Beneath Her Skin, Gregg Olsen [ereader with android .txt] 📗

He took the papers, his eyes taking in each disgusting word.

“We’ve also got some chats that she saved,” Hayley said.

“I see that,” he said, still immersed in the pages. “How do we know it came from Jake?”

“Colton tracked the IP. All emails came from the Larsens’ place,” Hayley said.

“The guy’s a pig,” Taylor said. “Dad, he pushed her into killing herself. Told her how great she was, beautiful, smart… then dropped her like a hot rock. He told her she was stupid and should do the world a favor and kill herself. Isn’t he guilty of something?”

“He’s guilty of incredibly bad judgment and of being a scumbag, but Internet bullying, harassment, I’m not sure. There are laws on the books in some states, but not all. And most haven’t been tested.”

“What are you going to do?” Taylor asked.

“Only one thing we can do,” Kevin said. “We’ve got to get this to Annie.”

Chapter Forty-Two

Beth Lee texted Hayley and Taylor at the same time with the news that Jake Damon had been picked up by the Port Gamble Police. The twins were watching TV downstairs, not talking to each other. Taylor resented Hayley and Colton for going off on a Jake dirt-finding mission without her. Not cool. And there was no saying when they would forgive each other. One time, they didn’t talk for five days—and that was over a sweater that Hayley had stained with cranberry juice.

Accidentally. Honest. Really!

Beth: Mom’s dorky friend Nina works there. Says Jake was wanted on an outstndng warrant for dui.

Taylor: Did they arrest him for killing K?

Beth: No. Not yet. Nina says that he’s been questioned about stalkng her, but he denied it.

Hayley: He’s such a liar!

Beth: Yeah, but kind of cute.

Taylor: OMG! U think a sleazy guy like that is cute?

Beth: Don’t blame me. I <3 me a bad boy.

Hayley turned to her sister and they burst out laughing.

“Can you believe her?” Hayley asked.

“No,” Taylor said, her smile fading. “And I’m still kind of mad at you.”

Savannah Osteen crawled onto her couch knowing she had made a very big mistake. She pulled an old poly-filled comforter up to her neck and allowed her tears to tumble.

Whenever she told anyone about her sister’s death, it was like the creation of a fresh wound—a rusty knife into her stomach. Hurt poured out of her. Regret, shame, and guilt too.

Savannah could never let go of her sister and how she’d loved her more than anyone—more than her mother, father, older brothers. When Serena came home from the hospital, it was like getting a real-life baby doll. She was pink. Straight-haired. Perfect. Their mother let Savannah bottle-feed her and bathe her. She was, Savannah believed, her baby too.

Because of her, her baby was gone forever.

To lose Serena as Savannah had and to have missed the opportunity to save her was a tragic event that shaped the rest of her life. She quit the university, got involved in drugs, and went from boyfriend to boyfriend. She’d only come out of the darkness the year before she posted the response on the Kitsap Kalamities website.

Curled up with the comforter, Savannah knew she had made a grave error sharing that videotape with the reporter, but she couldn’t help herself. She had wanted to tell somebody for the longest time. Someone who didn’t know her and wouldn’t judge her.

In doing so, she had unleashed something that she hadn’t meant to.

Just then she made a decision. Her pity party was over. Savannah threw off the comforter, dried her tears, went to her computer and found Kevin Ryan’s website. She hit the CONTACT button. An email window opened and she started typing a message.

She hoped that it wasn’t too late.

A message from the Washington State crime lab was waiting for Dr. Waterman when she returned to her desk from her autopsy suite. The note made absolutely no sense. She dialed the lab and got a tech on the phone.

“The pregnancy test kit you sent in with Ramstad came back negative, no presence of hCG. Picked up a trace of blood, though. We typed it though, AB. Nada else,” said the lab tech, a cheerful woman named Paris who always made sure that everyone knew she was named for the French capital, not the plaster.

Dr. Waterman slid her glasses down her nose as she searched for the Ramstad folder.

“There must be an error,” she said.

“Nope. Pretty clear. That gunshot victim, Robin, wasn’t pregnant.”

“I should hope not,” Birdy said.

“What’s with that?” the tech said.

“She’d be the first man to have a baby.”

Paris wasn’t so sure. “What about that guy in Oregon? The one I saw on Good Morning America?”

Birdy knew what she was referring to but ignored the impulse to say another word. Instead, she thanked Paris and hung up, a flash of recognition coming to her. She moved her hands over her desk, feeling the covering of file folders for the pregnancy kit that Mrs. Berkley had waved at her when she came to the morgue.

It was nowhere to be found.

Terry! He must have sent it into the lab by mistake.

She didn’t know whether to fire him or hug him right then. His error was an answer to a tormented mother’s prayers.

Katelyn wasn’t AB. She was type O. The test kit didn’t belong to her.

Dr. Waterman felt so relieved. In a job that seemed only to relay the worst possible news to a loved one (“ten broken ribs” or “sixty-one stab wounds to the chest” or “strangled with a bungee cord”), she had something that would bring comfort, not additional pain. Sandra Berkley would be comforted to know that Katelyn hadn’t cut her out of every important thing in her life. Dr. Waterman immediately phoned her and explained how her assistant’s mistake had inadvertently brought information that she thought would console her.

At least a little bit.

“Are you sure about this?” Sandra asked, clearly overjoyed that her daughter had not hidden a pregnancy.

The forensic pathologist said she was positive.

“I only have one question…”

“I know the