“These filigree designs in the silver—they’re all in the shape of Celtic knots,” he says. “Never-ending knots. The Celtic knot is known to symbolize love, or a never-ending commitment. Or some Christians see the knot as representative of the Holy Trinity—”
“Not Leena,” snaps her father suddenly. Luke falls silent and studies him.
Jaswinder’s eyes crackle with fire. “She wouldn’t wear something like that.” He wags his hand at the photo. “It’s not hers.”
I exchange a quick glance with Luke, but his features give nothing away.
“Why . . . why would anyone do this?” Pratima wails again. “Why, why, why?”
“Sometimes people just do terrible things, Pratima,” I say. “Sometimes we can never really understand what darkness drives a person. But I promise we will do everything in our power to find and arrest her assailant. And when we do find him, perhaps we will learn more about why.”
I turn to Luke. “I’ll go upstairs with Pratima and take another look at Leena’s room.”
I’m going to separate her from her husband.
He holds my gaze. Nods.
RACHEL
THEN
Monday, November 24, 1997.
Pratima watches me from the doorway of her daughter’s room. I’m acutely conscious of my boots on the pale carpet. When I’m on a job, it’s not protocol for cops to remove work shoes at front doors. Outside the bedroom window, the sky is wintry. It will be dark soon, the kind of darkness that creeps in earlier and earlier each afternoon until the winter solstice brings us into the deepest night of the year.
Upon Leena’s dresser are two glossy brochures advertising volunteer work with a mission in Africa. I’m reminded of the picture we found in her wallet. The photo of a mercy ship.
Clearly this kid wanted to escape this town.
“These mission ships are run by a Christian organization?” I ask, picking up a brochure.
Pratima folds her arms defensively over her chest. “It didn’t mean anything to Leena what the faith was. It was more a vehicle for her to get away. She wanted to do good. To help disadvantaged people. She . . .” Pratima’s voice hitches. I glance up.
She struggles to continue. “All Leena wanted was to go someplace where she felt valued. We . . . all just need to feel worthy, don’t we? To be loved. To belong. Because if we don’t feel that we belong somewhere, how can we ever call it home? Isn’t it a most basic survival thing, because to be cast out of a group, or a herd, can mean death?”
I stare at Pratima. And I wonder for a moment if she might even be talking about herself. About her own immigrant experience. I wonder if this bereaved mother feels all sorts of pain that I can’t even begin to understand. I wonder if she can talk freely to her husband. If she’s lonely.
“Pratima, did it worry Leena’s father—the fact that his daughter was interested in pursuing work with a Christian group?”
“Jaswinder is a devout follower of the Sikh faith. He was also very strict with Leena. She was going through a period where she would reject things just to defy him. She was rebelling against his control. She eschewed anything to do with her own cultural background. She . . . she was just trying so hard to fit in with girls at school.”
“A typical teenager,” I say softly.
She glares at me. Guilt washes up into my chest. I turn back to the dresser. Beside the brochures is a basket of jewelry and other trinkets. I lift up, examine, and replace a few items. Rings. A bracelet. Earrings. A necklace with a shell pendant. Leena’s mother enters the room and comes up behind me. Close. She lowers her voice.
“The picture of the locket that you showed us—the one with the Celtic knots. I . . . need to tell you something.”
My heart beats faster. This is it. This is what she was keeping from her husband downstairs, the thing that was making her uncomfortable.
“It’s the same with that lip gloss you found,” she says. “And maybe even the book of poems and address book.”
“What’s the same?”
“She . . .” Pratima inhales and blows out a shaky breath. “Our Leena used to take things.”
“What do you mean, ‘take things’?”
“She stole, or borrowed them without permission. Jaswinder forbade Leena to buy any makeup, so she took it from other girls. She developed a habit. Sort of . . . collecting things.” Pratima hesitates. “The manager of the Twin Falls Drug Mart, he called a few months ago . . . for us to come and get Leena. He wanted to talk to us. She’d stolen some mascara and eye shadow. She promised she’d never do it again, and he didn’t press charges, or report it.” Her cheeks flush deep red. “I don’t know if she stopped. I think that lip gloss and the address book and the poetry book belong to other students. And the locket, too.”
I feel an awkward rush of relief. “Are you certain?”
“No. But I thought you should know that it’s possible the items could belong to other girls.”
“This really helps, Pratima. Thank you for opening up like this.” I waver. “Can . . . Do you recall seeing any of Leena’s friends wearing the Celtic locket, or one that looked similar?”
She regards me. Time stretches. Wind blows the branches of a tree against the window. I feel a drop in temperature as the weather changes. A storm is coming.
“You don’t seem to understand, do you, Sergeant? Leena did not have any friends.”
Her statement hangs. I think again of that day in the school gym.
“What about those photos pinned on that corkboard over there?” I go closer to the board on the wall. I saw these photos the last time I was in here, when Leena Rai was still just a missing persons case. Held in place by yellow pushpins is a selection of photos of classmates, taken both in and out of school. Among the faces are many I recognize, including my own daughter’s and that of her best friend, Beth. Some of the faces have been circled with a red marker. “Aren’t any of these kids her friends? Or why does she have these photos pinned up here?”
“I think it’s people she wished were her friends. Sort of like . . . a vision board. She could pretend.”
“Why are some of these faces circled in red?”
Pratima remains quiet.
I glance at her.
She inhales again. “I don’t know. All that I do know is Leena wanted to be like those particular girls. She wanted to belong.”
I frown and take a closer look, noting who all has been circled in red. Beth. Maddy. Cheyenne. Amy. Seema. The popular girls.
Twin Falls has only one elementary school and one high school. One class per grade. Most of the town’s children who met in the kindergarten class have moved up through the grades with the same cohort. They all went to the same birthday parties. Shopped in the same stores. Attended the same sporting events and community barbecues. Such is the nature of small towns. And it strikes me that it must truly be hell if you don’t fit in, or feel you can’t belong. Or if you are disliked. Because there is just no escape.
I moisten my lips and say, “Is there anyone you know—any one of these kids in these photos who was a tiny bit closer to Leena than the others? Someone who might be able to help us figure out what happened to her between the point she was last seen at the bonfire to when she ended up in the river?”