The Perfect Family

by Robyn Harding

  Still, I welcomed the chance to get out of the house for a few hours. Viv’s confession was weighing on me. My wife was a thief, a kleptomaniac even. She’d downplayed it, said she’d talk to a therapist, but was it that simple? Maybe Viv’s mental-health issues had impacted the kids, too? Eli was dropping out of college and refused to see any of his friends. And Tarryn was so angry… at everyone and everything. Maybe their problems were genetic?

  At seven o’clock, the summer sun was still high, but the sky was overcast, a scrim of pale clouds blotting the light, making the already uninviting bungalow downright dismal. I opened the windows and turned on all the lights, my mind still on my wife’s admission. Would I have found out about her habit if she hadn’t stolen a bag of pills? If she hadn’t realized that her theft might have brought on the escalating episodes of harassment? I had been blaming myself, wondering if Chanel was behind this, but it was just as likely Viv’s fault. She had taken drugs away from a dealer. And for that, we all had to pay.

  Emma had printed the feature sheets and I removed them from the manila envelope. I’d requested twenty pamphlets, though I’d be lucky if I gave away two tonight. I’d do another open midweek; surely I’d use them then. As I spread them out on the dining table, something caught my eye. Buried within the promotional materials was another image. It was a photograph of a young couple, the words Save the Date across the top. It was for Emma’s wedding.

  She had obviously been using the work photocopier for personal business, but I didn’t begrudge her. I knew she was underpaid, and her elaborate dream wedding was going to be expensive. I hoped her computer guy made a lot of money or they’d be in debt for years. His name was Paul, according to the Save the Date card. Had I known that? Surely, Emma must have mentioned him. Maybe I’d even met him, though I couldn’t recall.

  I looked at the attractive couple, standing in each other’s arms. They were posed but laughing, a candid outtake from a professional shoot. They looked really happy, really in love. Viv and I had looked that way when we were engaged, before we knew what the years ahead had in store for us. Emma was young and naïve, optimistic by nature. She’d never expect the things life was going to throw at her.

  Her fiancé, Paul, was a good-looking guy with a shaved head and artful stubble. There was something a little off about his smile, though, an asymmetrical quality. Looking closer, I saw what gave his grin the lopsided effect.

  Paul was missing a tooth.

  It was barely noticeable, a small space where a bottom incisor should have been, but it sent a prickle down the back of my neck. The bite marks on Chanel’s breast… the culprit was missing a tooth, a bottom tooth. But it didn’t make sense. How could Emma’s fiancé have bitten the stripper? Unless…

  Oh shit.

  I had to talk to Emma. I dialed her number, but she didn’t answer. She couldn’t have gone away for the weekend, not with the wedding looming. Was she screening me? She probably thought I was calling to ask her to do me a favor, to cover the open house for me. But she had to answer, because I had to know—what was Paul’s connection to Chanel?

  A couple entered then, their disappointment already evident as they looked around the bungalow. “Welcome!” I said, too loud, too bright. “Please—take a feature sheet. I’m here if you have any questions.”

  When I closed up, I would go to Emma’s condo. I knew where she lived. I’d helped her find the place when she and her boyfriend first moved in together. A disturbing picture was taking shape in my mind, but I shouldn’t speculate. I would talk to Emma. And she would tell me what the hell was going on.

  Viv

  THOMAS’S OPEN HOUSE ran from seven till nine. He’d promised he’d be home by ten at the latest, so at nine fifty-five, I took an Ambien. There was no way I’d be able to sleep without medication. I would lie awake all night, stressing, worrying, and hating myself for what I had done to my family. I was already exhausted: eyes sandy, thoughts muddled, nerves on edge. A drug-induced sleep was not as restorative as a regular one, but it would keep me functional, and keep me sane.

  In the morning, I would go to Dolly Barber and admit that I had stolen the bag of pills. She would be furious with me. She might decide to destroy my reputation and career; to negatively impact Thomas’s. My children would be embarrassed and upset. But I could see no other way. The Barbers had dealt with Nate’s supplier. They knew the people he had hung out with when he was dealing. They would understand the kind of danger we were in, the danger I had put us in. They would help us. They had to.

  Just after ten, my phone pinged with a text. It was my husband.

  I’m going to be late. Set the alarm.

  Why? I texted back. What are you doing?

  But Thomas didn’t respond.

  Had I known he wouldn’t be home on time, I would not have taken the sleeping pill. Despite our security measures, I still felt someone needed to be alert. But I punched in the alarm code, arming our house against intruders. Did those in the drug trade take advantage of national holidays? Did they make a long weekend of it, heading to the coast with their friends and families? I hoped so. Because that meant nothing would happen tonight. The neighborhood brats might throw eggs or tomatoes or empty bottles, but nothing dangerous, nothing deadly.

  “Where’s Dad?” Eli had asked, as we ate our roasted chicken that evening. His welts were healing, but they were still visible and rather unsightly. He hadn’t been back to work yet. Tarryn had made herself rice and beans and taken them to her upstairs bedroom. She was clearly upset about something, but I wasn’t equipped to deal with her teenage problems, not right now. Not until I figured out how to neutralize the abuse against us.

  “He has an open house,” I said, taking a sip of wine. My second glass—an effort to calm my frayed nerves.

  “On a Saturday night? After the Fourth?” Eli scoffed.

  Even a week ago, I would have been suspicious of my husband’s absence, but not now. We were a team again. And we needed money. The end of my income stream was imminent.

  My son took a bite off a drumstick. “Shouldn’t Dad be home at night with all the shit going on?”

  “He won’t be late,” I’d assured him. “And we have the alarm. No one can get to us.”

  I didn’t need to be afraid, I told myself, as I settled into bed. The house was a veritable fortress now of lights and sounds designed to protect us. If the monitored alarm system detected any kind of danger—a fire, a break-in—a security team would be alerted, emergency responders summoned if necessary.

  My children were just down the hall, which gave me comfort. My son was a full-grown man, fit and strong, and my daughter had twenty pounds on me. But if anything happened, I would protect them. The gun was in the drawer of the nightstand. Thomas had showed me how to use it. And I would, if I had to.

  I tried to read, but I couldn’t focus, and my eyes were getting heavy. Determined to stay awake until Thomas got home, I shuffled to the bathroom, my shoulder ricocheting off the doorframe. I leaned over the sink and splashed some cold water on my face. When I righted myself, the room tilted, and I stumbled. Shit. The Ambien and the second glass of wine with dinner were messing with my equilibrium.

  Running my hand along the wall for balance, I made my way back to the bedroom. My phone was charging on the nightstand. When I picked it up, the clock read: 10:25. I texted Thomas.

  When will you be home?

  I waited, watching for the shimmering dots that prefaced his reply, but there was nothing.

  I had just set the phone down, just pulled the covers up to my chest when I heard it. A THUMP, followed by a voice, an angry hiss, coming from the backyard. The alarm was armed; no one could get in, but someone was out there. What were they doing? Setting a trap for us? Setting another fire?

  With trembling fingers, I picked up my phone again and opened the camera app. Selecting the backyard camera, I watched the livestream, waiting, hoping to see a skunk or a raccoon, but nothing appeared. The camera had recorded
movement just over a minute ago. I clicked the link to watch the video, my mouth dry and parched with dread.

  There was nothing at first, and then a figure entered the frame. It was most definitely a man, not a boy, this time. He was too tall, too self-assured. He was wearing not a hoodie but a full face covering—a black knitted balaclava, three holes revealing eyes and a mouth. The looming figure was walking around the periphery of the yard with a confident stride, like he was looking for someone. Like he meant business.

  What if Thomas came home and disturbed this intruder? Would the man attack him? He looked taller and stronger than my husband, and infinitely more menacing. Did he have a weapon? I replayed the video, looking for evidence of a gun, a knife, or a club, but it was so dark. It was impossible to tell.

  On a wave of fear and adrenaline, I reached for the handgun in the top drawer of the bedside table. It was just a deterrent, I told myself as I picked my way down the darkened staircase, clutching the railing with my free hand. I certainly wasn’t going to fire the weapon when I felt so wobbly and unsteady. But if Thomas needed me, I would be there. I could threaten the intruder, fire the gun into the night. I could scare the man away, at least.

  The main floor was dark but for a beam of light streaming through the back window. It was from the backyard sensor lights, triggered by motion. It meant that the culprit was still out there, still creeping around in the dark. I went to the front window and peeped through the blinds, searching for my husband’s car. Eli was right. Thomas should not have gone to that open house. He should have stayed here with us. But I couldn’t fault my husband for doing his job. And I knew… this was my fault.

  Besides, we were safe inside our suburban fortress. If that man tried to gain entry, an alarm would sound. The security company would call our home phone, and then, if we didn’t answer or told them we needed help, the police would be summoned. To reassure myself, I stumbled to the alarm and double-checked it. To my horror, I found it unarmed.

  Had I punched in the code incorrectly? Surely, it would have beeped to alert me if I had. Thomas had selected an easy-to-remember combination of numbers based on our birthdates. But in what order? And was it our birth years or our birth months? Suddenly, I couldn’t recall. My fingers trembled on the keypad, afraid to enter the wrong code and require a reset. But the children and I were now vulnerable to the menacing figure creeping around outside.

  As if on cue: another noise, the sound of feet on our back steps. The man—predator, drug lord, or psychopath—was just outside. He was trying to get in. Was he looking for the pills I had stolen? What would he do to me, to Tarryn and Eli, once he gained access?

  I looked at the revolver in my hand and knew what I had to do. I couldn’t stand here waiting, weak and pathetic. My family, and my home, had to be protected. On trembling legs, I moved to the back of the house and peered out the French doors. The figure in black was nowhere to be seen. I turned the handle and stepped out onto the porch.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” I called into the silent yard. I cocked the revolver, held it out in front of me. “Get away from my family!”

  I waited. Nothing. And then, from a darkened corner of the backyard, a figure emerged. He was moving toward me, so large, so menacing. His clothes were dark, his face obscured by the mask; even his eyes appeared black, the pupils dilated by the backyard lights. He wasn’t stopping; he kept coming at me. “Stop!” I screamed, but he didn’t.

  I had no choice. I closed my eyes and I squeezed the trigger.

  Tarryn

  I WAS IN my office/bedroom, lying on my single bed, when I heard someone on the stairs. I assumed it was my dad coming home from his open house, so I paid no attention. My mind was still reeling from Georgia’s betrayal. How could my closest friend since childhood have sent me those terrifying messages? How could Luke have stood by and let her scare me like that? But then I heard the back door open, and my mom’s shrill voice.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Her words trembled and sounded slightly slurred. What the hell was she doing? Why was she outside? If someone was out there, she shouldn’t be confronting them alone. I sat up, grabbing for a pair of sweats on my floor.

  “Get away from my family!” she cried, and I hurried for the door. I had just turned the handle when my mom screamed, “Stop!”

  And then a gun went off.

  My feet flew down the stairs, my stomach lodged in my throat. “Eli! Get down here!” I yelled, but I didn’t pause. He had to have heard the crack of the gun—even if he was gaming, or sleeping, or wearing earbuds. But I needed my brother. Because my mom had just been shot, and I couldn’t face that alone.

  When I reached the main floor, I saw my mom’s form through the French doors. She was standing on the back porch, her whole body visibly trembling. Relief flooded through me. She was safe. She was alive. But what the hell had happened?

  Stepping out into the cool night air, I approached her. “Mom? Are you okay?” She didn’t answer, didn’t move. She just kept staring out into the yard, at the body lying on the grass. And then I saw the gun in her hand, and the puzzle pieces slotted into place. My mom had shot the intruder. Since when did she have a gun? Since when was she capable of shooting someone?

  “What happened?” I cried. “What’s going on?”

  When she still didn’t respond, I realized that she was in shock. And maybe I was too, because what I did next was odd, out of character for me. I stayed calm and I took control. “Go inside and call nine-one-one,” I said, my voice surprisingly firm. I turned her by the shoulders and pressed her gently toward the house. And then I hurried down the steps toward the motionless lump on the back lawn.

  Who had my mom shot? A neighborhood kid? Finn Dorsey? I approached tentatively, afraid of what I might see, of what he might do. The motion-sensor light illuminated the still intruder, and as I got closer, I took in his size: tall and broad and strong. He wore dark clothing, but the wound was visible on his left shoulder, and there was a pool of blood collecting underneath his head. But there was something familiar in the angles of the body, and a lock of light-brown hair peeped out beneath the knitted mask. And then, I looked at his hand, and saw the angry red welt.

  “No!” I screamed, as I fell on my knees and pulled back the mask, revealing his pale, still face.

  “Eli!” I cried. “Wake up!”

  Thomas

  ON THE DRIVE to Emma’s apartment, my thoughts were scattered, my mind flooded with questions. Was Emma’s fiancé, Paul, blackmailing me? Was Emma oblivious or in on it? Did they know Chanel? When had he bitten her breast? Had the dancer let him do that to her? I’d tried to formulate some kind of spiel for Emma, but I soon gave up. When I spoke to her—if I spoke to her—it would be instinctive, unrehearsed. Parking my car at a meter, I practically jogged toward the block of apartments.

  Emma lived in a nondescript tower in the Pearl District. I was familiar with the building, had sold a couple of apartments there over the years. I knew it had a small gym, that it was well-managed, and that it was likely at the top of Emma and Paul’s budget. I also knew that it had a secure front lobby. I would not be able to get inside unless Emma invited me. Scrolling through the digital intercom, I found their names.

  EMMA HOLLY & PAUL MONTAGUE

  They were in apartment 609. I punched in the code and waited, my heart hammering in my chest. It rang three times, and then four. Maybe she really wasn’t home. Maybe she couldn’t face me. And then, I heard her voice, cool and suspicious. “Hello?”

  “Emma, it’s Thomas,” I called into the tiny microphone. “I’m sorry to show up here so late, but I really need to talk to you. Please.”

  She didn’t respond, and I could hear nothing on the other end of the line. The pause went on so long, I feared she had hung up on me. “Emma?” I said again. “Are you there?”

  Her response was clipped. “I’ll come down.”

  A few minutes later she appeared, wearing gray sweatpants, an oversize T-shirt, and fl
ip-flops. She wore no makeup, making her look young and innocent, but there was a wary look in her eyes. She opened the glass door, but didn’t invite me in. Instead, she came outside, leading us back toward the sidewalk, where she stopped and crossed her arms.

  “What do you want, Thomas?”

  I held out the Save the Date printout. “This was in with my feature sheets.”

  She took it from me. “What? Are you upset that I used the color printer for personal business? Is that why you’re here?”

  “No…” I felt strangely nervous, rattled. “You know I’m being blackmailed, right?”

  “Yeah, I got your e-mail.”

  “Well, the dancer from Roger’s bachelor party claims I hurt her. That I bit her and choked her. But I would never do that.”

  She said nothing, just shifted her weight to the other hip, a skeptical look on her face. I swallowed my anxiety and pressed on.

  “I have proof that it wasn’t me. The guy who bit Chanel, the dancer, is missing a tooth.”

  A shadow of unease flickered across her features, but it was gone so quickly that I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it. “Okay…”

  I gestured toward the photograph in her hand. “Whoever bit Chanel is missing the same tooth as Paul.”

  “He plays hockey,” she said quickly. “He got a stick in the mouth, like, two days ago.”

  “But he’s missing a tooth in your photos. When was your photo shoot?”

  “Yesterday,” she snapped, but I could see the panic in her eyes.

  “You were at work all day yesterday. You printed these feature sheets—and your invitations.”

  “So what?” she said. “Are you accusing him of something?”

  “No,” I said, trying to rein in my apprehension, “I just need to know… did Paul bite Chanel?”