are you going?” I ask, feeling stupid, my voice squeaky and pathetic.
She doesn’t answer. She shuts the door behind her, and a moment later, I hear her car pull out of the driveway, wheels spitting gravel. A moment later, she’s gone.
The house falls into a sort of guilty silence. Without her, without her presence looming so large within these confining walls, the place feels so much bigger somehow. The faucet drips. The clock ticks. It’s all maddening.
Great. Just great.
My laptop sits on the table, silent witness to the meltdown. The thought of resuming my so-called work like nothing happened makes me bitter, but I push through the feeling out of sheer spite. I copy everything I have onto a flash drive. Now to get it to Frank—except Laura’s car is gone and so is Laura.
With a groan, I raise myself out of the chair, nearly knocking it over in the process. Damn you, Mom. I pick up my crutch, which had clattered to the floor, and hobble over to the phone.
