The Sun Down Motel

“Are you Miss Kirk?” he asked me.

“Yes.”

He introduced himself—garbled a name and a title that I didn’t hear or retain. The blood was rushing too loudly in my ears.

“I understand you’re looking for your aunt, Vivian Delaney,” the man said.

I nodded.

He looked at me closely. “Listen to me, okay? I understand you’re in a weird place. But listen to what I’m saying.”

He did know. He understood what it felt like. I felt my shoulders relax, just a little.

“Two things,” the man said. “There is a body in that car. It’s been there a long time.”

My fingernails dug into my palms. I barely felt it.

“The second thing,” the man said, “is that it isn’t your aunt.”

My lips were numb, barely working. “How do—how do you know?”

“Because it’s a man,” he said. He shook his head as I opened my mouth again. “No. I’ve got nothing else to say. We’re conducting an investigation, and I have no information yet. But I can tell you definitively that we do not have Vivian Delaney in there. I’m sorry for the loss of your aunt. But we have your contact information if we need you, and you need to go home.”

He waited, his eyes on mine, until I’d nodded a brief assent before he turned his gaze to Nick. “Make sure she gets home,” he said, underscoring the message. Then he turned and walked away.

My head was spinning, my brain feverish. Nick took my elbow again and led me back to his truck. He helped me in, then circled to the driver’s side, getting in and slamming the door.

He turned the key and the truck’s heater came on, a blast of warm air on my face. My cheeks and lips tingled as the cold left them. I flexed my frozen fingers.

Nick didn’t put the truck in gear. He just sat there, his dark eyes on me, his expression unreadable. He was wearing a coat, but once again he didn’t seem cold. I thought he must be like a human furnace, not to be cold after all these hours. I wondered what that was like.

“Carly,” he said.

“It’s Simon Hess,” I said.

His eyes narrowed and he didn’t speak.

“I thought he was a monster,” I said, more easily now that my face was thawing. My brain thawing, too. Everything was thawing. “I thought he killed her and got away with it. But he didn’t, did he?”

“No,” he said. “He didn’t get away with it. At least, not in the end.”

I scrubbed a hand over my cheek, beneath the rim of my glasses. My cheek was starting to feel warm now. I was light-headed from the shock and the crying and the coffee and the lack of food. But at the same time I was thinking more clearly than maybe I ever had.

“It doesn’t answer the question of Vivian,” Nick said. “Where is she?”

And I knew. I simply knew. I didn’t know everything that had happened, and I didn’t know all of the details, but I knew. Because after all this time, living this life here in Fell, I was her.

I looked at Nick, right into his blue eyes, and said, “I think my aunt Viv did a very, very bad thing.”

Fell, New York

November 1982

VIV



   The night it all ended, Vivian was alone.

She woke from a restless doze fully clothed on her bed. It took her a second to orient herself; she was in her apartment on Greville Street. Her window was a square of darkness; the sun must have set.

She swung her legs off the bed. When had she come home and lain down? She couldn’t remember anymore. She’d left Alma’s office and everything else was a fog of exhaustion. Was that yesterday? The day before?

She was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, now slightly wrinkled. Her sneakers were still on her feet, navy blue and white. The slender watch on her wrist said that it was ten twenty at night. She glanced in the mirror over her dresser and saw that her face was pale, her hair mussed. Her mouth was parched, as if she’d been sleeping for days. She opened her bedroom door and walked out into the apartment.

There was no one here. Jenny had gone away somewhere—to visit her parents, maybe. There had been no one in the apartment for days, not even the small signs of life with another human: empty glasses on the counter, a purse tossed on the sofa, the TV left on. There was only darkness until Viv flipped the light switch, blinking. She walked to the kitchen sink and poured herself a glass of water. She downed it, and then, unable to bear the silence, she turned on the TV.

“. . . now told us that the body found on Melborn Road is positively identified as that of Tracy Waters, a high school senior whose parents reported her missing two days ago. There are no other details at this time, but we will update you at eleven—”

Viv’s knees gave out. She sank to the floor. “Tracy,” she said.

Her letter. Her phone calls. All for nothing.

He’d taken her. He’d killed her. He’d dumped her. And she’d slept the entire time.

Viv’s stomach turned, and for a minute she thought she’d throw up. Spots danced behind her eyes. She knelt on the floor with her hands on her stomach and the blood rushing in her ears, her eyes closed. The TV had gone back to its regular programming, but it was just noise. I failed. I failed.

What had she done wrong? Were the phone calls not good enough? Was it the letter? Should she have included Simon Hess’s name? She’d almost done it, and at the last minute she’d heard Alma saying, I need more. I need physical evidence. It has to be airtight. After everything, after all these weeks, she’d had one wavering second of doubt, so she’d settled for describing him instead. Had it cost Tracy her life?

This was all her fault. All of it.

She stayed on her knees for a stretch of minutes, then got to her feet. She turned the TV off. She walked to the bathroom and washed her face. Then she brushed her hair and sprayed it. She changed her clothes, put on makeup, eye shadow in purple and blue. She made herself look nice.

She put on a navy blue sweater and her nylon jacket. She picked up her purse and her car keys. She knew what the eleven o’clock news would say: There was a killer on the loose. People should lock their doors. Women should look over their shoulders, try not to be alone at night. Parents should look out for their daughters and always know where they are. Women should carry a whistle or a flashlight. Because if you were a woman, the world was a dangerous place.

Viv unzipped her purse and pushed aside the contents. She picked out the hunting knife she’d bought at the hardware store in Plainsview, pulling it out of its thick leather sheath. She looked at the blade, silver and sharp in the light, then slid it back into its place. She put the knife back into her purse.