There’s no time to dry my hair. I wrap the belt of my robe more tightly around my waist, ransack Charlie’s drawer for some fuzzy socks, and plant myself on her unmade bed with my laptop. It had found a happy home in her sheets during my absence.
I am suffused with manic energy, pulsed back to life by the shower and the certainty that Rose Mylett means something. Her name is an insistent drill in my skull, more important than me, as the Grim Reaperette, skipping across Twitter right now, or calling Jo to hear about more hopeless efforts to pull names from dust. Those bones are stubborn.
I get an immediate hit. The first Rose Mylett that pops up isn’t a true crime writer. The image on my screen isn’t of an airbrushed author trying to look smart and beautiful and ten years younger.
This Rose Mylett is very dead. Murdered in 1888. A purported victim of Jack the Ripper. A prostitute also known as Catherine, Drunk Lizzie, and Fair Alice. She was wearing a lilac apron, a red flannel petticoat, and blue-and-red-striped socks when she was found with the imprint of a string around her neck.
For a second, I’m fourteen again, in the second row, smearing on Pink Lemonade Lip Smacker, listening to Lydia’s Jack the Ripper report that instilled nightmares in half of our class.
My fingers are still working in the present. They skip to the next page and, four links down, find Rose Mylett, author, Beautiful Ghost, What Elizabeth Bates is trying to tell us about her murder fifty years later. Yep, the same book as the one sitting on my kitchen counter. I read the plot summary quickly. This crime rings no bells whatsoever-the tale of a young English royal who vanished off the rugged coast of North Devon on her honeymoon-184 reviews, 4.6 stars. Published five years ago in the U.K. That.4 off of perfect would eat at Lydia. There’s no author bio. No other book by Rose Mylett. The site does politely suggest, “If you like this author, you might also like these books by Annie Farmer and Elizabeth Stride.” I Google quickly even though I already know. Two more Ripper victims. Clever, clever Lydia.
This has to be Lydia, right? Sending me flowers. Mail-ordering a book for my reading pleasure.
Still walking the earth after all. Still sticking her nose in evil. Stealing her pseudonyms off of pitiful dead whores. Making money off of excruciating sorrow. For some ungodly reason, she’s messing with me.
Why are you suddenly back, Lydia?
I snap the laptop shut.
My daughter is coming home.
For a few precious moments, I bask in the Bohemian essence of Charlie: the black chalkboard wall she painted herself last summer, now scribbled with Stephen Colbert quotes and skilled graffiti from her friends; her collection of moon-and-stars ornaments that hang on fishing line thumbtacked to the ceiling; the array of candles in various stages of melted life on the windowsill. The trophies she’s stuffed into the top shelf of her closet because they are “braggy.”
I’m hurriedly spilling detergent into the washing machine when I hear the click of the key in the lock.
“Mom?”
“In the laundry room!” I yell back. Three clunks. Her backpack, hitting the floor. One shoe off, and then the other. Good sounds.
Charlie wriggles her arms around me from behind just as I’m about to drop the lid on clothes that will probably never feel clean again.
“Why is it so freaking cold outside?” she asks. Not Why are you such a freak? The kind of mom who ends up on Twitter? I pull Charlie’s arms tighter.
“I missed you,” Charlie says. “What are we eating?” She releases me from our backward hug. I decide to throw some extra Biz into the washer.
“I missed you, too. I’m thinking of making eggala.”
“Awesome.” Eggala, short for egg a la goldenrod, our go-to comfort food. Hard-boiled egg whites chopped into a white sauce, slathered over white toast, sprinkled with powdery yolk. Lots of salt and pepper. Dr Pepper on the side. Aunt Hilda made it once a week for me when I was blind.
“I’m sorry about… today,” I say.
“No big deal. My friends don’t believe it. They are starting a campaign against it. Make some bacon, OK? Hey, don’t start the washer. I’ve got a ton of volleyball clothes. People forgot shi-stuff all week and Coach kept making us run. Everything stinks. Plus, some guy’s mom is losing it because he has this scabby thing going on with his foot. These people in Star Wars suits cleaned all the locker rooms and now every person in school smells like Lysol. Well, the guys smell like Lysol and Axe.”
“Hmm, not good.” I shut the lid. “Don’t worry, I’ll wash another load of your clothes after this.”
“But there’s hardly anything in there,” she protests. “I’ll go get the rest of it right now. I can’t forget anything tomorrow. The team can’t take any more running.”
She’s already stripped off her clothes. She’s standing there in her bra, panties, and knee-high socks, the cheerful, melodramatic all-American girl. Fourteen years ago, she was the adorable pink package with red fuzz sent to a teen-age girl named Tessie so she’d agree to stay on the earth.
“That’s OK.” I shut the washer lid firmly. “I don’t want these clothes to bleed on yours.”
I’m lying and telling the truth.
I’m in my pajamas when I remember to call Jo. She picks up on the first ring.
“Tessa?” she asks eagerly.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t call sooner.”
“It’s OK. I talked to Bill. He told me about your trip. Ice and sorrow and no tequila. Sounds grueling. Can you drop by my office tomorrow?”
“Yes. Sure.” My response is immediate even though all I really want is to lock the front door and never come out.
“I wanted to give you a heads-up before we meet because this will be part of his presentation.” Jo is rushing the words. “I’ve held something back from you because it just seemed… like a little too much. You know? A week and a half ago, one of my Ph.D. students was finishing up cataloging the remains of the Susans from the two caskets we exhumed. There was a lot of detritus, as you might imagine. Dirt, clay, dust, bits of bone. I just wanted to make sure every last piece of it was recorded after we figured out the original coroner missed that there was a third right femur. In fact, we’re looking back at some of the other cold cases he worked and have found other mistakes.”
“Just spit it out, Jo,” I say.
“My student had a hunch about a tiny piece of cartilage. I confirmed that hunch. The cartilage came from a fetus. One of the two unidentified girls was pregnant with a baby girl. We just tested the baby’s DNA against Terrell’s. There’s a 99.6 percent chance he isn’t the father. We’re throwing the baby’s DNA into criminal databases. Maybe we’ll get a hit. A new lead.”
Of course Terrell isn’t a match.
I’m counting in my head. Six girls in that grave. Merry and me. Hannah makes three. Two more unidentified sets of bones. And now a little girl. One of them is buzzing awake in my head, reminding me, just in case I forgot.
I’m the one with the answers.
September 1995
MR. VEGA: Tessie, can you tell us a little about Black-Eyed Susan glitter?
MS. CARTWRIGHT: It’s hard to explain. My friend Lydia came up with the name for it.
MR. VEGA: Just do your best. Maybe you could start by telling us about the time you stood outside in the middle of a bad storm and your father couldn’t get you to come in.
MS. CARTWRIGHT: I was thinking that if I stood out there long enough the rain would wash out all the Black-Eyed Susan glitter.
MR. VEGA: Can you see this glitter?
MS. CARTWRIGHT: No.
MR. VEGA: And when did you first notice it?