by Amber Kay
“You’re going to be okay now,” says an EMT with a large mole above her top lip. “You’re safe now.”
I shake my head. “No. I'm not.”
“It’s okay dear,” she assures me again. “You escaped before smoke inhalation could set in and got a couple of minor burns. Other than that, you’ll be a little winded for a few hours, but you’ll be fine.”
“Do you know the others inside?” the nurse asks.
“Do I know the others inside?” I repeat while gazing at the hungry flame as it travels to the roof of the house. “I knew of them,” I say.
“What were you doing in there?” she asks.
Vivian’s face plays through my thoughts. Poor Amelia—the sacrificial lamb who risked too much to ensure my safety. Why? Why had she gone to such great lengths to save me? Twice, she’d risked her life.
“What about the others?” I ask. “There were at least ten other people in the house. I tried to save them. All I saw were bodies. Are they okay? Who do I have to ask to get some answers?”
“Just lie down, dear. You’re in good hands now.” She nudges me atop the gurney while injecting something into the IV bag connected to my arm. A second EMT begins to stich my leg wound. She proceeds to rub a wet cold towel across my forehead.
I don’t fight her orders, but I do keep my eyes open far enough to see out through the cracked ambulance doors to see outside. The body bags stack up. Four. Five. Six. Seven. I count them all in my head.
* * *
When I wake in the hospital, the first thing I want is water. A glass of it sits atop my bedside table. As I reach over to grab it, another hand grabs it first. I glance up into Adrian’s face. From what I can tell, he’d been sitting in a foldout chair in the corner of the room, watching me.
“I knew you’d be thirsty,” he remarks while watching me guzzle mouthfuls of the stuff. “Sorry it’s so warm. The damn nurse insisted that the hospital cafeteria was out of ice. Can you seriously believe that?”
After a swallow, my throat is looser, still a little sore, but not as tight as before. Adrian settles back into his chair.
“Ugh, what day is it?” I ask with a gentle rub of my throbbing left temple.
“Thursday.”
“And how long have I been asleep?”
“Two weeks,” he replies.
I lurch forward. It’s a kneejerk reaction.
“Two weeks? That sounds like a coma, not a nap.”
He nods. “It was a coma, Cassandra. You went into shock. Almost died.”
I peek at my leg beneath the bed sheets. The wound is stitched and bandaged. My head pounds and my body feels like something hard and deadly attempted to crush it. Then I remember.
“Where’s Amelia?” I ask abruptly.
Adrian’s eyes downturn, momentarily distressed.
“She’s dead,” he says.
“And Vivian?”
“She didn’t make it either.”
I shake my head.
“I can’t have been the only one who got out. Adrian, tell me I'm not.”
He shrugs, unsure of how else to respond to me.
“I don’t know how, but yes, it looks like you are.”
I hang my head, staring listlessly at the bedspread. Adrian grips my shoulder. I jerk away, repulsed by the mere concept of touch.
“How the hell did this happen?” I mutter. “How did the fire start? I don’t understand.”
He shakes his head. “They’re still investigating. Police confirm it was arson. Someone purposely did this.”
“Who?” I ask.
His eyes narrow, his forehead a deep ripple of scrunched skin.
“They suspect Amelia. Or Vivian. Or one of the other servants who may have become ‘disgruntled.’”
“No offense,” I say. “But you and Vivian seem to attract disgruntled people.”
He chuckles at the irony of it all, but that humor fades just as quickly as the smile on his face.
“Ten people,” he says. “All ten of the house employees perished in that house. If I had been home…If I’d kept a better eye on Vivian, none of this would have happened.”
“Adrian,” I say and without thinking, I grasp his hand. His usual twitching tic stops the moment his hand is in mine. I catch myself not pulling away. “I can’t believe I'm saying this, but none of this is your fault.”
“Vivian was my responsibility. I was supposed to keep her from hurting anyone else.”
“Anyone else?” I say. “Who else did she hurt?”
He doesn’t respond. He stands stagnant at my bedside with a distant look of sudden disdain. I release his hand and he steps back to rub his face with both palms. As his hands drop to his sides, I notice teary eyes and realize he’s crying.
“Adrian, what are you—”
“I can’t,” he says. “I know it’s wrong, but dammit, some part of me is actually happy that she’s dead.”
“What?”
“God forgive me,” he mutters before leaving the room. I remain in bed, listening to the sound of silence.
* * *
The hospital releases me after weeks of speculation, interrogations and finally a full investigation of the story I end up telling a million times to every cop in the city. Afterwards,
I'm exhausted from the suspicions, trashed by the media on the local news until I finally decide to take my mother’s initial advice. First flight in the morning, I'm heading back to Montana.
I stand in my apartment sliding tape atop newly packed boxes. Everything I own stuffed away in ten boxes. I’m leaving the furniture behind, saving it for the new tenants. Why dust off old memories from a sofa full of them?
As I saunter outside, carrying the first load of boxes to my car, I notice something that I know wasn’t there a minute before—an odd presence that feels more like a looming shadow.
I glance around the parking lot and spot the lens of a camera protruding out the window of a parked, black Buick sitting on the opposite end of the lot.
Him, again. The photographer I thought I’d never see again after the “Vivian saga.” After all of this, he’s still around?
“What the hell?” I say upon locking eyes with the man sitting inside the Buick.
“Hey!” I call. “Who are you?” I drop the box and rush toward the Buick, waving my arms at him. In my haste, I stumble twice, nearly toppling to the ground, trying to close the space between us. The moment I’m halfway to his car, he cranks the engine. I stand firm in his path, refusing to move.
“Go ahead,” I say. “You might as well run me over because I'm not moving until you tell me who you are!”
Bathe in glow of his headlights I remain in front the car, approaching it with caution, daring him to hit me. Inches away, I plant my hands atop the car hood, glaring at him through the windshield. The engine revs again, momentarily shaking me from my stance of bravado.
Something in his eyes calms. I don’t know what changes. Perhaps he grows a conscience now that he’s forced to look me in the eye. When I least expect it, the engine silences. I step backward, bracing for conflict as he exits the Buick and rounds the side to meet me in front.
At first glance, there’s nothing visibly concerning about him. Young, mid-20’s, dark hair and eyes. Wearing a collared shirt, khakis and a denim blazer, he doesn’t resemble the peeping-tom perv I’ve imagined in my head. He’s average. Normal, almost.
“You’re really asking to get yourself killed, aren’t you?” he says.
I stare for a moment, dazed by the nonchalance of his demeanor.
“What did you say?”
He shrugs, emitting an exasperated sigh while tinkering with his camera.
“If I were some random lunatic, I could have killed you and left your corpse splayed in the parking lot.”
“Why are you here?” I snarl. “She’s dead! This should be over. Did she order to kill me or something?”
“Whoa, whoa, calm your shit,” he says. “I’m not in the business of
hurting people.”
“You don’t think this is harmful? You’ve been stalking me for weeks and sitting outside my apartment! Who…the fuck are you?!”
He chuckles, rolling his eyes and dismissing my response as if it’s nothing, but trite riff raff.
“Hey, no one hired me to physically assault you. I'm fonder of mental torture,” he jokes. I don’t laugh.
“What do you want?” I ask, suddenly fed up.
He pops the lens onto his camera, fiddling with the buttons and knobs.
“Foster McAllister,” he announces. “Nice to formally meet you instead of having to watch you from afar.”
“Are you another reporter?” I ask. “Because I’m not in the mood.”
He chuckles. “If I worked for CNN, I sure as hell wouldn’t be stalking you for chump change.”
I don’t shake his hand when he offers it. Noting my reaction, he withdraws the gesture then attempts to console me with some halfhearted grin.
“Look, this wasn’t personal,” he says. “It was just a paycheck to me.”
“You mean you’ve stopped stalking me?”
“You see, unfortunately for me, my employer died in that fire you survived. And that sucks so…I guess I'm here to close the case. It’s standard procedure. You know, one last hurrah.”
I scoff at his reply, rendered speechless and yet still somehow able to chuckle at the absurdity of all of this.
“Let me get this straight,” I say. “Someone paid you to stalk me?”
“When you say it like that it, you almost make me feel like a loser.”
“You are a loser,” I retort. “And a psychopathic weirdo with a seriously fucked up profession!”
“Geez, you really are a hostile little thing, aren’t you?”
“Who hired you?” I ask.
He rubs the back of his head in a sheepish sort of way.
“That kind of information is confidential,” he says.
“If you really gave a damn about breeching that so-called confidentiality agreement, you wouldn’t even be talking to me,” I say.
“Well, it was good money and I'm not interested in fucking that up. People hire me because they expect confidentiality. If I go breaking that rule for you, it can discourage others from hiring me.”
“Okay, then let me narrow down the list of suspects. Did Vivian Lynch hire you?”
His expression grows cold, both eyes wary.
“Wait a second. I may have needed money, but I'm not interested in that mafia shit. I’ve heard rumors about the things that woman’s done to her past employees. I’m not selling my soul to that vendor.”
“Yeah? Well, that makes one of us,” I mutter, taking a brief potshot at myself. Foster gives me a purposeful look, probably seeking something discernable on my face to figure out how to respond appropriately.
“I'm not an evil guy, okay?” he says. “This paparazzi shit isn’t exactly what I would call a dream job, but it’s better than busting my ass for $7.50 an hour at some crappy fast-food gig. You can sympathize with me, can’t you?”
I glare at him, but I'm too exhausted to argue anymore. My spar with the Lynchs has won me nothing, but small, meaningless victories that never seem worth the effort of trying. I'm done with this mental combat.
“You know what?” I say. “I don’t care anymore. Since you won’t tell me, I'm not gonna force it. I'm through with this crap.”
I stalk away, leaving him to languish. Foster catches up, stopping me midstride by grasping my forearm.
“Don’t touch me!” I jerk away, swatting his hand off. He steps back, lifting his hands to defuse my hostility.
“I'm sorry,” he says. “I'm not trying to cause any trouble. Like I said, I have to make a living, but I get where you’re coming from. So I can’t tell you outright who hired me, but I’ll be fair and give you a hint.”
“You want me to play a game of charades to figure out who hired you to terrorize me?”
“Hey, I'm trying to help. If you don’t want my cooperation then—”
“Okay,” I say. “Fine. I’ll play.”
“As a disclaimer, you should know that I'm not good with this kind of stuff, so I’ll need you to bear with me.”
“Just get to the point.”
“You remember the board game Clue?” he asks abruptly. I shake my head, trying to figure out where this conversation is going.
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, it was a murder mystery game set up to help kids develop a sense of deductive reasoning. You only had a set number of clues and suspects to uncover the murderer and despite how annoyingly patronizing and simpleminded the game was, it was still pretty good entertainment.”
Once more, I stare at him, waiting for him to make a point.
“And…what’s your point?”
“The clichéd answer to most murder mysteries is that the butler did it,” he says. “In this case, it wasn’t the butler.” He leans closer, gripping my arm to steady me so he can whisper in my ear, “It was the maid.”
He pulls back and I stand frozen, breath heavy in my chest. Foster waits, his expression wary, teeming with curiosity.
“Amelia,” I say. “Vivian’s maid hired you to stalk me? Why?”
“That’s all I'm inclined to reveal, but as a heads-up, I advise you to Google the name Jeanette Conway.”
He turns away without saying another word, en route to his car.
“Who is Jeanette Conway?” I ask while trailing behind him.
“Sorry, but I'm not at liberty to discuss that. Just Google the name and you’ll have everything you need to proceed,” he replies.
“That’s all you’re gonna give me?” I ask. “Some cryptic string of words with no real context?”
“It wouldn’t be much of a mystery if I gave you all the answers,” he teases. “Think of me as your Cheshire Cat. I’ll drop the bread crumbs; you just need to follow the trail down the rabbit hole. “Once at his car, he hesitates before entering. He faces me with something new in his eyes, something intent and focused, as if there’s more to say that he hasn’t said already.
“Oh and I'm sorry for what happened to your little friend,” he blurts. “She was an unnecessary casualty. Things weren’t supposed to go down like that. I just thought that you should know.”
The words hit me head-on in a whiplash of emotions.
“What’d you say?” I speed up my walk, trying to catch up to him, but he’s already inside his car, cranking the engine. “Wait, you know what happened to Sasha?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats while strapping on his seatbelt. “I didn’t think things were gonna get this intense.”
As he begins to drive away, I grip his car door handle in some nonsensical attempt to prevent him from leaving. His window is cracked halfway, allowing me to poke my head inside his car.
“What happened?” I ask. “Sasha’s parents deserve to know. I have to tell them something about why their daughter’s dead.”
He shakes his head, appearing rueful. Finally, he reaches into his glove compartment and removes a small envelope.
“I didn’t want to give this to you even though Amelia wanted me to,” he says. “I figured that things were bad enough and I didn’t want to make things shitter than I already have.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Amelia was one of my best clients. Her checks always came on time. And she was a genuinely sweet girl,” he says.
“She paid you to terrorize me,” I say. “What kind of ‘sweet’ person does that?”
“Reserve your judgments about her until after you’ve read this letter.” He shoves the envelope in my direction until I hesitantly take it. “You’re not the only one Vivian corrupted. If Amelia hadn’t done what she did, you wouldn’t have been the last. So, have a nice life. At this point, you fucking deserve it.”
I release his door handle and watch him swerve away, peeling out of the parking lot so fast that cloud
s of exhaust smoke explode from the Buick’s back pipes. I gag on the pungent toxins, clearing my throat to cleanse my senses.
Foster’s reveal leaves me reeling, squirming like a fish deprived of water. That might be the last time I see him. A guy like that is most likely very good at disappearing. There’s no way I’ll risk chasing his car to demand more answers. All I have now is some good old-fashioned internet sleuthing. And a name. Jeanette Conway.
Epilogue
I sit in my car with my laptop propped across my lap, scouring the internet.
I move the cursor to the Google search box and type in a name: Jeanette Conway. After weeding out several similar names and women with the same name, I finally discover a website article that draws my eye. I click on the link and wait as the page loads. The webpage pops up, partially at first, then fully with a screen width picture of Jeanette headlining the page. The article beneath her picture is what lures my attention:
News item from the OC Weekly, May 19, 2004:
Local Woman Found Dead.
Police answered frantic calls at the address of Orange County socialites, Adrian and Vivian Lynch in the early morning hours on Saturday with news of a body present at the house. The body in question is one of Jeanette Conway, a 27-year old Accounting Executive at Hawkins Pharmaceuticals. Witnesses say that Miss Conway met with Mr. Lynch at an after-hours adult nightclub, The Carnal Chapel and was never seen again after leaving with him around midnight. Calls to 911 revealed that Conway had indeed died in the Lynch household sometime after 3:30 am. Police have released no specific details, only that Conway’s death was suspected of foulplay and that the Lynchs have been named the only suspects in the case that looks to be possible murder. The Lynchs however could not be reached for comment. Jeanette is survived by her parents and a younger sister, Eliza Conway. (pictured below.)
Until now, I never knew her name. Karen insisted that every detail about the case had been redacted, scrubbed clean from all of the police records. Even with all his money, Adrian can’t censor the internet.