Page 16 of Still See You Everywhere

The folder contains one new item, per my request—a photocopy of the letter Keahi’s sister had allegedly written to her. Not the envelope, though, which, in hindsight, I would’ve liked to inspect as well. Not because I know what I’m looking for, exactly, but as the saying goes, you know it when you see it.

The note is written on a blank piece of printer paper. The writing is large and scrawling, nearly childish. Because seventeen-year-old Lea hasn’t had access to schooling? Or because most schools no longer teach basic penmanship? Rather than tangle myself up in wild theories involving graphology, I focus on the wording instead.

Keahi,

I don’t know if you’ll get this letter. Don’t know if I’ll have the courage to send it.

I ran that night like you said.

Hid the best I could.

But he found me. He killed Noodles so I’d know better than to run again. He told me he killed you too, but years later I saw your face on the news.

If you did what they say you did, I don’t blame you.

You are my kaiku‘ana. I remember you always. I miss you forever. I love you to the moon and back.

A hui hou,

Leilani

I read the letter three times through, then rest it on my lap. Keahi had been certain the note had been sent by her sister. I’m guessing the inclusion of both of their “secret” names helped, though I imagine those names became known once they made it to Hawaii. Noodles, however, jumps out at me. I’m guessing it’s the name of the kitten MacManus had given to Lea—apparently, just so he had something to punish her with later.

I’m half-prepared to brave my first trip on an airplane just so I can avenge Noodles the cat’s terrible death. Except that single point of specificity in a letter otherwise filled with vague references bugs me. It feels too perfect, almost planted.

Want to get Keahi to believe this letter really came from her long-lost baby sister? Include a little-known personal detail, say the name of her sister’s cat.

Except what would be the point? If this letter is bait, who’s it supposed to trap? Not Keahi, who will only be leaving death row for one very final journey. Her lawyer, committed to halting her client’s upcoming execution, isn’t going to suddenly race off to a tropical island. I guess that leaves me, but snaring the attention of a barely employable recovering alcoholic is hardly a prize.

I’m back to my earlier conversation with Twanow. Why this letter now? And I’m stuck with the same answer: there’s no obvious upside to pretending to be a serial killer’s long-lost sibling.

If I step back from it, the letter doesn’t read as a cry for help as much as a simple need for connection, say, a final attempt at closure, from one sister to another on the eve of big sis’s execution. Certainly, that would explain the why now.

The fact that Lea doesn’t ask for anything from her sister, not come save me, not even please write back, seems to imply she knows this communication is a one-way street. Again, evidence that she’s reaching out for her own sake, versus some ulterior motive?

I look up the final phrase in Hawaiian, a hui hou, and learn it means “until we meet again.” Often used in parting, as Hawaiians are superstitious of the word goodbye. Also, spoken at funerals to maintain a feeling of hope.

The sentimentality of the expression makes me feel guilty for my cynical thoughts. Doesn’t stop me from having them, however. Being in a line of work where everyone lies to me has made me a firm believer that everyone lies.

So, two possibilities. This letter is bait of some kind and/or filled with hidden codes. Or Lea, having realized her big sister is still alive just in time for Keahi to be put to death, felt compelled to reach out with one last gesture of love and support. End of story.

I really want it to be option B. Still stuck on option A.

I set the letter aside for now and return to reviewing the dossiers on all my soon-to-be best friends. Nothing like time on a remote, semi-deserted island for getting to know one another. For no reason, the theme song from Gilligan’s Island keeps running through my head.

And for the first time, picturing that tropical island, I feel myself getting excited. I don’t really know anything about coconuts, palm trees, and white, sandy beaches. I know the heat and humidity of the deep South, not to mention the unbearable stickiness of the Bronx in July. But an island retreat… Beautiful blue ocean, waving palm fronds, maybe dolphins frolicking in the distance? Could I swim with dolphins? Could I touch a dolphin?

Now I’m positively giddy.

Which is perfect timing, as a booming voice announces over the sound system that it’s time to board. Maybe this will feel like a vacation after all.

En masse, my cell-phone-fixated fellow passengers rise to standing.

This is it. Arrive in Honolulu. Charter my way to a billionaire’s personal atoll. Locate Leilani Pierson.

In, out, down. Easy, peasy, lemon breezy.

Whiskey, my brain taunts. Vodka, gin. Cointreau. Single-serve bottles. Pocket-sized nips. No one to know…

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