The Ridge

by John Rector

  “Am I supposed to guess why you’re here, or are you planning on telling me?” Rachel asked.

  “You know who I am?”

  “Of course I know who you are.”

  Megan swallowed hard, hoping her voice wouldn’t crack. “I thought you might only know my husband.”

  Rachel stopped sweeping, and Megan saw a thin smile form on her lips as she lifted the dustpan and tapped it empty against the inside of the metal bin.

  “How is Tyler?”

  Tyler.

  Megan’s cheeks burned red. She started to say something she knew she shouldn’t, but she stopped herself before the words were out. When she did speak, she kept her voice even and calm.

  “Mrs. Addison, I think you and I need to clear a few things up.”

  “Do we?” Rachel slid the broom and dustpan back onto the shelf under the workbench and straightened, brushing the dirt from her hands. “Well, I’m always in favor of clarity. You don’t mind if I work while we talk, do you?”

  Her voice was pure sugar.

  “I know what you’ve been doing,” Megan said. “I know what you’ve been saying to him.”

  “To whom?”

  “To Tyler.” She paused, added, “My husband.”

  Rachel laughed, then bent down and picked up three of the red clay pots, stacking them one inside the other. “You’re going to have to refresh my memory. I say a lot of things to a lot of people.”

  Megan felt a slight tremble in her legs as she watched Rachel climb the ladder. She wasn’t nervous, not anymore, but her chest ached, and the wine was making it hard to keep her thoughts straight.

  She squeezed her hands into fists, forcing herself to focus, and stepped closer.

  “He won’t do it, you know.”

  “Won’t do what?”

  “Take you up on your offer.”

  “My offer?” Rachel pushed the pots into place on the top shelf and climbed down. “What offer is that?”

  The anger inside her turned sour. Megan tried to laugh it away, but the sound came out forced and unnatural, even to her.

  “Is that really how you want to do this?”

  Rachel frowned and reached for another stack of pots. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what it is we’re doing.”

  “You’re making a fool out of yourself,” Megan said. “You’re chasing a married man, and you—”

  “I’m what?”

  “Don’t deny it,” she said. “Just don’t.”

  Rachel set the pots back on the floor and stepped closer. “I think you’ve made a mistake.”

  “Tyler didn’t want me to come here,” Megan said. “And I almost didn’t. I was going to let it go, like always. But then I thought about you and your goddamn rosebushes and this shitty neighborhood and—”

  “Megan.”

  “I was even nervous walking over here.” She laughed. “Not now, though. Now I just feel sorry for you.”

  Rachel stared at her, unblinking.

  Megan stared back.

  After a moment, it occurred to her that there was nothing left for her to say. She’d done what she came to do. She’d made her point, told her what she thought of her, and now she could leave, satisfied.

  But then Rachel spoke.

  “How old are you, Megan?”

  The question stopped her. “Excuse me?”

  “Until today, I’ve only seen you from a distance.” Rachel stepped forward, studying her face. “You look quite a bit younger up close. What are you, twenty-four? Twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  Rachel repeated the number under her breath.

  “What does my age have to do with anything?”

  “Nothing and everything.” She turned back to the pots, lifted one of the stacks, and started up the ladder again. “You’re an attractive young woman, Megan. Most of that is due to your age, of course, but not all of it. You’re very lucky.”

  “Mrs. Addison, if you think I—”

  “Call me Rachel.”

  Megan stopped talking. She moved her hands behind her back and squeezed them into fists, digging her fingernails into her skin, grounding herself in the pain.

  She knew what Rachel was trying to do.

  The compliments, the familiarity.

  Rachel was trying to defuse the situation, but it wasn’t going to work. She wasn’t going to forget why she was there, and she wasn’t going to back down.

  “Mrs. Addison, I don’t think you understand why I’m here.”

  “I know exactly why you’re here, Mrs. Stokes,” she said, emphasizing the name. “You’re here because you feel threatened.”

  Megan smiled, silent.

  “Oh, not by me.” Rachel climbed down and picked up the last stack of pots. “You feel threatened by your husband.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” She adjusted the pots in her arm and started back up the ladder. “I believe, if you truly trusted your husband, you wouldn’t have felt the need to storm over here, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “I trust Tyler completely.”

  “He only has eyes for you, is that right?”

  “Are you saying he doesn’t?”

  “I’m saying most young wives feel that way about their husbands, and most come to realize that it’s rarely true.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Maybe not.” Rachel shrugged. “But I do know that if you show me the most beautiful woman in the world, I’ll show you the man who’s sick of fucking her.”

  The muscles in Megan’s jaw went slack.

  Rachel laughed.

  “Oh, don’t look so shocked,” she said. “You’re not a child, Megan, and I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already have figured out ten years ago. Men are who they are, and some things never change.”

  Rachel stared down at her, waiting for her to respond, but Megan had no words. All she could think about was running across the garage and pulling her off that ladder and wrapping her hands around her throat and . . .

  Squeezing.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead, she walked away.

  She was almost out the door when Rachel called after her. “I hope you feel we’ve cleared things up, Megan. Do me a favor and close the door on your way out.”

  Megan stopped walking.

  Her chest was tight, and she could hear her pulse pounding behind her ears. She turned and watched Rachel rearranging the lines of red clay pots along the top shelf.

  Ignoring her.

  I’m being dismissed.

  The thought dug in deep, rotting inside her. She could feel her anger building to a scream, but the scream never came. Instead, a cold, calming wave passed over her, and all the rage and frustration faded into nothing.

  Rachel glanced over her shoulder.

  “Was there something else?”

  Megan turned to the shelf next to her, staring at the rows of ceramic lawn gnomes. She reached for the first one in line, picked it up, and turned it over in her hands. Then she tossed it, high into the air, and watched it fall.

  It hit the cement and cracked at her feet.

  Rachel gasped. “What are you doing?”

  Megan smiled up at her, then reached for another gnome. This time, she threw it hard against the wall to her left.

  The sound it made when it broke was delicious.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Rachel hurried and pushed the last of the pots into place on the shelf. “Get out. Get the hell out of here, now.”

  Megan picked up another gnome.

  This one had a long, flat nose, and a tiny crooked hat. Megan thought it was adorable, and she held it up for Rachel to see.

  Rachel froze on the ladder, pointed.

  “Give it to me.”

  “This one?” She held it out. “You want this one?”

  Megan didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she stepped forward and threw the gnome as hard as she
could.

  Her aim was off, and it missed high, shattering against the wall above Rachel’s head.

  Rachel ducked, covering herself with one arm as a scatter of tiny ceramic pieces dropped around her.

  When she looked up, there was fury in her eyes.

  “You crazy bitch.”

  Megan reached for another gnome.

  “No!”

  Rachel started down, moving fast. She’d only taken one step when the ladder shifted, and her foot slipped between the rungs.

  For an instant, time seemed to stop.

  Megan watched Rachel’s hands come away from the rails, and she heard her make a small, panicked sound as her arms pinwheeled desperately in the air.

  Then she fell.

  Halfway down, Rachel’s head struck the edge of the workbench. There was a loud crack, like the splitting of dry wood, and then silence.

  Megan lifted her hands, covering her mouth.

  Every muscle in her body locked.

  She could see Rachel lying on the ground by the workbench, her gold sundress up around her waist, her legs twitching on the cold cement floor.

  Megan moved closer, forcing each step.

  Rachel was on her back, her hair covering her face. One arm was pinned beneath her, the other out to the side, fingernails clawing at the dirty floor.

  Megan knelt and brushed the hair from Rachel’s face. Then, when she saw the unnatural way her neck was bent, all the air rushed out of her lungs, and she pulled back.

  “Oh my God.”

  Rachel’s eyes were open, darting from side to side, unfocused, panicked. Her breath was shallow, and her mouth opened and closed, but made no sound.

  “Don’t move,” Megan said, feeling tears on her cheeks. “I’m going to call for help.”

  She started to get up, but then Rachel’s eyes focused on her, and she stopped.

  A thin line of saliva ran from the corner of Rachel’s mouth and pooled on the floor beneath her head. Then she spoke, her voice wet and broken.

  “I can’t breathe . . . I can’t breathe . . . I can’t breathe . . .”

  Rachel repeated the words, over and over, her voice hitching and growing thinner each time.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Megan said. “Just don’t move.”

  Rachel’s body shuddered.

  Megan didn’t know what to do.

  She put her hands on Rachel’s shoulders and tried to hold her still. Then Rachel made a hard, choking sound deep in her throat, and white foam bubbled out over her lips.

  “Oh God. No, no, no,” Megan said, crying. “Please, please don’t.”

  Rachel’s body vibrated under her, and the choking grew louder. Megan kept her hands on Rachel’s shoulders, but she couldn’t help her, and she knew it. All she could do was watch as the light slowly faded from her eyes.

  Then the shaking stopped, and she was alone.

  5

  Megan ran out of Rachel’s garage and up the street toward her house. There were tears on her face, and a sharp, glowing pain in the center of her head. She tried to block it, but it grew brighter with each step, and by the time she’d reached her house, the pain was blinding.

  She stopped at the bottom of the porch steps and closed her eyes. She tried pressing her fingertips against the sides of her head, but the pain didn’t fade.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw the corked wine bottle on the step where she’d left it. She grabbed it on her way up, then stopped outside the front door.

  She heard voices coming from up the street.

  Edna Davidson was walking along the sidewalk. She was carrying Mr. Jitters in the crook of her arm, and she wasn’t alone. Another woman was with her. She was younger than Edna, and she wore a white shirt and jeans.

  Megan didn’t recognize her.

  When they saw her, they waved.

  Megan waved back. Then she stepped inside, locked the bolt behind her, and leaned against the closed door.

  The pain in her head was screaming.

  She closed her eyes again and took a deep breath, counting a slow, easy rhythm. The repetition helped, and for a brief moment, the pain faded and her head cleared.

  Then she saw her again.

  Rachel Addison, lying bent on the garage floor, her fingernails scraping against the cement, her neck . . .

  I can’t breathe . . .

  Megan pushed away from the door, trying to shake the image from her mind, then ran down the hallway toward the kitchen. She set the wine bottle on the counter and reached for the phone.

  Her fingers hung over the keypad, but she didn’t dial.

  Who was she supposed to call?

  Her first thought was to call an ambulance, but that didn’t seem right. Rachel Addison was dead. Paramedics wouldn’t be able to help. Besides, seeing an ambulance in front of her house would only bring out the neighbors.

  The neighbors.

  Megan felt a new jolt of panic.

  Once the neighbors found out, they would all gather along the street in hungry packs, whispering and gossiping. And since she was the last person to see Rachel alive, it wouldn’t take long before their attention shifted to her.

  And then the questions would start.

  But you did kill her. It is your fault.

  Megan pressed her fingers against the spot between her eyes and tried to force that voice away.

  Instead, it grew louder.

  What are you going to tell the police?

  The thought filled her.

  For the first time, Megan saw exactly how the situation was going to unfold. She was going to be blamed for Rachel Addison’s death, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  The realization trembled through her.

  Even if she explained everything, told the police that Rachel lost her balance and fell, that it had been an accident, it wouldn’t matter.

  They would still blame her.

  They would want to know why she was there, and why there were broken ceramic figures on the ground. They would ask why it looked like there had been a fight, and Megan wouldn’t have an answer.

  She could tell them she stopped by to visit, like any good neighbor. Except, she wasn’t a good neighbor. She had never stopped by to visit anyone in Willow Ridge, and it wouldn’t take long before someone pointed that out.

  And then the rumors would start.

  Megan shut her eyes and tried to think, but her thoughts spun away with the wine. Eventually, she hung up the phone and leaned against the counter.

  Her stomach cramped.

  A flood of warm wine and stomach acid crawled up into the back of her throat, and she ran across the kitchen to the sink, leaning over just in time.

  She thought it would never stop, but it did.

  Megan turned on the water and rinsed the sink. Then she cupped her hands under the faucet and took a long drink, swishing the cold water in her mouth, spitting into the drain.

  She felt better.

  Once again, she went over everything that’d happened, and this time it was easier for her to see it as an accident and not her fault.

  Rachel Addison lost her balance and fell.

  That was the truth.

  Megan went back to the counter, feeling steadier, and picked up the phone. She was about to dial the number for an ambulance when the doorbell rang.

  She stopped, listened.

  Her hand, frozen over the keypad, began to shake.

  A minute passed. There was a click on the line, and a familiar robotic female voice said, “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and—”

  The doorbell rang again.

  Megan inhaled deep, closed her eyes, and let the air out slowly. Then she set the phone back in the cradle and started toward the door.

  The woman outside was halfway to the sidewalk when Megan opened the door and stepped out. When she saw her, the woman stopped and turned back, smiling.

  “I thought I saw you go inside,” the woman said. “I hope this isn’t
a bad time.”

  She was wearing faded jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. She had a wooden clipboard in her hand, held close to her chest. It took a minute before Megan recognized her.

  She was the woman walking with Edna Davidson, the one who’d waved.

  “I can come back another time if you’d like.”

  Megan glanced past her toward Rachel’s house, silent.

  “Is everything okay?” the woman asked.

  All at once Megan realized she was acting strange, and that she needed to pull herself together.

  “No, it’s—” She shook her head. “It’s fine.”

  “Are you sure? You never know just dropping by like this.” The woman came closer, held out her hand. “Fiona Matheson. I live a few blocks down.”

  “Megan Stokes.”

  They shook, and Fiona held Megan’s hand as she spoke.

  “I’ve been meaning to come by and introduce myself for a while. I try to meet all the new neighbors. I’m usually pretty good about it, but lately it’s been one thing after another. I’m sure you know how it goes.”

  “I do,” Megan said. “It’s life.”

  “Exactly.” Fiona smiled, let go of her hand. “It’s life.”

  There was a pause, and for a moment neither of them said anything. Then Fiona motioned toward Rachel’s house on the corner. “I saw you leaving the Addison place, so I thought I’d stop by on my way over and say hello.”

  “Your way over?”

  “To see Rachel.” She held up the clipboard. “I’ve put it off for as long as I can. I figured now or never.”

  “You’re going to talk to Rachel?”

  “My next stop.”

  Megan’s stomach dropped, and she leaned against the doorframe. For a second she thought she was going to be sick again. Then the feeling passed.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Fiona stepped closer. “You look like a bleached sheet.”

  “A little light-headed,” Megan said. “But I’m fine.”

  “Why don’t I come back another time. I didn’t mean—”

  “No.” Her voice came out louder than she intended, and Fiona’s eyes went wide. Megan laughed, trying to cover, and said, “It’s fine, really. It’ll pass.”

  Fiona watched her, and Megan could tell she was trying to read her.

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” Fiona said. “But I should probably go anyway. I need to see Rachel before it gets too late.”