Two Sides to Every Murder, page 2
I feel my chest tighten. I thought I knew who my mom was, a responsible woman who loved the outdoors and her family, who cared about the environment, who thought of Dad’s diner as a second home. Now, those details feel like a costume, like she’s trying to convince me and the rest of the world that she’s this good person. But how much of it is really true? Is any of it true?
“Olivia, honey, is that what you’re wearing?” Mom asks. I hadn’t heard her come into the kitchen behind me, but the word LIAR flashes bright neon in my brain at the sound of her voice. I pull my eyes away from the photo and turn to face her.
I look like my mom. My older sister, Andie, and I both do, which makes sense since Johnny isn’t Andie’s dad, either; my mom had her right after high school. The three of us are bird-boned, with big, heart-shaped faces. We look like the people in the restaurant who are going to ask you if you could please turn the heat up, it’s getting cold in here.
Mom has the same blond hair as me and Andie, but she wears hers in a blunt bob that falls just under her chin. She’s short and trim and close enough to my size that we could share clothes if I suddenly developed a taste for Eileen Fisher and artsy clogs. We never had one of those angry, shouty relationships like you see on TV. I always trusted her. She was the person I called to bring me a fresh pair of jeans when I got my period during junior high study hall, and she was the only one I told about my crush on Simon Collins my freshman year or when I accidentally walked out of the general store without paying for my dark chocolate sea salt KIND bar. When she realized I was more into books than the outdoors, she made a point of mapping out the nearest bookstore whenever we took the camper out for the weekend and, in return, I made a point of taking a break from reading to go on a hike with her every once in a while.
Does Mom know Dad’s not my real dad? I wonder. She has to, right? I run through the most likely explanations for what happened. Maybe they couldn’t get pregnant the old-fashioned way? Maybe they used a donor?
Or maybe she cheated.
The thought turns my stomach. The image I have of my PTA-shirt-wearing, environmentally conscious, outdoors-loving mother breaks apart in my head.
Maybe I don’t know her at all.
“Olivia,” Mom says my name slowly and a touch louder than usual, like she sometimes does when she’s asked me a question a couple of times but I’m too in my own head to hear her.
“Uh…you said something about my outfit?” I glance down at what I’m wearing: basic V-neck T-shirt, jean shorts, cardigan tied around my waist, work boots. My hair’s pulled back in the same no-nonsense ponytail I wear daily, except on special occasions. I don’t usually give my clothes a ton of thought, and today the only thing I worried about was putting on something I could work in. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Andie wants everyone in their Antlers polos, in case of press.” Mom’s already wearing hers, I notice. I instantly recognize the logo my sister designed for her new coworking space: a pair of deer’s antlers curving out of a wreath of twigs and flowers, the word Antlers weaving through them in elaborate script. It’s cool and classy, like everything Andie does. On the back of the polo are the words: Work. Wellness. Play.
“Are you coming with us to the campgrounds?” I ask, frowning. Antlers is taking over the old Camp Lost Lake grounds, the first time that place has been open to the public since the murders.
Mom smiles. “Just wearing the shirt in solidarity so your sister knows how much we all support her.”
I give her a thin smile, though I can’t imagine a world in which Andie doesn’t realize how much our family supports her.
Mom’s checking out my boots now. “Maybe think about changing the boots, too,” she adds. It’s the voice she uses when she doesn’t like something but won’t actually come out and say she doesn’t like it. Heaven forbid she express a negative opinion.
“They’re work boots,” I say, the annoyance obvious in my own voice. “You know, for working? You’re the one who’s always telling me how important it is to wear the right gear.”
To be fair, I’m pretty sure she was talking about being sure to wear hiking boots that fit correctly and appropriate helmets and protective equipment when playing sports. But I feel like starting a fight.
Mom folds her arms over her chest, seeming confused by my tone. I don’t usually argue with her. I’m a pretty typical people-pleasing perfectionist. I’d do anything for a metaphorical gold star.
“Honey, is something wrong?” she asks. “Are you feeling okay?”
I’m about to continue our argument when a crunch of tires in our gravel drive cuts me off. Mom’s eyes light up. “Andie’s here,” she says, clearly relieved for a natural end to the great work boot argument of 2024. “Hurry, go change.”
* * *
• • •
I dig around in my closet for a few minutes, not even looking for my polo, just pulling clothes off racks, letting jackets fall to the ground, throwing shoes. I need to work my frustration out.
I should go right back downstairs, confront my mom, and make her tell me the truth. But she’s already lied to me my whole life. She lied on my birth certificate, which…I don’t even know if that’s legal. And she probably lied to my dad, to Andie. Why would she tell the truth now?
No, if I ask my mom who my real dad is, she’s just going to lie some more. She’ll do it with a smile on her face while pretending to examine her trim, neatly manicured nails. I need proof. I can already hear how she might explain the DNA test away, telling me I used the wrong strand of hair—which is impossible. I got the hair from my dad’s mustache comb, which no one else uses. I want the whole truth. No matter how painful it is.
I’m still in my head, running through the possibilities, when I walk in on my sister and mother in the dining room. They’re hugging and…
I frown. Wait…are they crying?
Holding my breath, I duck behind the wall that separates the front hall from the dining room so I can observe without being super obvious about it. Andie’s thin shoulders are shaking, her dark under-eyes stark against her pale skin, like she hasn’t been sleeping much. She isn’t making any noise at all, which is how she cries when she’s really upset, big silent sobs like she’s keeping all the pain locked up inside. Mom has her arms wrapped tight around her shoulders, a single tear rolling down her cheek, carving an unseemly line through her normally flawless, understated makeup. Andie’s dog, Pickle Rick, is sniffing around their heels, whining a little, clearly stressed by their distress.
I feel a chill on my skin, watching them. We’re not a family that cries. When I was in the middle of one of my preteen crying bouts, I distinctly remember my mom pulling me aside and telling me I needed to calm down, that tears made people uncomfortable. She even let me use her handkerchief to dry my eyes. It was so beautiful, silk and floral and gossamer thin. I remember thinking it looked like it had never been used.
Something’s up. I’m starting to wonder if I should back away quietly, pretend I never even saw them, but Pickle Rick catches my scent and turns, yipping as he trots up to me.
My mom pulls away from Andie, swiping the mascara from her cheeks. “Olivia,” she says, laughing like I’ve just told a joke. “I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t see you there.”
Pickle Rick has his front two paws on my legs now, asking to be picked up and snuggled. I scoop him off the floor and give him a scratch behind the ears.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. I direct the question to my mother, but I’m staring at the back of Andie’s head. Andie keeps her hair shoulder-length, like mine, but she flat irons it so it’s pin-straight, the bottom edges cutting a sharp line across her shoulder blades.
“It’s nothing,” Mom says, touching Andie’s cheek. “I’m just so happy to see my baby again, that’s all.”
“Oh,” I say, frowning. It’s not just tears that our family doesn’t do. We all love each other and we’re pretty close, but this outburst of emotion is unusual. Mom’s way more likely to make a joke than sob when she’s overcome. She didn’t even cry when Dad proposed; she broke into laughter.
This is weird.
I keep staring at the back of Andie’s head, willing her to look at me. When she finally does, her eyes are bone-dry, and there’s not a hint of red on her cheeks. There wouldn’t be. Andie’s an expert at appearing cool and collected, no matter how she feels below the surface. My whole life, she’s been the model for how a “good girl” acts: effortlessly perfect.
“You ready?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “Just let me grab a granola bar. I forgot to eat lunch.”
“Okay! I’ll be out in the car.”
* * *
• • •
Back in the kitchen, my boot slips on something on the floor and I lurch forward, steadying myself against the wall. I glance down to see what I stepped on.
It’s the photograph of my parents that had been taped to the fridge. I must’ve knocked it off the door when I stormed out of the room. I go to pick it up—
And then I pause, noticing something I never registered before.
There’s another man in the frame with my parents. He’s a little blurry, but I recognize him anyway.
Of course I recognize him. He’s famous around here. Or notorious, I guess. The most notorious cheater in all of Lost Lake.
Jacob Knight, the husband Lori Knight murdered for cheating on her sixteen years ago, is sitting at the end of the counter where my newly engaged parents are standing. His tiny, blurry eyes seem to be fixed on my mother, and he looks…
Angry. He’s staring at my mother with his jaw clenched.
Something cold fills my stomach.
There aren’t a lot of reasons I would accept my mother lying to me about who my real dad is. But they never did figure out who Jacob had been cheating on his wife with. Come to think of it, I don’t even know how people knew he was cheating on his wife. But, if it was my mom, if she’d been pregnant with his baby the night Lori Knight turned into a witch…
Well. Maybe the lie was justified.
2
Reagan
I press down on the gas—hard. I don’t even want to go faster, I just want to feel the surge of adrenaline in my blood as I speed right through a stop sign, barreling out of the trees and onto the dusty, one-lane highway leading south.
South. I love going south. South means the city, civilization, people. I miss people.
I haven’t been driving for long when I see a guy standing by the side of the road, thumb out. He’s tall, Asian, with ear-length black hair that’s parted down the middle, nineties-teen-heartthrob style. He wears a flannel shirt, red buffalo plaid hanging open over a gray tee and loose-fitting jeans.
I pull to the side of the road and ease down on the brake. “Hey,” I shout. “Where you headed?”
The hitchhiker looks at me without a word. “That depends,” he says, voice low. “Where you going?”
“Camp Lost Lake.”
“Don’t you know? That place is cursed. Anyone who steps foot in those woods comes face-to-face with the Witch of Lost Lake. You should turn around and go home, little girl.”
It’s the “little girl” comment that does it. I throw my door open and jump out of the car. The hitchhiker’s eyes go wide, and he puts his hands up—maybe he expects me to hit him. Instead, I wrap him in a big hug.
“Whoa,” he says, his voice muffled by my jacket sleeve. “Do you hug now?”
“Just this once.” I squeeze a little tighter. “Deal with it.”
“I think you got taller.”
“Or you got shorter. You definitely feel shorter.”
“You know, I woke up feeling short today, so that must be it.”
He curls his arms around me, and suddenly I’m wrapped up in the softest flannel and the kind of firm muscles you only get from doing manual labor.
I jerk away seconds before the hug changes from a friend hug to a something more hug. And then, just to prove that I haven’t lost my edge, I slug him on the arm as hard as I can.
He rubs his arm, pretending to wince. “Ow. Damn, Reagan, for someone so tiny, you really know how to hit.”
“Thanks for fitting me in,” I tell Jack, genuine gratitude in my voice. He and his family are headed to Beijing in a few days to visit family. Today was the only day we could both be here. “I don’t think I could’ve gone alone.”
“Of course,” he says. His smile shows all of his teeth. “I’ve always wanted to solve a murder.”
“Three murders,” I correct him. “Technically, we’re solving three.”
* * *
• • •
My cell phone—an ancient Nokia brick that I found at the Salvation Army last year—is already rattling in the cupholder when we climb back into my truck. I glance at the screen: Mom.
My stomach drops. She was taking a nap when I left, but I guess it was too much to hope I’d have another hour before she noticed I was missing.
“You have to answer it,” Jack says. He and his mom are close, despite having nothing in common. She’s this political artist and he’s much more like his dad, into sports and the outdoors. But he tells her everything. It wouldn’t even occur to him not to answer when she called.
I feel a pang. My mom and I used to be like that, too.
“What’s she gonna do?” he asks, holding the phone out to me. “You don’t have another car, right? And it’s not like she’s going to call the cops. Just tell her the truth.”
I shoot him a look. He has a thing about the truth. It’s one of the reasons he agreed to come with me. He actually gets my need to get to the bottom of what happened.
Feeling braver, I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder, steering one-handed for a second. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”
Despite being an alleged murderer and legendary fugitive, my mom, Lori Knight, the Witch of Lost Lake, doesn’t really get angry. In fact, she rarely raises her voice. But I must’ve really pissed her off because the second I answer the phone she starts yelling so loudly that I cringe and hold it away from my ear.
“Reagan Eleanor, did you take the truck? What were you thinking? Turn around right now—”
“You know I’m not going to do that,” I tell her. “I tried talking to you about this, but—”
She cuts me off. “I told you, this isn’t a discussion. I’m the mom and you’re the kid. I make the decisions.”
“And look where that’s landed us!” I shout back. I never raise my voice at my mom, and I can tell, immediately, that I’ve gone too far. There’s a pointed silence on her end of the line that’s a million times worse than the yelling. Next to me, Jack makes an oh shit face.
I exhale and blurt, “I only need it for a few hours and then I’ll come right back, I swear.”
“There’s a bus leaving for Lost Lake, New York, in twenty minutes.” She has, of course, guessed exactly where I’m headed. “If you don’t turn around right now, I’m getting on it and coming after you myself.”
Crap. I hadn’t thought she’d take a bus. In the last few years, she’s developed pretty bad arthritis in her hands, and it can make it hard for her to do easy things, like take her backpack on and off and tie her shoes.
It kills me a little, but I hang up the phone. This doesn’t change anything. All it means is I have to hurry. I left my mom in a pop-up tent about two hours north of where I am now. If she catches that bus, she could make it to Camp Lost Lake in six hours. Less, if it’s an express.
I don’t think I’ve ever hung up on my mom before. We have one of those obnoxiously close relationships you usually only see on heartwarming sitcoms. Except for the fact that the moms in those shows aren’t wanted murderers.
* * *
• • •
I’ve spent a lot of the last year asking myself how it’s possible that I didn’t have a clue that my mom was wanted for the murders of three people. In my defense, for most of my life, the Camp Lost Lake murders weren’t very well-known. Not until this amateur podcast, How to Be a Final Girl, did a season on them. I didn’t listen to the podcast when it first came out—I wasn’t into true crime—and then I refused to listen to it on principle. But that didn’t matter. Within a year of its release, it seemed like everyone knew the story.
Before the podcast aired, I was a normal fifteen-year-old. I liked fried chicken and bad sci-fi movies. I was good at drawing, good enough that I was thinking about applying to Pratt’s graphic design and illustration program for college. I was on my school’s swim team, and yeah, okay, maybe I wasn’t going to the Olympics, but I was good. Good enough that my coach thought I could’ve made varsity as a junior, which almost no one did. I had a bike, a bed, and the same three best friends since kindergarten: Hallie, Liza, and Sam. The four of us were practically a family. Or so I thought.
If someone had told me back then that my mom—the woman who nursed the stray cat who’d lived in our yard back to health, who sang that Beatles song “Blackbird” to me before bed every night, who made elaborate cakes shaped like cartoon characters for my birthday—if you told me that woman was secretly on the run for murdering her family, I never would’ve believed you.
