JORDAN’S FATHER IS DOING some paperwork from home on Thursday, and I have no clue what Mama’s schedule is like these days, so Jordan and I meet up at the library closest to my house.
We sit at the table in the back corner of the history section, staring at a picture on my laptop of a lovely blond woman. Images flash through my mind again of the nightmare I had over a week ago featuring Mama as the victim. I swallow hard. I’m relieved to be certain that no matter what Daddy may or may not have done in the past, he did not murder Valynne Kemp. Someone must’ve snuck closer to the crime scene than the police usually allow or maybe the person who found her body took it. It’s a close-up fullbody shot of the way they found her at the crime scene. It was posted on a social media site. We found it by searching under her name; this one wasn’t attached to any news article.
The way her body is posed. Exactly like the pictures of others I’d gotten a glimpse of at Daddy’s trial. I feel a chill seep down through my body to the bottoms of my feet. She looks so outwardly peaceful, but if you peel back the layers and look closer, there is so much destruction beneath the calm surface. According to the news articles we’d read so far, the damage done to Valynne’s body was nearly identical to that on the earlier victims of the East End Killer.
Everything appears serene in the picture, everything but the dark collar of bruising on her neck. Nothing appears to be out of place. Her hands are folded neatly over her stomach. The picture makes it look like being strangled was the only out of the ordinary thing that had happened in Valynne’s otherwise very normal day. Even her hair spreads out softly around her head, a shimmering blond background that makes the angry bruises on her pale neck stand out in even starker contrast.
I remember vividly from the trial, after they showed a similar picture, the prosecution went through image after image. Each was filled with pictures of bruises, cuts, and burns on the skin. They’re completely hidden by the clothing in the first photograph. Those women were beaten and tortured extensively—all before they’d been strangled.
The first time they went over what happened to the victims at trial, Mama hadn’t been prepared with the headphones and coloring book she always brought with her later. She had made me cover my eyes, but the prosecutor explained it in far more detail than my young mind needed. I still remember the X-rays. I’d been too young to understand how to read them, but the prosecution described the many broken bones. He said most were fresh breaks from the hours before their deaths. I remember peeking between my fingers at one particularly gruesome shot of a rib broken in two places.
My mind gets stuck on thoughts of what horrific pain that woman would’ve been in. How terrifying it must’ve been. Had she been relieved when the killer finally strangled her? At what point does death change from something you fear into something you wish for? After the fifth broken bone? The tenth? After you can’t take a breath without absolute agony?
My fingers start to tremble before me. The motion snaps me out of it and I blink. When I raise my eyes, I find Jordan watching me, his jaw tense.
“Sorry,” I say softly, and my voice sounds as emotionally drained as I feel. I’d never believed it could be this hard to look at the information and actually try to think about how the details could indicate Daddy’s guilt. I don’t know what I expected, but at the moment everything that I normally rely on for strength feels mangled, raw, and useless. Like someone ran my heart through a meat grinder and then shoved it back into my chest.
“You don’t have to be sorry, Riley.” Jordan puts one warm hand over mine, rubbing his thumb across my knuckles. “You’re tougher than I’ve seen anyone give you credit for. You are strong enough to handle looking at all of this and truly consider whether you think your own father could’ve done it. Don’t ever feel like you’re weak.”
I stare at him, a little stunned by his words. I’ve always felt like the people around me think I’m weak. Is this really what Jordan sees in me?
“So, you’ve spent twenty minutes reading through all the details we could find on Valynne, and I looked at Hillary Vanderstaff.” He goes straight back to work before I have a chance to say thank you, to respond, to hug him for seeing me that way.
Clearing my throat, I try to jump right back in, too. “Right, Hillary, okay. So we’ll take turns. You ask me questions about my case. I’ll ask you about yours. We’ll compare notes and see what similarities and differences we’ve found.” I shuffle my notes into some semblance of order.
“First question, where was Valynne’s body found?” Jordan asks.