The wall opposite was home to a laptop computer (the newly rich girl’s first major purchase), which — with its Internet connection — was the closest thing to a luxury in her monk-like existence... and even that was a tool for her investigation.
Under the windows, near the door to the tiny bathroom, a mattress and box spring crouched on the floor. She would never ever hide under another bed.
No television, no radio, no pictures on the wall. The only personal item was a photo of her family on a small plastic table near the head of the bed where it shared space with an LED alarm clock. An artist’s sketch pad on the dining table rested next to a box of colored pencils.
She had always been good at sketching. In another life, drawing had been a release, a simple pleasure — now it was a skill to be utilized. Just this morning, she had begun drawing. When she was finished, she would have a distributable picture of the man she sought. Recalling him vividly was not difficult — those ten years could be blinked away.
The alarm clock beeped. She uncurled, rose, and strode over to turn it off. Two hours until her next meeting with the Victims of Violent Crime. Funny — she would have expected a politically correct euphemism for the group — Survivors’ Support Group maybe. As if they’d all been on a dumb reality TV show and got voted off.
No, somebody at Dimpna’s, maybe Dr. Hurst, understood that what she had been through, what David and Phillip and the rest had experienced, would not be soothed by soft language.
Just enough time to dress, get to St. Dimpna’s, then visit Kara beforehand. Normally, she would walk, but today, she would take her little green-and-white Vespa scooter (her other big investment), the only thing she could legally drive to get around. That way she could spend some extra time with Kara.
In the week since her first group meeting, Jordan’s existence had been almost as silent as before she’d seen that newscast. She left the apartment only to go to the grocery store. Her kung fu exercises were a twice-daily routine.
This was a self-taught, largely self-created form of martial arts training built upon what she’d learned five years ago from a Chinese kid who’d had some kind of breakdown. On his road to recovery, he shared with her what he called “the beneficial health maintenance” of Tai Chi. No one at Dimpna’s had objected, because she and her friend — one of the few friends she’d cultivated other than Kara — were really just pursuing an alternative form of exercise.
Upon this she had built a self-defense system amplified by books and videos she’d been able to obtain through inter-library loan. Whether its application would be practical or not remained to be seen.
Her modified Tai Chi and yoga kept her centered and calm. She had a goal and was working toward it. She was, however, wrestling with the contradictory nature of two promises — one to Dr. Hurst that she would participate in group, and the other to herself — that she would never tell the intruder’s story.
She would not give her attacker that satisfaction, even in the relatively private forum of the support group. Still, Jordan felt that she owed Dr. Hurst something. She had promised to talk, but about what? This distracting thought was not enough to interfere with her mission, and merely provided a backdrop to her digging.
The Google search started simply enough, Jordan typing the phrase family murdered. That got her eight million hits, some of which had mentions of her family. Adding quotation marks narrowed the scope to 731,000, but by adding the phrase Cleveland, Ohio she knocked the total down to zero. Removing the quotes sent the total back up to over six million. Two steps forward, one step back...
Her Net search was less a simple linear progression and more a process. Each step was more about trying something that got her more information without overwhelming. In this endeavor, patience wasn’t just a virtue, but a necessity. And it had been a slow go, at first, since she’d had no access to computers at St. Dimpna’s, and had to get computer literate on her own and in a hurry.
She hadn’t read any of the copious Internet stories about her family — she just couldn’t make herself go there. Not yet. That would be easy enough to track and no doubt there was information that would be new to her. She had no knowledge of the police investigation. Just an intimate acquaintance with what had happened in that house on that night...
And, so far, there was precious little information online about the newscast murders, the slain family in Strongsville. She had learned the names of the family members, but not much else.
Looking into the Elkins case gave her an uneasy feeling — David had shared the tragedy with the group last week, freely; but as Jordan read articles from the Plain Dealer and other Internet sources, she felt somehow that she was invading his privacy, viewing pictures of his wife Belle and daughter Akina.
Belle had been a beautiful African-American woman, and — though Jordan had never heard of her — was evidently a well-known writer herself.
Jordan could see similarities between the crimes, but not between her family and the Elkinses’. The writer was almost wealthy, the family lived in a different part of the metro area, the couple only had the one child (although Mrs. E. had been pregnant), and Akina had been much younger than either Jimmy or Jordan.
When Jordan entered the disinfectant-scented sunroom, Kara was already sitting on the couch.
As they bumped fists, Jordan said, “You’re looking good, girl. Healthy, even.”
“You, too.”
Jordan shrugged. “Stepped up the workouts a little, but what’s your excuse?”
Kara yawned, stretched, fists clenched, giving Jordan a glimpse of her friend’s scarred wrists. “Haven’t been having nightmares lately.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah. Haven’t dreamed about my stepfather fucking me for weeks now. Just him trying to fuck me.”
“Well, it’s a start.”
“Plus, I’ve been talking to Dr. Hurst. Doubled up on the sessions. Kind of... opening up a little. You must be a good role model.”
“A role model for opening up? Maybe not.”
Kara lifted a lecturing forefinger. “ ‘The secret to life is not surviving the storm, but learning to dance in the rain.’ ”
“This is the kind of bullshit Dr. Hurst is telling you?”
Kara shook her head. “Fortune cookie. They ordered takeout for us last night, special treat. Kinda seemed like good advice. How is your rain dance goin’?”
“If you mean me and Mr. Google, I’m mostly getting my toes stepped on.”
“How so?”
She told Kara about the first meeting of the group and how afterward she had added the Elkins case to the Net search mix.
Kara frowned. “You aren’t reading up on your own case?”
“No. That’ll come.”
“Okay, baby steps, I get it. But look how you’re limiting yourself, honey.”
“I just got out,” Jordan said defensively.
“Yeah, I remember. Who sprinkled the Dimpna Dust on who, anyway? Have you talked to this Elkins dude yet?”
“No.”
“Well, you must know that everything the cops have on a crime like that isn’t gonna be on the web. They always hold back some shit. Like maybe they’re working on how these two family killings are linked.”
Jordan frowned in thought. “I guess that is something they might keep back.”
“Damn straight. So the only place you might find out what the cops already know is—”
“By talking to them?”
“The cops? Hell no!”
“Oh.” Jordan nodded. “Elkins, you mean.”