Damaged Girls, Ch. 2

Tori Closson's narrative.

2.

 

“Three years have passed since the brutal murder of 10-year-old Jenna Closson, and the authorities have made no arrests. Public outrage over what many perceive as police ineffectiveness in the face of such a brutal crime has made the rounds through social media, with the hashtag #justiceforjenna still trending on Twitter. But no one appears to have any concrete answers, not even the girl’s family.

Victoria Closson, age 19, older sister of the slain girl, said authorities appear simply incapable of solving the case. ‘It is very disheartening, because as time goes by, we realize that the police don’t have the means or the skills to do an in-depth investigation,’ she said.”

-- The Pennsylvania Inquisitor, August 2013

 

 

TORI

 

“It’s called the Soleste ring. See how the halo cushions the princess-cut stone without overshadowing its brilliance?”

            I examined the ring on my finger. It was brilliant, all right, a beam of glaring light in an otherwise dim and shadowy place. Actually, it was a romantically lit private room at Tiffany & Co., but still.

            “I think this design would be perfect for someone of your caliber,” the salesman said, all smiles.

I turned to him, waiting for him to explain what “someone of your caliber” meant. “Beautiful and… famous.” He winked at me. “Oh so famous.”

I raised my eyebrows and said nothing. My little sister died a brutal death six years ago, and yet I was constantly treated like I was one of the Kardashians or something. Jenna’s death was my equivalent of a sex tape.

I lifted my hand, admired the ring some more. It sure was beautiful, and if the salesman thought it was worthy of someone like me, then who was I to argue with him?

            Trevor, my fiancé, took hold of my hand, frowned. Wrinkled his nose. “How many carats again?” he asked the salesman.

“Two and a half carats. The largest in this line, sir.”

Trevor sighed. I knew exactly what he was thinking. Seventy grand for this? He was lucky I hadn't asked for a Harry Winston monstrosity. Kim Kardashian would have asked for the biggest Harry Winston rock on the planet. 

“Is this the one you want?” he asked me.

            I looked up at him, smiled. Trevor was tall -- six foot four, to be exact -- which made him perfect for me. Tall men were hard to come by these days, especially for a woman of my stature. It didn’t hurt that he looked like a young Luke Wilson either. I had to admit that I was a lucky girl -- in spite of the Closson name. Though some might argue that I was lucky not in spite of but because of the Closson name.

            “I like it, but it’s all up to you,” I said, all sweetness.

            Trevor laughed. “Then it’s yours.”

            I smiled up at him, baring glimmering white teeth. Feels good to be the good girl.

 

#

 

“I can’t believe you ordered that,” Trevor said as he picked up his massive double-decker bacon burger, aiming it toward his mouth. “I didn’t peg you for the dieting type.”

            “And yet you claim to know me so well.” I threaded my fork with a piece of kale and forced myself to eat it. I was officially engaged, which meant I had to watch what I ate, even if it killed me. And it just might. Trevor was right: I wasn’t the dieting type. Never was. Didn’t have to be. It was those Closson genes, the only good thing our name had to offer.

            “You know you don’t need it,” he said, his mouth full of burger. “Hot piece of a*s that you are.” What a good fiancé.

            I smiled, pushed the kale around my plate. Sighed. I hadn’t heard from Mother yet, but I knew it was a matter of time before she texted me. This documentary thing was going to drive her over the edge, and she would try to control my life all over again. But I wasn’t going to let her do it this time. I wasn’t alone anymore. I was the future Mrs. Trevor Walsh, with an amazing career as an author-slash-kickass-investigative-journalist ahead of me. Which reminded me…

            “Have you heard from Louisa?” I asked Trevor. Louisa was a well-known publicist, and a close family friend of Trevor’s.

            He shook his head, a ketchup stain in the corner of his mouth. “I’ll text her later. Been busy at the station. How’s the book coming along?”

            I shrugged. “Fine, I guess. Mother’s going to freak out when she finds out.”

            “Hey,” he said, dabbing his face with a napkin. “Don’t worry. You’ve got me now. ‘Kay?”

            I nodded, playing with my kale. My life would be s**t now if it weren’t for Trevor. Ever since “the incident” six years ago (I was told to never call it a murder -- it was either “the tragic death,” or, better yet, “the incident”), Mother had controlled my every move all through high school, and then all through college, and she thought she could continue to maneuver my life, to dictate my words, until my very last breath. My life had been a series of “Don’t say this,” and “Do not mention that,” to the point where I’d wished that I could somehow switch places with Jenna.

            But then came Trevor. Perfect, beautiful, gentle Trevor with the blue-blooded-but-somehow-still-down-to-earth family. We met at UPenn, where we both majored in Journalism. We were about to work on an in-class project when my professor broke the staggering news that Trevor was the son of James Philip Walsh, award-winning journalist for The Army Times and bestselling author of two books on the War on Iraq. His second book, All About Survival: The Untold Story of the Iraqi War, won him the Pulitzer. My first reaction had been: why? Why couldn’t I get someone normal to be my project partner? Why couldn’t I get someone dull for a change? Someone unremarkable. That would’ve been preferable, even welcomed. My life could do with some… unremarkableness, for lack of a better non-word.

            But I wasn’t meant to be normal. Trevor was proof of that.

            He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head like he was about to kick back for a few hours of Sunday Night Football. “When are you going to finish it?” he asked me.

            “Finish what?”

            “The book!”

            Right. The book. An autobiography-slash-tribute-to-my-younger-sister with That Closson Girl as the (tentative) title. A mega-bestseller in the making, according to my agent and publisher. They were quite confident that the book would sell, and I had the six-figure advance to prove it.

            My hand went rigid against my fork. “I... don’t know.” I shifted in my seat. “Can't describe my relationship with Jenna. Truth is, she wasn’t around long enough for me to know her all that well. She was only ten years old. We didn’t get to bond a whole lot. I had my own life, my own s**t to worry about, you know?”

            Trevor’s face was intent as he nodded. He had blackheads around his nose. What is it with rich men and clogged pores? Haven’t they ever heard of a facial?

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

            “What?”

            “Why did you agree to do this documentary?”

            I said nothing for a few beats. Amiable chitchat drifted from neighboring tables. Our waitress hurried past us, and Trevor called her back. He ordered more wine. We were here to celebrate our engagement, after all. It was supposed to be a fun event. A romantic and jovial lunch at our favorite downtown restaurant.

            “Well?” Trevor prodded.

            I sighed. “My agent says the documentary will help with book sales. ‘Keep building your platform,’ she says.” I clenched my fists, unclenched them. “But I just want to show everyone that the Clossons are not monsters, that we’re not the horrible, corrupt people the media has made us out to be. That we’re not hiding something sinister. That we… that we just want to continue to mourn Jenna in peace.”

            Trevor bit into his burger and said nothing.

            “I just want some closure,” I concluded.

A compassionate look passed over Trevor’s face. “And you’ll get it.”

I pushed my hair away from my face. To be honest, I didn’t think my family deserved closure. Trevor, like everyone else, thought I didn’t know what happened that night. My mother had made sure that the media’s scrutiny wouldn’t mess me up somehow. I was her only child left, after all. She didn’t want to lose me as well. Her efforts had been fruitless though. I was a constant target. Even though the media knew I hadn’t been there that night, they wanted to know what I felt about all the gossip and speculation. And now that I was twenty-three years old and not a kid anymore, I was fair game.

            “Let’s change the subject, babe.” Trevor grabbed my hand -- the one with the rock -- and kissed it. “So you’ve met Abigail Gomes, huh? What’s your favorite teeny-bopper author like? Is she still obsessed with vampires?”

            I laughed a little. “Her novels have ghosts in them, not vampires! And she’s… interesting. Very cute. Kind of looks like Reese Witherspoon, but with brown, sad-looking eyes.”

“Hot.”

“Shut up.” I laughed again. “She also owns Coffee Nutz.”

            “The local café chain?”

            “Yup. She lives right above the one in Bryn Mawr.”

            “Really?”

            “Uh-huh. Her film studio is in that building too. A huge loft with lots of exposed brick.” I frowned at my plate. “Why is someone that successful doing a film documentary about my sister’s death? Why not do something else? Something a little more, I don’t know, high-brow?”

            Trevor considered this for a moment. “She hasn’t written anything since that vampire saga of hers, right?”

            “It’s not a vamp--”

            “I know, I know!” He laughed. “Point is, she hasn’t written anything for years… Maybe she just needs to while away the time.”

            “Dude, she’s a teacher and a local business owner.”

            “Maybe it’s just a school project then? Extra credit work for her students?”

            I nodded, pretending to consider the idea, but somehow not convinced. There weren’t that many students that day"just three bored-looking hipsters. Also, there was something about Abby that made me uncomfortable. Maybe it was her name. Abigail. Not a big fan of that name.

            “Why you though?” Trevor said. “You weren’t even there that night. Why not that Hector guy, or that Dan fellow?”

            I pushed my uneaten lunch around my plate.

            An invisible hand passed over Trevor’s face, slapping some sense into him. “Sorry. I forgot"”

            “Could we please change the subject?” I said irritably. “And could we please get the check? You’re done eating, and I’m not hungry anymore.”

            “I’m sorry, Tori.”

            I gulped my wine, took a deep breath.

“I’m an a*****e,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Let's just leave.”

            “I won’t mention it again. Promise.”

           I sighed heavily. Good. Moments later, a muffled beep came from inside my bag (a Birkin in the color Bleu Electrique, a birthday present from Trevor), and realized it was my phone. I pulled out my iPhone, my teeth clamped together.

            You’re doing a documentary??? AND you’re writing a memoir!!!???

            It was my mother.

            “You okay?” Trevor asked me.

            I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. “Yeah"fine.”

            “Who texted you?”

            Two more beeps. “My editor. Wants to see some pages.”

            Our waitress plunked our bill in front of us and waited impatiently as Trevor pulled out his black AmEx card with a flourish. The waitress’s mood changed instantly, going from irritated to almost ecstatic. Black cards tend to do that to people.

            Trevor heaved into his jacket. “My place or yours tonight?”

            I didn’t answer as I read Mother’s texts, almost losing my footing.

            Don’t you dare say more than you should!

            “Tori?”

            Or else.

            I turned to Trevor. An invisible veil had shrouded my face, concealing my true emotions. “Yours, I guess.”

             Then I tossed the phone into my bag and click-clacked my way out of Barclay Prime, my hand linked to Trevor’s -- my official life buoy.

Author's Note

Again, this is a rough draft of a novel I started months ago and dumped in favor of a new finished project. Chapter one is right before this one.