“I’ll walk with you. You shouldn’t be alone anyway.” Paula scrambles up, limber and quick. “Do you mind if I walk with you?” she asks.
“Guess not,” I mumble. We ignore the caution tape and take the trail fast, walking wide over roots and loose rock. This section of the Fells is intentionally less groomed than the main loop, to keep partiers away from the watchtower, and is illegal to enter after four p.m. for the same reason. Glass bottles and cans litter the brush, along with plastic dog-waste bags and cigarette butts. It’s the way I came out on my stretcher, holding the hand of the biker who rescued me after I almost killed him when my screams made him crash. He had the gaunt cheeks and prominent eyes of an adrenaline junkie; he was, I believe, more frightened than I was. We must have talked, or we didn’t. He stayed with me until the paramedics and the police came, and they say I wouldn’t release his hand, even in the ambulance, but I don’t remember that. I do remember being flat on my stretcher, the sun glittering painfully through the lacy treetops, hurting my eyes, but I kept them open. I would keep my eyes open when they set my ankle. I would keep my eyes open when the sad-mouthed nurse swabbed me for evidence of Donald Jessup.
“I understand why you want to come out here,” Paula says suddenly.
“You do?”
“You believe your cases are linked. You need to see what happened to Ana Alvarez to understand the fate you escaped.”
“Some people call that macabre.”
“I call it necessary. Otherwise the entire episode has a randomness that doesn’t sit with you. If Ana Alvarez was your corollary, Donald Jessup had a plan. And if Ana Alvarez was his trial run, at least knowing that would put order to chaos.”
I scowl at the ground, my quads itching to run.
“You think if you go to the spot where they found her, you’ll know. You’ll know if he did it, because you’ll know what his plan was.”
I pump my arms hard. I can’t decide if I’m mad that Paula’s making me sound like an awful person, or that she’s cutting too close to the truth. Either way, the black in my belly is on high alert. “You think I want Ana Alvarez dead?” I ask. “You think her murder is useful to my recovery? What kind of a person do you think I am?”
“I think you’re the kind of person who’s never content with what they’re told,” she says.
“Who checks out their own mother. That’s pretty sad.”
“If it makes you feel better, it’s not sad.”
“You know what would make me feel better?” I huff. “If reporters didn’t pop out of the bushes or the trailhead or vans at Shiverton High School, and I could get on with my life.” I pick up my pace to a jog.
“There’s a place to put your anger, you know,” Paula says, struggling for breath.
“Besides on you and your compadres? Because that feels right, right about now.”
“When the police caught Donald Jessup he was wearing an ankle monitor.” She pants mightily. “Do you know what that is? It’s an electronic device that recorded his location. Donald Jessup was required to wear it—it looks like a thick, black, rubber bracelet around his ankle—as a condition of his parole. The monitor sends a radio frequency signal, a ping containing the offender’s location to a receiver. If the offender moves outside of the allowed range, the police are notified. The allowed range did not include any area within twenty feet of a place that children congregate.”
I start to sprint, calling back, “Like a playground?”
“Like a high school!” She stops and plants her hands on her thighs, leaning over. “Donald Jessup violated his parole by parking at Shiverton High School more than ten times during October and November of last year!” she calls, straining.
I know she’s making a point, but my thoughts migrate as I gain speed. What kind of car did Donald Jessup drive? A beat-up truck? A geriatric Cadillac with handicapped plates? His mother’s? A Lester-the-Molester white van with tinted windows? Did he park in the student parking lot? Why did no one notice?
I trip over a root and sprawl on my hands and knees. Paula catches up and grabs my elbow to lift me. I pull away, swiping at a tear, embarrassed. “How is the tracking even accurate?” I ask. “Couldn’t Jessup just take off the bracelet if he wanted to go somewhere he wasn’t allowed?”
“Ankle monitors are tamper-resistant. It alerts the police if the wearer tries to remove it,” she explains.
“So Donald Jessup was stalking us. What does that prove? We already know he was a pervert.”
“It proves the police failed you. You didn’t know Donald Jessup was wearing an ankle monitor because the police hid it from you, your mother, and the media.”
“Why would they do that?” I ask.
“Julia,” Paula says, trying to touch my arm. I dodge her grasp. “When the offender moves outside of the allowed range, the police are notified. What’s more, Jessup’s parole officer was required to check in with the police weekly to make sure that he wasn’t violating his parole. It was a double oversight.”