“Florida? The guy you were involved with was in prison for killing a woman. His wife is a groupie like you. Too bad, though. She got to him before you did.” She shook her head. “It didn’t matter. You still became his pen pal and soon a regular visitor.” Priscilla cocked her head at Lizzie and raised one eyebrow as if to say “gotcha.”
“It’s different with Chad. He really loves me and I love him. He makes me feel important. Like I have brains not just boobs.” Lizzie pouted like a little girl. She abruptly changed her mood and bolted up as though she had had a brilliant idea. “You’re jealous. You want him to choose you, don’t you?”
“Hardly. I’ll admit he’s handsome and articulate.” Priscilla straightened. She felt less nauseous. “Although I don’t know him on a professional level, I can guarantee he’s like the other serial killers I’ve counseled. He becomes exactly what his victims want so he can manipulate them. He’ll tell you what you want to hear to make you putty in his hands.” She shook her head. “Dwayne’s gone, Lizzie. I’m no longer a victim.” Her eyes clearly accused Lizzie of being in that role.
“I told you there are no victims with me and Chad,” Lizzie said through clenched teeth.
Priscilla was astounded by Lizzie’s total denial of Chad’s history.
Lizzie ignored Priscilla’s other comments. Instead, she got up and slid into the booth beside Priscilla.
Priscilla grasped the booth seat with both hands. What was Lizzie up to?
Lizzie pressed her mouth against Priscilla’s ear. “You’ll help me or I’ll have to tell the warden and anyone else who cares about why you’re really here. And why you’ve changed your appearance.”
Priscilla’s hands held the seat so tightly they hurt. She wanted to shove Lizzie out of the booth and run for the door, but she couldn’t. She didn’t have the strength.
“How far can you run, Priscilla?” Lizzie whispered.
Priscilla’s entire body stiffened. She stared at the wall in front of her. Her eyes stung.
“You drove Dwayne’s getaway car in those robberies,” Lizzie continued. “You were as high on drugs as he was. I’ve protected you. I’ve never told anyone. You owe me.”
Sadly, their friendship had come to this: blackmail. As if it had ever cost Lizzie anything to keep Priscilla’s secret.
When Priscilla and Dwayne had first married, she’d begun to drink to dull the pain of the beatings. Soon she had turned to cocaine. That was easy enough with a dealer husband happy to provide it for her. The robberies started next, with the promise of drugs held out as leverage for her participation. No. Priscilla had to be honest: She’d done more than use. Dwayne forced her to deal. However, that last robbery, when the security guard went down, she’d been outside, unarmed and simply waiting. When Dwayne got caught, he never implicated her, and his unexplained restraint gave her all the opportunity she needed to flee California, resume her maiden name, sober up, and start a new life.
Much as she wanted to believe Dwayne’s silence sprang from some unexpected well of goodness, Priscilla secretly worried otherwise. Some nights she awoke in terror, having a dream he had finally revealed her part in the crimes. Or that he was scheming to get back at her, waiting until she had become entrenched in a happy and fulfilling life and would barely remember her darker days with him. Then he’d attack. He’d do it in person. His fondness for physical retribution could still make her shudder, even with all the miles and years between them. The fear never really left her. She had always wondered if it was only a matter of time until he arrived to deal some Dwayne-style justice. And he’d see that she served hard time, too, somewhere—if he didn’t kill her.
Staring ahead, avoiding Lizzie’s eyes, Priscilla weighed her choices: she could report Chad’s escape plan and take a chance on Dwayne’s ongoing protection, for whatever his dubious reason, or she could help Lizzie to buy her silence. Either way, she could end up in prison.
Finally, Priscilla moved away from Lizzie and leaned against the wall. “What makes you think the prison administrators would believe you? After all, I’ve been a good employee these past couple of years and no one has come around asking about me.”
“I saved the letters you sent me while you were traveling in the drug underworld.” Lizzie’s lips formed a crooked smile. Priscilla had never noticed the evil in it before.
“How can you betray me? We’ve been friends forever.” Priscilla’s voice was weak. How could she have been so stupid as to send those letters to Lizzie, detailing her less-than-legal activities? Had she been trying to tell Lizzie she, too, could live on the edge? That she wasn’t as dull as Lizzie thought? Why had it mattered? How immature she had been. Those drugged days were a blur.
Lizzie slid around to her own seat. “Let’s face it. We really haven’t been good friends. You’ve always thought I wasn’t as good as you. You thought I was nothin’ but a screwup.”
“That’s not true,” Priscilla said with a steadier voice. “I thought you never gave yourself a break. You have much more going for you than what you give yourself credit for.”
Lizzie leaned across the table. “I don’t care what you think. It doesn’t matter any more, and it doesn’t change Sunday’s plans or your part in them. Like I said, you’ve got until Saturday evening to decide.”
Their eyes locked. Priscilla stood, grabbed her coat, and rushed out of the restaurant, almost knocking over a chair on her way to the door. When she got outside she laid her forehead against the building and cried. The wind lashed her like a whip—a punishment for all she had done in her past. She was no better than Lizzie. She turned and lifted her face into the icy wind and realized she was shivering with such force she could hear her own teeth chattering. She lifted her hand. Her coat was still in it. She wrapped up in it and stumbled to her car. At the curb she stopped and threw up.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. She wiped her face with a glove, crawled into her car, and pounded her head against the steering wheel. “What will I do?” she wailed. What was she asking? The inevitable moment had arrived. She’d have to face her own demons as she had counseled others to do.
Priscilla bolted upright, turned the ignition on, and drove away. Should she keep driving out of Michigan? Where would she go? She would eventually be found. People would wonder why she had suddenly disappeared. Her past would surely catch up to her one day, no matter where she hid.
Chapter Nine
THE DARK SIDE
CELESTE HEARD A CAR drive up to the lighthouse. Lights flashed briefly across the living room wall, dancing in and out of the shadows. She checked the clock. Nearly seven. She was expecting Priscilla. But when no one came to the house after several minutes, Celeste became nervous.
She pulled the drape aside to see who the visitor might be, her hand quivering. Why? What did she think she’d find in the yard? It was too late for a delivery. Drivers never ventured this far after five in the winter. Her heartbeat picked up speed and sent blood rushing through her veins like short bursts of electrical current. She knew that the hesitant person outside could be an unwanted intruder. Perhaps he was one of the former partners of a woman living in the shelter. Maybe Adrian’s husband hadn’t been fooled and he had come for her. Could this be the moment she’d feared now at her door?
Celeste couldn’t face losing another person like she had Pilar. She should have bought a gun like Max begged her to do when she had decided to open the safe house. Ha! It didn’t feel safe at the moment. Her every nerve was on fire. She had to get control of herself. It would do no good for her to fall apart, especially since she and the women had practiced over and over for this likelihood. She had hoped they never would have to set an escape in motion.
Finally, Celeste gained enough courage to tentatively peer out from behind the drape. When she had a clear view of the yard she was surprised and relieved to see Priscilla sitting in her car. Celeste’s relief immediately fled when she realized Priscilla’s head was bent over the steering wheel. After a few moments s
he saw Priscilla slowly lift it and stare at the lighthouse. Her face was nearly as white as the snow lightly falling. Perhaps she was ill. Celeste grabbed a jacket from the hook near the door and headed for the car.
Priscilla caught sight of Celeste and waved halfheartedly. She hastily exited the vehicle.
“I thought you might be ill,” Celeste shouted over the relentless wind. The snow smacked her face.
Priscilla shook her head. She made her way to Celeste though she appeared unsure of where she was going. “Things haven’t gone well over the past couple of days,” she said. “I was thinking through my options.” She walked past Celeste and into the house.
Celeste followed, uncertain what to say or ask. She’d never seen Priscilla in such an odd mood, like a zombie. “Do you want to share what’s going on with me?” she asked as she removed her jacket and brushed off the snow before returning it to the hook.
“No. It’s something I can’t discuss and must handle in my own way,” Priscilla snapped.
Celeste backed away, wondering what could possibly have made Priscilla lash out for no reason. Clearly she faced a weighty problem. What was it? “Well, then. Are you in the mood for group counseling or—?”
“Of course,” Priscilla barked more angrily than before. “Why do you think I drove twenty-five miles to get here?” She rapidly added in a quieter, controlled voice, “I’m sorry, Celeste. I don’t mean to take my problem out on you.”
“If you need this time for yourself, the women will understand.” Celeste placed a comforting hand on Priscilla’s arm. “There’s no need to push yourself.”
Priscilla yanked her arm away. “I said I can handle the group. It’ll take my mind off me and my problem.”
Stunned by yet another uncommon and cross response, Celeste smiled weakly. “The women are waiting in the living room. They’re always anxious to meet with you.” She changed the direction of their conversation to make it more upbeat by talking about a happier subject. “I’m keeping the children who are still awake in my room. They’re watching Finding Nemo on DVD. None of them have seen it before.” She furrowed her brow. “Can you imagine?”
Priscilla didn’t respond. She turned from Celeste and walked to the living room. “Good evening,” she greeted the four eagerly waiting women. “Let’s get our group underway.” She sounded like her usual self. Yet Celeste knew better. Priscilla only attempted to hide the devil dragging her into a depth Celeste had never encountered in her before.
The room filled with a low rustling as Priscilla and the women got themselves comfortable for their hour-long group session. For a few moments, Celeste watched them from the doorway. What or who was Priscilla afraid of? Certainly it couldn’t be Celeste? Was it something from her past life with Dwayne?
CELESTE LEFT THE GROUP to their privacy and checked on the children. Adrian’s three and Lisa, Lorraine’s five-year-old, were watching the movie. After Lisa’s relentless pleading, “Pleeeeeease let me stay up this once,” Lorraine and Celeste had given in. Like all the children, Lisa needed a break from her real life and brutal memories as much as Lorraine and the other women did. No one could know how deep the emotional scars dug into their psyches. The movie was the perfect diversion.
The sight of four children sprawled across a bed both comforted and saddened her. She’d never be able to comprehend why anyone would want to hurt a child or a woman.
Celeste surveyed the room, happy she had kept the lighthouse furnished as it had been when it operated as a bed-and-breakfast. She couldn’t possibly have improved on the atmosphere, unlike the dorm-room settings the women might have had to endure in other shelters. And possibly quite different from the places they’d escaped from. The thought of all those safe houses saddened Celeste. She swiped a tear from her eye and hurriedly checked to see if the children had noticed. Fortunately, they were concentrating so hard on every scene in the movie they never saw her. She wouldn’t interrupt their fun.
Those kids certainly didn’t need any more un-happiness in their lives, especially delivered by one they saw as a strong, grandmotherly figure. Moreover, Celeste delighted in the fact that she could provide a consoling environment for them, and that was the only side of her the children should know. Who was she kidding? The children consoled her as much as she did them. Only they didn’t know it.
Celeste rubbed her eyes and face to push away any hint of her own melancholy, collected the empty popcorn bowls, and headed off to the other bedrooms where the younger children slept. Toddler Matthew had kicked off his blanket again. She drew it back up over his shoulders, kissed all of the cherubs, and headed downstairs.
Celeste left the bowls in the kitchen and wandered back to her own bedroom and sitting area, her place of solace from the hectic and lively activities each day brought. At the moment, she needed a break before she attempted to find out what had put Priscilla in such a foul mood.
Celeste’s quarters, the perfect space for her requirements, were located on the first floor in the Keeper Dufrain room, as it had been called when the lighthouse was a B&B. The cozy, traditional-style furnishings in hues of blue always calmed her the moment she stepped into the room. She often nestled in a chair near the windows that overlooked Lake Superior. The two chairs and comfortable queen-sized bed were all she needed. Her own furniture, except Pilar’s piano, was tucked away in a storage unit near Gross Pointe for an unknown future need. She had given the piano to Cass Technical High School in Detroit, which was close to where Pilar had done her residency and a school that catered to gifted and often disadvantaged youth. Pilar would have appreciated the donation.
Celeste sat down, leaned her head against the chair back, and gazed at the gold-framed picture of Pilar the day she graduated from medical school. Her daughter’s face glowed with eagerness and hope—the way Celeste wanted to remember her. Thankfully, Celeste now had many young women who were like her daughters. Some, like Adrian, became especially close and cherished friends. Photographs of them and their children lined the mantel. Celeste wanted them all to find their own personal inner fire.
After about a half hour of rest and relaxation, Celeste forced herself from her cocoon. Satisfied that the children were taken care of, she went from window to window and door to door to make sure all were secure, a task she performed every evening. The clouds in the dark sky as black as greasepaint hid any glow from the moon and stars. Except for the outside house lights and a faint hint of the automatic beacon from the tower splashing across the horizon, there would be no illumination at all this night. As paradoxical as her feeling might be, given her life amid a houseful of women and children, she was unsure she’d ever get over the wash of loneliness she felt at night in this wilderness environment.
Celeste was still standing at the window when she heard Priscilla and the women saying their good-byes. The session had gone longer than the usual hour.
Celeste nodded at Lorraine and Adrian as they picked up their sleepy children from her room and shuffled off to their own rooms with the other women. They were silent, no doubt milling over the revelations that surfaced during their hour session.
Celeste had been deep in her own thoughts of being alone, childless and without Max—thoughts that flooded over her like one of those giant wintry waves on Lake Superior—she had forgotten where she was. It took her a moment to realize she was standing in her own home.
“Silly,” she chastised herself and went to the kitchen to make tea. “It’s the eerie night gloom that’s playing with my mind. I do better in daylight and sun.”
“Who are you talking to?” Priscilla asked in a cheerless voice as she entered the kitchen behind Celeste.
Celeste faced her, feeling like a child caught stealing candy. “Oh. I’m having a conversation with myself to set me straight on a few issues. Sometimes it is the only way to keep me above water.” The whistle sounded on the teapot. “Would you care for some tea before you leave?”
“Sure,” Priscilla’s face brightened slightly and sh
e sat at the small table. “I’ll have a quick cup and then get on the road. It’s even dark out there for someone like me who has lived up here most of my life.”
“Good. I can use the company tonight.” Celeste circled her arms around herself and rubbed them to take the chill away. She thought about Priscilla’s comment. Maybe the darkness she referred to also came from within.
“Are you okay?” Priscilla asked.
Her concern reassured Celeste. Perhaps she might have overreacted to her friend’s mood earlier. Everyone went through lows in their lives. Celeste certainly had had her share. “Yes,” Celeste answered quietly. “I have never liked the dark. I’m an early morning and sunshine person.” Celeste poured the tea into floral cups that were part of the china set her parents gave her for a wedding gift, and which she rarely used anymore. Tonight the splash of red flowers seemed to be the precise nudge to lift her spirit. Maybe Priscilla’s, too.
Celeste set the cups on their saucers and placed them at the only two spaces at the small table. She picked up the plate of the leftover homemade chocolate chip cookies from the counter. “Chocolate is always good for the soul, especially when I feel a little down.” She checked Priscilla to see her reaction and waited for a response that she, too, was sad about something.
Priscilla didn’t bite on the prompt. Instead she stirred sugar into her tea and sipped the brew. She selected a cookie and nibbled at it. “You’re getting to be such a good cook.”
Celeste laughed. “I can’t take credit for these. Adrian baked them.” She noticed the gray surrounding Priscilla’s sunken eyes. Had she even slept since Celeste last saw her? “She even made bread from an old recipe I found tucked away in a kitchen drawer,” Celeste continued. “It’s called Lighthouse Bread and is now one of our favorites.”
“Adrian’s the consummate mother.”
Celeste heard envy or perhaps disdain in Priscilla’s voice. Clearly Priscilla wasn’t herself. Did Celeste dare pry deeper into her affairs? Maybe she could help if she treaded carefully. “As a psychologist, you know it’s always good to get what’s ailing you off your chest.”
Inevitable Sentences Page 9