The Feminine Touch Read online

  But that wasn’t what made Nash gasp.

  He put his finger on the face of Sibel Martin. “I know her.”

  THE PAST

  When Nash was in his junior year of high school, they got rid of homeroom and instead instituted this class they called Advisory, which was a half hour long. Everyone went in the middle of the day, during lunch. Well, not during lunch, not exactly. There was one shift of kids at lunch and then one shift of kids in Advisory, and then they switched.

  During Advisory, you were supposed to be “advised” by your teacher about things like bullying and peer pressure and what you wanted to major in at college. There was even a curriculum. They were all assigned workbooks with pictures of smiling teenagers on the front of them.

  But at Nash’s high school, all the teachers were apparently really angry about Advisory, which they saw as the school asking them to teach another class without paying them extra, and so ninety percent of them refused to actually teach the curriculum and instead told the kids they had a thirty-minute study hall.

  Nash’s teacher, Ms. Jones, said it was a study hall, but didn’t bat an eyelash if people scooted the desks into little pods and spent the entire thirty minutes talking.

  Advisory was organized according to last name, and this year, Siobhan Thorn was in Nash’s class, even though she hadn’t been in his homeroom last year. Nash, having the last name Wilt, was always in the last homeroom. Sometimes, it was even smaller than the other homerooms since they were the leftovers. Anyway, however the alphabetical thing had worked out this year, Siobhan had ended up in his class.

  Nash—who went by his middle name Steve back then, because he thought Nash sounded like some kind of country-western singer’s name—had always thought Siobhan was kind of cute.

  Okay, maybe he thought she was gorgeous. She had long blond hair, and it was the kind of pure cornsilk-colored blond that so many other girls couldn’t achieve without hair dye. But Siobhan’s hair was naturally that blond. It was long and wavy, and she was always tucking it behind her ears and tossing it over her shoulder. She had clear skin and fine features and she was the prettiest girl in the whole school.

  Nash thought she was, anyway.

  He was pretty sure most of the other guys in his class thought the same thing.

  But Siobhan was quiet and kept to herself, and she wasn’t easily drawn out of her shell.

  The first day of Advisory, she sat down next to him. She didn’t look at him or anything. She ignored him and everyone else in the class. She waited while Ms. Jones explained that it was going to be study hall, and then she got out her math book and started working on problems.

  The classroom was quiet for nearly ten minutes, and then Pike Thompson scooted his chair back, making a loud screeching noise. Pike was a little bit of a troublemaker. He was always getting in trouble, and Nash had heard that he sold drugs and stuff.

  Ms. Jones didn’t even look up from whatever she was doing at her desk.

  Pike got up out of his chair and sauntered over to Siobhan. The desk in front of her was empty. Pike tugged out the chair and sat backwards on it, so that he was facing her desk. “Hey.”

  Siobhan looked up at him, raising her eyebrows.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  Siobhan rolled her eyes and went back to her math textbook. “What does it look like?”

  Pike seemed to consider responding to this. Then he shrugged.

  By this time, the rest of the class was starting to talk softly as well. Ms. Jones ignored them all.

  “I always see you at lunch,” said Pike. “You always sit alone.”

  Siobhan sighed. “Are you going somewhere with this?”

  “You should sit with me today,” said Pike.

  She set down her pencil and looked at him. Scrutinized him, taking in his face and his clothes. Her gaze lingered on his shoulders for a minute, and then she picked up her pencil again. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” he said, smiling.

  She shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Nash felt it like a twist in the gut. It was really that easy to get a girl to hang out with you, then? You just had to ask? He hated Pike for having done it before he had. He was sitting right next to Siobhan already. He could have talked to her.

  “Cool,” said Pike.

  She tucked her hair behind her ears and squinted at her math book.

  “So, listen,” said Pike, “a bunch of us are getting together at my place this weekend. My dad’s around, but he’s totally chill, and he won’t care, and maybe if you’re not doing any—”

  “Look, I’m kind of busy at the moment,” said Siobhan. “Maybe I’ll sit with you later. Maybe we’ll talk then. But I have to get this done.”

  “What are you even working on?” said Pike. “You got homework your first day?”

  “No,” said Siobhan. “This is the homework for Friday. It’s on the syllabus, and I like to work ahead. That way, I can take the whole weekend off.”

  “Wait, you’re doing work that hasn’t even been assigned yet?”

  “It will be assigned,” she said. “It’s on the syllabus. If I work ahead, then I can usually get all the major work done in a class before Christmas. All the big papers, all the little pieces of homework. Then I just do whatever I want all spring.”

  Pike made a face at her. “That’s weird.”

  She shrugged. “I know. Lots of people have told me I was weird before.”

  “I didn’t mean you were weird—”

  “Can you leave me alone?” She sighed heavily.

  Pike stood up from the desk. “Sure, whatever,” he muttered. “You don’t have to be rude.”

  Siobhan rolled her eyes again.

  Pike sauntered back across the room.

  Siobhan turned her gaze on Nash. “What are you looking at?”

  Nash licked his lips. “Uh…”

  She looked him over in the same way she’d looked at Pike, but she didn’t settle on his shoulders—probably because Pike’s were broader than Nash’s. Instead, she looked him square in the eye. “Your name is Nash, right?”

  He nodded wordlessly.

  She pointed at him with the eraser end of her pencil. “I always liked that name. It makes me think of classic rock.”

  “Really?” said Nash. “I always think of, uh, Nashville.”

  She considered. “Yeah, that too. Either way, it’s a cool name.” She went back to her math book.

  Nash’s throat was dry. He should say something else.

  She scribbled on her paper, completely oblivious.

  On the other hand, maybe he shouldn’t piss her off too much.

  But then words were suddenly bubbling out of his mouth. “Uh, I like your name too.”

  She looked up, eyebrows raised.

  “It’s, um, a feminine form of John, did you know that?”

  “What?”

  “Y-yeah, I looked it up, because of the spelling? Like I never would think to spell it the way it’s pronounced, but it’s Irish. It’s like, um, Sean only for girls. Sean is the Irish form of John, so your name’s kind of like Joan or Jean or something. But it’s so much prettier your way. I mean, your name is nice.” Inwardly, he groaned. God, he sounded like an idiot.

  But she only smiled. “Thanks. That’s sweet of you.”

  He shrugged, blushing.

  She pointed at her math book. “I’m going to…?”

  “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Yeah, sure. Don’t let me keep you.” He turned back to his desk, face flaming.

  She bent over her desk and scribbled away for the rest of the period.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “What do you mean you know her?” said Adam, taking the framed photo away from him, as if this revelation meant he had to get another look at her himself.

  “Well, I knew her,” said Nash. “It’s been… God, ten years, twelve years? Since high school that I’ve seen her. But, I went to high school with her. Her name’s Siobhan Thorn. I know her.”
>
  Billie’s forehead was a mess of furrows. She was shaking her head.

  Nash laughed a little. “This is crazy. Of all the weird coincidences in the world… It’s like when Ann Rule was investigating a killer that turned out to be her old buddy, Ted Bundy.

  “No, that’s what I’m saying, though,” said Adam. “I don’t think she’s the killer.”

  “Well, then who killed Dad, Adam?” said Billie, who was getting to her feet.

  Nash was still laughing, marveling at it all to himself. This was basically the best thing that had ever happened to him. He’d had a feeling about this story when he’d agreed to come and do the podcast. People contacted him all the time wanting him to dig into this or that from their family’s past, help him get to the bottom of various local scandals. Most of those stories weren’t as interesting or as difficult to figure out as the people who were close to them thought they were. He had to pass on most stories, because they didn’t make good entertainment. But he’d known that this one was intriguing. And now, the added wrinkle of having known her?

  Oh! Wait a second…

  “There were girls missing from my high school,” said Nash, eyes wide.

  “What?” said Adam. He was still staring down at the photograph. “What are you talking about?”

  “Uh…” Nash rubbed his forehead, trying to conjure the details. “There were girls. Three girls from my class and girls from graduating classes before mine. I don’t know how many. Maybe ten total? They never knew if they were related or not. They all just disappeared and were never found again.”

  Billie sat up straight. “So, you’re saying that she killed those girls too.”

  “I…” Was that what he was saying? “I can’t imagine Siobhan killing someone. She was so…” Pretty? Well, that meant that she was good deep down, right?

  Because the truth was that Siobhan Thorn wasn’t the kind of person he’d describe as particularly nice or sweet or kind. She wasn’t a mean person, exactly, but she was blunt, and she could be cutting. She was funny, though, that had to count for something.

  But still, she wasn’t a violent person. She was…

  Maybe he was resistant to it because of what had happened between them, but he didn’t know exactly how to explain that. She wasn’t his girlfriend. Hell, she barely acknowledged him most of the time. But there had been a connection between them. And he would have known if she had been secretly killing people.

  Right?

  “If you know her, then can you find her?” said Billie.

  “I’m sure as hell going to try,” said Nash. “This is the craziest story I’ve covered in my entire career.”

  “Good,” said Billie. “Then, when you find her, you can ask her where my grandmother’s wedding ring is.”

  “Oh, geez, Billie.” Adam finally set down the photograph. “We don’t know that she took anything.”

  “It was worth a fortune. Probably a hundred thousand dollars,” said Billie. “And there has to be some reason that she killed my dad.”

  “It’s true that women usually kill for tangible things like financial gain or sympathy or…” Nash trailed off. Was he really going there? Was he really going to work under the premise that Siobhan had committed murder? And not just one murder either, but dozens of murders?

  “I still think that ring’s going to turn up,” said Adam.

  Nash went over and picked up the photograph again. He looked down at Siobhan. She looked a little older, but basically just the same as she had in high school. She was beautiful, and it made his throat hurt. He remembered the first time he’d touched her skin. It had just been the skin of her hand. Her fingers against his. His nostrils flared.

  “You find her,” said Billie. “Find out what happened to my dad.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “She came in once a week for a manicure,” said Wren Rodiguez. “Like clockwork, she was always here.”

  Nash was holding out his portable field recorder to capture Wren’s voice. He was talking to her in her shop Cute-icles, which she owned and operated. She did manicures, pedicures, and massage. “Was this before she married Mr. Martin as well?”

  “Oh, no,” said Wren. “She started up right after they got married. She told me that she didn’t want to move in with him if they weren’t married. She said she might be old-fashioned, but she just didn’t think that was right.”

  “So, she moved from far away, then?”

  “I really haven’t the faintest.”

  “It’s only that if she’d been close, she probably would have been coming to you for manicures before the marriage?”

  “Oh. Oh, I guess you’re right. But maybe not. My shop’s real convenient to the Martin place, but there are other boutiques in town she might have gone to if she lived closer to them.”

  “Sure,” said Nash. “What was your impression of her?”

  “She was really nice,” said Wren. “Very polished and demure. Soft-spoken. Like a… a princess, really. That’s how I always thought of her. And not some spoiled bratty princess either, but the way you think princesses really should be. She was almost regal, really. And you couldn’t help but like her. She was wonderful.”

  This was the same song and dance that Nash was getting from everyone. He’d been canvassing the area today, going to interview various people who’d come into contact with Siobhan (or Sibel, as she had called herself), when she was in town.

  The very fact that she’d used a pseudonym was suspicious, and it spoke to some kind of deviant behavior.

  But the people who had known her only had glowing things to say about her. She was sweet. She was kind. She was pretty. They all seemed a bit in awe of her.

  Nash didn’t know what to make of it.

  Of course, if Siobhan really was a murderer, it was unlikely that she would have behaved strangely to anyone. If she had really killed so many people, she was likely some kind of sociopath, and that meant she’d be good at pretending to be social when it suited her.

  He didn’t think Siobhan was a sociopath, but that was the thing about sociopaths. You didn’t know.

  One thing about it, he had to admit, didn’t make sense.

  She was a woman.

  The crimes that were being attributed to her, with the exception of Bart Martin, weren’t the kind of crimes that women committed.

  Sure, there were female serial killers, and they were just as sociopathic as their male counterparts. They ultimately wanted power and control, same as men. But female serial killers didn’t sexually violate or physically mutilate their victims—that is, unless they were working with a male partner.

  Female serial killers tended to be the angel-of-death nurse who killed patients in a nursing home slowly over several months by giving them a medicine that would kill them. They tended to be the black widow, who married and then killed her husbands (usually in order to take his cash) one after the other. They were mothers who surreptitiously smothered their babies, enjoyed the attention and sympathy they got after the child’s death, and then got pregnant and did it again.

  Capturing young women and killing them?

  That sounded like the work of a male serial killer. Male serial killers were more likely to have a sexual component to their killings.

  Nash didn’t know if the bodies of the women who’d been buried with Bart Martin had been sexually assaulted, but even if they hadn’t been, it was unlike a female serial killer to conduct her business this way. Female serial killers didn’t hunt victims. They lured them, and then they killed them quietly and intimately, often in such a way that it wasn’t obvious a murder had been committed. Many of them used poisons. Many of them killed people who were weaker than them, people who they had maneuvered themselves to be in control of.

  The one outlier that Nash knew of was Aileen Wuornos. At first glance, she almost seemed to hunt her victims. She killed men who picked her up along the sides of highways, and she was a prostitute, meaning there was a sexual component to the killi
ngs.

  But Wuornos was truly a different breed. She seemed to have snapped after being brutally raped by one of her clients. The first murder was clearly self-defense. She sometimes claimed the ensuing murders were the same—that the men were all about to rape her. Sometimes, she took it all back and said that she did it because she hated people in general.

  Nash didn’t know what to make of her.

  He found serial killers fascinating. He found people who could commit violent crimes more fascinating, though. Serial killers weren’t like regular people. They were sociopathic. They were crazy. Normal people who lost their tempers and could go too far, though… That was what Nash found the most intriguing about crime. That was why he spent his time doing the podcast and reporting on incidents in America. It was because he wanted to know the answer to one simple question.

  Could any of us become a killer under the right circumstances?

  He thought the answer was yes. The circumstances might not be the same for everyone, but he thought all people had a breaking point, a point in which they’d cross the line. If people didn’t, war wouldn’t be possible.

  That was one of the reasons why Wuornos was so interesting. Her killing seemed so reactive. It was unlikely that all of these men really had attempted to rape her. She seemed to have a distorted idea of their intentions in some cases. She was clearly crazy, and he meant that most sincerely. The woman was psychotic.

  But… it was possible it was all PTSD, he sometimes thought. Given her background—terrible homelife, sexually abused as a child, abandoned, sexualized at a young age… Well, a person like that got pretty twisted. Maybe she had experienced so much horror in her life that she didn’t know how to distinguish a real threat from something innocuous. Maybe she lashed out because she was always afraid.

  Or maybe he was wrong. Maybe the men she’d killed really were all rapists. Maybe she’d known this and targeted them.

  Maybe it was some kind of psychotic revenge.

  She was dead now. They’d executed her. Even if she had been alive, no one would ever know for sure.

  Anyway, Nash wondered.