by Elka Ray
Without Kevin, it’s very quiet. I wonder how it’s going at the vet’s. Given that the pig was stirring yesterday and Daphne wasn’t, I’m guessing Kevin will soon be his greedy and mischievous self. It would take a lot to kill Kevin.
My mom extracts the spare key from beneath its flowerpot. I guess Daphne told her where to look. When she opens the door, my ribs seem to shrink. What if Lukas is inside?
I say this to my mom. “He’s not,” she says, firmly. “Daphne told me. Grace drove him back to rehab. That was part of his bail agreement on the assault charge. He has to stay there.”
I take a deep breath and follow my mom indoors. The hall lies dark and quiet. I shut the front door. The shattered cup has been swept up and the spilled coffee wiped away. The stained rug is gone. Perhaps the police took it.
“Hello?” I call out, just in case someone’s here. My voice echoes. “What does she need?” I ask my mother.
“Toiletries. PJs. Some meds,” she says. She’s already heading for the stairs. “I’ll get them.” She shivers. “It’s freezing in here. Can you check if any windows are open?”
“Um, okay,” I say. My mom’s right. It is cold.
I peer into the library. It’s shut up tight. I pass through the double doors into the living room. Again, the windows are closed. I walk through the dim, formal dining room and into the kitchen. No open windows. The tarp over the counter has been folded back to reveal a new marble countertop. Some boxes sit on the counter. Others remain on the floor, covered by tarps. The stepladder rests where I last saw it.
Maybe it’s fatigue, or hunger, or stress, but I can’t stop shivering. I need some hot tea.
I peer under a tarp and find the kettle. A little more searching yields a tray of cutlery and some mugs. It feels colder in the house than it did outdoors.
Maybe the basement windows are open, to air out the exhaust fumes. They’ll just have to stay that way. I don’t want to return to that basement.
I bend to search various boxes. There must be tea somewhere. In the last box, there’s a tin of cocoa. I hesitate. Is this the stuff that was drugged? But no, Gerard added the sleeping meds after, like the sugar.
I pry off the lid. The cocoa looks and smells fine. I spoon a generous amount into two mugs, then add some brown sugar. Carrying two mugs with one hand isn’t easy. I find a tray and walk slowly, trying to keep it steady.
I’m half way up the stairs when I trip. The tray slams down and tips. Hot cocoa splashes up my front. I fall forward, onto my knees and elbows. The jolt hurts my chest and injured arm.
I straighten up. I’m not badly hurt, just startled and dismayed. Hot chocolate drips down my camel sweater and over the stairs. There are big, ugly blotches on poor Daphne’s cream carpet.
I clutch my forehead, surveying the mess. “Crap,” I say. If I’m not quick, it will stain. Daphne would have to recarpet the whole staircase.
With a wobble, I rise to my feet. What can I use? Baking soda? Or maybe Daphne’s got some sort of cleaning spray.
I carry the half-empty mugs back down to the kitchen and set them in the sink. There might be something in the laundry.
Descending the basement stairs feels like déjà vu. My knees are rubbery. I tell myself to grow up. Gerard is in hospital, incapacitated. Lukas is in rehab.
The TV room stretches below me, quiet and empty. The vase Gerard used to bash Colin is gone, as is my hammer. The only signs of yesterday’s struggle are some bits of fishing line, left where the paramedics dropped them, and a bloodstain, over where Colin lay.
I shudder. Maybe I shouldn’t worry about the cocoa stains, after all. The whole house needs new carpeting. It’s not like Daphne can’t afford it.
But since I’m here, I may as well look. I head for the laundry room.
It’s neat and bright, since there’s a big (shut) window. I see a box of laundry pods and bottles of bleach and fabric softener. There must be some spray-on stain remover, somewhere.
On a low shelf sits a big plastic picnic hamper full of cleaning supplies. I pull it out. There’s a spray bottle of Windex and a Toilet Duck. I rummage through various bottles and jars. Down at the bottom lies a patchwork of sponges and rags. Tipped on its side is a can. Aha—it claims to remove stains from everything.
I fish it out and grab a dark rag. The cloth’s surprisingly heavy. When I lift it out, I see it’s a dark blue man’s sock, folded in on itself. There’s something inside it. I squish it. I can feel some hard round disks in there.
I unroll the sock and shake. Two dozen gold coins spray out. As they bounce and roll, I try to stop them. A few vanish under the washing machine. I blink, stupefied.
Daphne said Walt’s coins were in the bank. So what are these? I pick a coin from the floor and examine it: On one side are the words UNITED STATES and a bird with outstretched wings. I turn it over to see a head in profile and the date 1795.
Holy cow. It must be worth something! I weigh it in my hand. It feels heavy.
I start scooping up coins. They’re all different, but all old and solid gold—from the 1700s and 1800s.
On hands and knees, I peer under the washer. I can see some coins under there but can’t reach them. I sit up and shake myself. It doesn’t matter. I’m not thinking straight. Someone can get them out later.
I feed the remaining coins back into the sock. My mind is reeling. I get to my feet and ascend the stairs, moving slowly. The discovery of these coins changes everything.
I need to call Miriam.
The door at the top of the stairs is shut. I swear I left it open. I swallow hard, hesitating. My mom must have shut it.
I push the door open. “Mom?” I call.
My mom is standing near the sink. At the sight of me she smiles. “Oh there you are,” she says. “I wondered where you’d gotten off to.”
I step inside. Beside my mom stands Grace. She’s washing a mug, while gazing out the window into the back yard. As usual, she’s wearing an apron, this one printed with a holly pattern. As she rinses the mug, she hums cheerily. “I packed Daphne’s things,” my mom tells me. “Shall we get going?”
Grace turns my way. Her eyes travel from my face to the sock in my good hand. Her pink mouth opens and her eyes spark. Before I can react, she’s grabbed a large knife from the cutlery tray.
“No!” I cry, but she’s already seized my mother.
“Don’t move,” says Grace. She presses the blade against my mom’s throat.
My mom jerks in surprise. Grace’s grip on her tightens.
“You,” she snarls. She nods her chin at me. “Put that down on the table.”
I hesitate. Two dozen coins in a sock is not much of a weapon. But it’s better than nothing.
Grace increases the pressure on my mom’s neck. I wince. My mom is wide-eyed. I throw the sock onto the table. “That’s Stephen’s sock,” I say. “Why were you at the cabin?”
“Poor Lukas had to eat, didn’t he?” snaps Grace. “And he needed clean clothes.”
I should have known. Little Lukas is way too spoiled to fend for himself in the woods. The devoted housekeeper was feeding him and doing his laundry.
“Put your hands up,” says Grace. I do as I’m told. “That’s right. Keep ‘em where I can see ‘em.” She sounds straight off a bad mafia drama. I’m having trouble processing this. Grace is so helpful. So competent. So cheerful. It’s like learning Mrs. Claus isn’t just mythical but a real life, cold-blooded killer. I had it all wrong. Grace is dangerous.
“Now, you.” She glares at me. “Walk in front. We’re going upstairs.” She jerks her head toward the hallway.
I hesitate. What’s Grace planning? Best-case scenario, she’ll tie us up and leave us in an upstairs closet. Worst-case . . . How desperate is she? Before it gets to that, we’re better off trying to fight. My heart hammers. Despite her grandmotherly looks, Grace is no harmless little old lady. A lifetime of hard work has built strength beneath her matronly padding. My mom and I are lightweights.
I can barely swallow. We’re in trouble.
My mom blinks at me, like she’s trying to send a message. What’s she trying to say?
I feel desperate. If only we really were psychic.
“Hurry up!” screeches Grace.
I see a drop of blood spring from my mom’s throat. I’m scared to turn my back on Grace but have no choice. Hands raised I walk slowly down the hall and up the stairs. My mom and Grace are right behind me. I pass over the spot where I spilled the cocoa.
Seeing it, Grace makes an angry hissing sound. “What a mess!” she rasps. “Who’ll clean it up? Hey?”
I hear my mom gasp. Has she been cut again?
When I turn to look, Grace snaps. “Keep going! Straight ahead!” Her voice is as shrill as a drill. “Get moving! Into Daphne’s bedroom.”
I precede them through Daphne’s sitting room and into her bedroom. We’re now at the back of the house, where it’s the most isolated. If we screamed, would anyone hear? The lots are big around here. It’s hard to breathe. What’s Grace planning?
“Over there,” says Grace. “Stay away from the window.”
I do as she says, then turn, slowly.
Under her pewter hair, my mom’s face is dumpling-white. In contrast, beneath her dandelion-fluff hair, Grace’s face is flushed with excitement.
“Up against that wall,” she hisses at me. Her dark eyes glitter.
I back slowly toward it.
“So you saw everything,” I say. “Stephen and Lukas scuffled, right? I’m sure Lukas didn’t mean to kill him . . .”
“Shut your mouth!” shrieks Grace. “He didn’t do it! That horrible man! Stephen!” She spits out his name. “It was all his fault! I had no choice—” Her mouth clamps shut and her little eyes flick sideways. On the knife’s handle, her pudgy knuckles are white. “Enough chit chat,” she says. “Be quiet.”
My mom bites back a gasp. Grace has cut her again. More scarlet drops slide down my mom’s throat and into her collar.
I reach for my own throat, feel the carved black tourmaline necklace. Protection against aggression and negativity. My stomach plummets. I took it for myself and left my mom unprotected. But now is not the time for guilt. Or superstitious drivel.
I have to distract Grace and hope she’ll let down her guard. I need to keep her talking, flatter her, seem sympathetic.
“You had no choice,” I say, soothingly. “You had to defend Lukas.”
From the way her mouth quivers I know I’m right. I picture her wielding that iron poker. The vision makes me shiver.
“That horrible man hurt him,” she whispers. “He pushed Lukas! Called him a bum! In his own home! Lukas had every right to be there, in his childhood cottage!” Grace’s pink cheeks puff out. “Stephen was the interloper! The fraud!” Her white eyebrows furrow. “I only hit him once,” she says, “to make him stop.” She blinks. “Or maybe twice.” Another blink. “To teach him a lesson.”
I bet she struck him a lot more times than that. Grace licks her lips. “I won’t let anyone harm Lukas,” she mutters. Her eyes shine with crazed righteousness. “He’s vulnerable! He needs me!”
I think of him two nights back, when he hit me. He wasn’t so vulnerable then. Just another well-off white man, entitled, and angry, convinced nothing was his fault, ever. Convinced the world owed him.
“Then what?” I ask. “Did he take the coins? Or did you grab a few, hope no one would notice?”
Grace’s eyes narrow with indignation. “Walt promised me those,” she says. “And a whole lot more!” Again, her voice rises. “I deserve them! Thirty years I’ve worked here! Done all the dirty work! I raised those kids!” She jabs a finger at her aproned chest. “Walt and Daphne had no time for them. Oh no, they had more important things to do!” She scoffs. “More important than caring for their own children!”
I don’t contradict her. It might be true. Walt and Daphne were busy people, gaining money, power, and glamor. They probably spoiled their kids with fancy stuff while neglecting them. Their housekeeper probably did raise the duo. It can’t have been easy.
Grace yanks open one of Daphne’s drawers. She pulls out a handful of pantyhose. “Get back against that wall,” she snarls.
I take another step back and hit the wall. My stomach twists.
She’s planning to tie us up. The thought of being defenseless around this woman turns my insides to mush.
Grace shakes out a pair of black pantyhose, ready to bind my mother.
I stare into my mom’s eyes. On the count of three, I think. You jab her in the gut and duck left. I’ll punch right. My cast is hard. A good whack could knock her out cold. C’mon mom. I think. One. Two.
I leap at Grace. My mom’s elbow finds her tummy. My mother ducks left. I punch right. It’s like a Hong Kong movie fight, perfectly choreographed. It’s like we practiced.
My cast slams into Grace’s head, which snaps back and hits the wall behind her.
Pain bursts through my knuckles. I see cartoon stars. My wrist feels freshly broken.
Grace turns her head, stupefied. She blinks at me. For a second she totters. The knife falls from her hand. Her legs fold under her.
My mom jumps backward.
At the start, Grace collapses in slow motion. But then everything fast-forwards. She slides down the wall and lands with a crash on the hardwood.
“Holy guacamole,” says my mom. She gapes at me, then down at Grace. She reaches for the dresser to steady herself. “That was awesome!”
I step over Grace’s crumpled form and go to my mom. “Are you okay?” I gasp. I pick up a pair of purple tights and scrunch it into a wad, then press it against her bleeding throat.
“Fine. Good.” She nods. Her eyes are glazed with shock. “You?”
“Fine.”
I look at Grace. I don’t want to touch her but it’d be safer to tie her up. Even out cold, she’s a sinister presence.
“I’ll do it,” says my mom. She bends to scoop up some more tights. I watch as she binds Grace’s wrists together, behind her back.
The pain in my hand and arm is so intense I feel queasy.
My mom gives the tights a yank. “That’ll do,” she says. She ties a big knot, then moves down to Grace’s ankles. When they’re bound too, she straightens. “We’d better call the police,” she says.
I reach for her arm. “Let’s go downstairs.”
We walk shakily, arm-in-arm, down the staircase.
I call 911 first—they must know me by now—and then Miriam. She says she’s on her way.
We sit in the kitchen and wait. We’re both shaking, hard. I make another batch of hot chocolate.
“Mom?” I say. I set the cocoa on the table and take a seat. Shock and relief have left me with a weird, floaty feeling.
I think back to that moment I charged Grace, how it all went exactly as I’d planned. My mom followed my instructions perfectly. Except I didn’t speak those words out loud. That was all in our heads.
I rub my eyes. For the first time in my life it seems probable: my mom’s psychic. And maybe I am too, or at least in her presence.
I shake my head and grasp my mug. “That was crazy,” I say. “The way we subdued Grace. You . . . you read my mind.”
My mom takes a sip. She cocks her head. She waves a hand, dismissive. “You think that was psychic powers?” She snorts. “Don’t be silly.”
Seeing my stunned expression she laughs. “I just know you,” she says. She stands up and hugs me. “I’m your mother.”
I hug her back. I want to laugh. And cry. The sight of that knife against her throat was so horrifying. What if . . . I pinch the skin between my eyebrows. There’s no point going there. We’re safe. It’s over.
“We’re fine,” she says. “All’s well that ends well.” She hugs me harder.
I squeeze back. “Yes,” I say. I inhale her special scent: freshly baked bread, caramel, and cinnamon.
She regains her seat but takes my hand, as if afraid to let
go of me.
I grip her hand. It feels warm and soft. There’s nothing like seeing what you love come under threat to make you appreciate it. I need to remember this feeling forever, and appreciate her, always.
CHAPTER 34:
HOME SAFE
After the police let us go my mom drives me back to the hospital. I need more X-rays. The technician recognizes me, as do various nurses.
My knuckles are swollen but not broken. My wrist didn’t sustain any extra damage. When I’m done, everyone jokes about seeing me tomorrow.
My mom goes upstairs to deliver Daphne’s PJs.
I slip over to check on Colin. Peeking around his door, I see he’s awake. There’s a little more color in his face than there was this morning.
“You’re back!” he says, catching sight of me.
I walk closer. “I was in the neighborhood.”
He must hear some wobble in my voice because he frowns, suddenly serious. “You okay? What’s happened?”
“I’m fine,” I say. I cross the room, then lean in for a kiss.
When I lean back he studies me. “What are you not telling me?”
I perch on the edge of his bed. Should I tell him? He’s meant to be resting, not thinking about this case. But he knows something’s up, anyway.
I tell him about Grace holding a knife to my mom’s throat. And how she killed Stephen.
In their bruised sockets, Colin’s eyes widen, then blink. “My God,” he says. “Thank God you’re alright.” Because he’s so thin, his Adam’s apple seems larger now. He grips my hand. His eyes water. “You saved me yesterday.” His voice is ragged. “But I wasn’t there to save you, when you were in danger.”
I shrug. He has no reason to feel guilty. And yet we all do, when something bad happens to those we love. Our heads cloud with should’ves, could’ves and if onlys. So many feelings overwhelm logic.
I shake my head. “But I’m okay. It’s over.”
He smiles wryly. “Yes,” he says. “You saved yourself.”
I shrug. “Let’s hope there’s no more saving,” I say. “And from now on, we’re both just safe. Period.”
Colin nods, his eyes shiny and soft. His hand feels good in mine. Warm and solid. “We need a vacation,” he says. “Someplace quiet and beautiful. Someplace peaceful.”