The Grip Lit Collection

by Claire Douglas

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Edie said. “I just mean, give her so much attention that she practically ODs. Narcissistic supply is like a drug. When they’re high on it, they’re like toddlers. You can trick them into thinking they’re getting their way.”

  “So you really think if I blow enough smoke up Mom’s ass, I can convince her to give me some space?” The irony wasn’t lost on Violet. That was exactly the way Rose had broken free: she’d been such an obedient daughter, such a model Hurst, that Josephine had backed off on her overbearing-mother routine, giving Rose enough space to do a runner.

  “You might. Just make it look like it’s in her best interest. Maybe play it like you can be your mother’s mole. You can go live with Rose and report back with useful information. You don’t have to deliver on the promise once you’re there.”

  After leaving the dayroom, Violet went to the phone booth and dialed Rose’s number. It was still work hours; Rose’s phone was off. It rang once, and an automated message introduced Violet to her sister’s message box. After the beep, Violet left her cell phone number and the news of her discharge. “Text me sometime today,” she said. “Mom or Dad will sign me out of here. I’ll go to the farm stand afterward and get my paycheck. After dark, I can meet you tonight, anywhere within walking distance of Old Stone Way. Choose a place, and I’ll be there. I know what to do.” She paused, then added, “I learned from the best.”

  WILLIAM HURST

  MAYBE THERE IS no truth. That was the anthem of liars everywhere. Will knew that, and still he couldn’t stop thinking it. Because his mother’s truth was the only available option for him, and her “truth” was an outright fabrication—a bigger L-I-E than the Long Island Expressway.

  For another forty minutes, Will sat in that cold, bright police room and swore up and down that he’d seen Rose, jogging down the Hursts’ eighteenth-century staircase as if she’d just popped home for a forgotten scarf or textbook.

  That was the sickening part: Will wasn’t able to tell just one whopper and be done. Each deception called for another one, the same way it had with CPS. Only this deceit was worse. This was perjury: one of last month’s spelling words. The flash cards he studied from showed a cartoon man, sweating, one hand slapped down on a stack of Bibles.

  On and on Will went with his false oath: “No, I didn’t see Rose come in, I only saw her leave.” “She was there for thirty seconds, maybe?” “Yes, you’re right. Thirty seconds is a long time. Maybe it only felt that long because I was surprised to see her.” This was bullshit in Russian-nesting-dolls form, and Donnelly seemed to want to break each sentence open and peer closely inside.

  “Did Rose look distressed?” the detective asked. Will shook his head no, which was the wrong lie (if lies can be further wrong than they are already) because it had led to Donnelly’s inevitable next question: “Why then, if she didn’t look distressed, did you think she was in danger or being coerced?”

  “Oh.” Will grew panicked, and then, in an effort to cover his fear, acted the part of the insolent know-it-all. “It’s just that word. When I hear distress, I think hurt, or frightened, or grief-stricken. Rose wasn’t either. She was more like—”

  “She didn’t seem like herself,” Josephine offered.

  “In what way?” Donnelly’s pen was poised above his notebook. It unnerved Will, watching his lies gain instant permanence.

  Josephine threw out a lifeline. “Will was just thrown by her appearance. It was just makeup, Will. Heavy makeup. And a new hair color. Darker.”

  Will nodded. His stomach growled audibly.

  “And did any of you try to follow Rose?”

  Mamihlapinatapai. A naming word. It meant the wordless, yet meaningful look shared by two people who both desire to initiate something but are both reluctant to start.

  “She ran,” Will finally said.

  “By the time we made it out the front door, she was already gone. Damien must have been waiting in the car.”

  “Did you get the license plate number?”

  “We didn’t see the car,” Will muttered. “We just assumed.”

  “Like I said, we’re probably just being silly,” Josephine said. “If she was honestly in danger … If Damien was forcing her to act against her will, she could have called out to us. We were right there. She knew we saw her. She must have known we could help her.”

  Donnelly scratched his cheek with the pointed cap of his pen. His dark eyes were solemn as a priest’s. “Now, this boyfriend, Damien? You’re sure this is the man she ran away with? Your other daughter seemed to think Rose had just broken up with her college professor when she ran away.”

  Josephine got a disapproving look on her face. “I didn’t know that.”

  “It was definitely a Damien Koch who called you on the phone last year?”

  “That’s the name he gave me,” Josephine said again.

  “And you’re sure it was Rose you saw on the night your other daughter assaulted your son? One hundred percent?”

  “Yes,” said Will’s mother. “Rose didn’t hurt Will. Violet hurt Will, but Rose was there.”

  “She was wearing her white coat,” Will added suddenly.

  “Ummm,” Donnelly said. “It was the same coat she was seen in last year? The one in the surveillance footage from the Metro-North station?”

  “Yes, the same one,” Josephine said, her eyes tearing up. “That’s about the only thing about her that was the same.”

  Will seized in the car on the way home. It was too much, all that fiction. The story had its own velocity, and by the time Will stepped away from all the lies he’d told, he felt the way he used to feel stepping off the rusted merry-go-round at Lippman Park: he wasn’t whirling anymore, but his brain hadn’t received the memo. He felt nauseated, dizzy right down to his toes. He curled up in the backseat like a depressed fetus and fell into a thick, gummy sleep.

  When Will woke up, every muscle in his body hurt. His mother was yanking his wrist. “Get out,” she said. It wasn’t a yell, it was worse. It was an ice-cold, overenunciated command—the kind she gave to automated phone systems.

  Will suppressed his human urges (no yawning, no groaning) as he stepped out into the garage.

  “That-a boy,” she said, softening, ruffling the back of his bowl cut. It was a pet owner’s gesture. Positive reinforcement. “You did well back there. With a few small exceptions. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have put you through it. But we had to go. It would have looked suspicious if we didn’t. Blame your fucking father and his goddamn phone call.” Her heels clipped the concrete as she walked to Douglas’s SUV and wrenched the door handle. “Sober yet?” she asked, as the door swung open. The interior light came on and the passenger seat was empty.

  VIOLET HURST

  BEFORE VIOLET LEFT the phone booth, she reached into her pocket and pulled out Nick Flores’s business card. She dialed the number and felt the same crippling, low-level bashfulness she did wondering if Finch would pick up when she called the Fields’ landline.

  “Nicholas Flores speaking.”

  “Nick. It’s Violet Hurst.”

  “Ultra-Violet.”

  “That’s me. I hope you’re wearing your shades.”

  “I am. I am.” There was a smile in his voice. “So what’s up, U.V.?”

  “I’m getting out of here later today, and I’ve been thinking I’d like to talk a little more about emancipation. You know, how much does it cost? How long does it take? That kind of thing.”

  “Sure, U.V. We can do that. How about you come see me in the office? What day works for you?”

  “I can’t come to the office. I’m going out of town for a while.”

  “Really? Where are you headed?”

  “I think I’m gonna go stay with Rose. Have you heard from her yet?”

  “Unh-uh.” The playfulness went out of Nick’s voice. “She hasn’t written me back. No phone calls. No e-mails. I looked into that Damien Koch, but no one by that name
has an arrest record in the state of New York.”

  “I don’t suppose you could look into Matthew and Francesca Chatsworth? I think Damien is a fake name. Matt was the professor Rose was having an affair with, and Francesca is the wife he’s still married to.”

  “Say whaat? I thought you told me Rose was sheltered.”

  “Turns out she isn’t quite as virtuous as I thought.”

  “So you think Rose is still seeing this guy?”

  “It’s a possibility. I just want to know what I’m getting into here. I don’t want to go all the way there only to have this aggro professor mad at me for spoiling his weekend trysts.”

  “Rose told you he’s aggressive?”

  “No. I’m the one who thinks he’s aggressive. We talked on the phone.” There was a long pause. “Nick? Are you still there?”

  “I’m checking their arrest records.”

  “You can look it up that fast?”

  “You could too, if you were near a computer. It’s all public record right there on the Internet. No arrests for Matt. Francesca, though, it says here she got arrested a few years ago for assault.”

  “Francesca assaulted someone?”

  “Uh-huh. Any idea what that was about?”

  “No clue. I don’t know anything about Francesca.” Maybe she should have said anything significant. She knew all the shit on the wedding blog: that Fran thought hyacinths were too fragrant and silk-poly blend dresses made her cringe.

  “Well, listen. It was simple assault. Probably Frannie got in some drunken catfight or something. But I want you to be careful, U.V. You know the key to self-defense, don’t you?”

  “Wear practical shoes?”

  “Bear mace. Stuff can take down even the strongest of men. Maybe even a wronged wife like Francesca.”

  WILLIAM HURST

  WILL PACED AROUND the bottom of the staircase and tried to eavesdrop. At first, he heard only his mother’s voice: hysterical questions at erratic intervals. It was followed by slamming sounds, the metallic clanging of brass dresser drawer pulls, and a slow tumble like dress shoes falling down from their tree rack. An instant later, Josephine was stomping down the stairs in her stockinged feet.

  “Is Dad okay?” Will asked nervously.

  The look Josephine shot him was almost as hurtful as the word she’d called him after dinner. And it said the same thing: that Will was mentally deficient. “He’s fine,” she said, curling her lips as though the word Dad had a stench. “Looks like he dragged himself up to bed. He’s been sleeping like a baby, while we deal with all the hot water he’s dropped us into. Now, Will … I need to see that journal.” She made finger-quotations around journal, as though she’d said Sasquatch or chupacabra.

  “Dad has it.”

  She leaned against the curved end of the banister. “He does not have it. I just checked his coat pockets.”

  “Then he put it somewhere.”

  “Somewhere, like where?” There it was again, the murdered syntax. The blood slowed in Will’s veins.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see. He didn’t tell me.”

  For a second, Will’s mother seemed amused by the staccato answer. She stepped lightly off the bottom stair and hooked an arm around his shoulder, as if she were a Little League coach and Will was a bedraggled pitcher in need of a mound pep talk. “Tell me what it says, Will. Right now. I need to know if I’m going to save this family.”

  “You’re killing the messenger,” Will said. Tears were rolling down his face.

  “Not everything is about you, Will.” His mother was groping around the Hursts’ junk drawer, her voice like a grimace. “I need to find that diary. I told that detective we’d bring it to him tomorrow. If we don’t, it will look—”

  “I know, I know,” Will sniffed and nodded. “It will look suspicious.”

  Her head snapped up from the junk drawer’s nest of batteries, trash bags, and twine. “Wow, Will. I was going to say flighty. Maybe you’re against me too. Maybe prep school in London is a bad idea.”

  “I’m not against you. I just don’t know why I had to say I saw Rose.”

  “I didn’t twist your arm. I didn’t make you say it. I didn’t make you do anything.” She averted her eyes again, and some part of her must have known the last part wasn’t true. “Are you asking me if I really saw her that night?”

  Will held her gaze. There were so many lies he wanted to ask her about—her sham degree, the potentially bull autism diagnosis—but he was too afraid. He didn’t know which scared him more: the answers or the thought that asking might make him lose her.

  “No, I didn’t see Rose that night, but she’s here all the time, Will. I just know it. Sometimes I hear things. Doors closing at night. Sometimes my pillow smells like her perfume.”

  Will noticed a paring knife beside a facedown box on the cutting board. He turned the box over and read the label: Antihistamines. Liquid Gels.

  When he looked back up, she was watching him with eyes that were tight in the corners. Under the kitchen’s downlighting, her newly blond hair gleamed.

  “There you go again,” she said. “My observant boy. These fall allergies are killing me.”

  “The journal’s not going to be in the kitchen,” he said. “It’s going to be in a Dad place.”

  Josephine stood up and smoothed her dress. “I haven’t checked his workbench yet,” she said. Her face, already young for its age, was suddenly all girlish optimism. “I’ll go look in his socket wrench box. Why don’t you go back upstairs, check under his pillow? Also, under his side of the mattress? You’ve got such small, quiet hands. Sometimes I think you ought to be a surgeon.”

  “But I want to be a writer … Why can’t we just wait until the morning and ask Dad where he put the journal?”

  “Because I’m going to toss and turn all night thinking about it.” She stuffed her feet into her quilted slippers and wrapped a throw blanket around her shoulders. She made a swooping motion with her index finger—get upstairs—and then marched off to the garage to look under Douglas’s chainsaw helmet and Coleman lanterns.

  “Will?” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “I think I’ve found the perfect prep school for you.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Perfect. Most students go to Oxford or Cambridge when they graduate. Sons of notable figures. No mandatory sports. Ample opportunities for suits, tuxes, and tails.”

  His parents’ bedroom was dark, except for the light in his father’s closet. That was all Will saw as he stepped softly into the room: his father’s empty hangers swinging from the metal bar, every golf shirt and windowpane sweater he owned in a snarl on the carpet floor.

  Douglas was still in his clothes, sleeping in a Jesus posture on the bed: feet together, arms splayed, head rolling awkwardly to one side. His mouth was open, and his chin jutted upward. He looked like he ought to be doing his trademark freight-train snore, only he wasn’t. The room was chillingly quiet. He’s dead, Will thought. But when he moved closer and cupped a hand an inch or two from Douglas’s mouth, he felt a soft, slow tickle of an exhale. Baby’s breath, Will thought, even though he’d never held anything diapered and had little desire to.

  He had a thought to care for his drunk dad in some way—to get an extra blanket or put a damp washcloth on his forehead—but none of those seemed quite right. Instead he did as his mom had said: he used one hand to lift the mattress half an inch. He groped along the box spring with the other. Nothing there. He played tooth fairy and slid his hand under his father’s pillow. Rose’s journal wasn’t there either. His father remained as still as roadkill.

  Douglas’s cell phone was on the nightstand, and Will found himself hoping his father had called Kerry before he’d passed back out.

  Maybe he’s drunk and sick, Will thought. There were certain medications you weren’t supposed to mix with alcohol. He’d once eavesdropped on Violet talking about a girl who had a bad reaction chasing antibiotics with v
odkaccinos (bottled frappuccinos with bottom-shelf vodka). Will thought back on his dad’s soapy soup and the antihistamine box in the kitchen.

  Venenation: poisoning.

  He felt an aura like he was going to seize again. He had to crouch down to regain his balance. His chest tightened as his heart skipped a beat. Could his mom have drugged his dad?

  Josephine walked in with a water glass in her hand. “Did you find it?” she whispered.

  Will shook his head. You’re being paranoid, he told himself. You are thinking crazy, despicable thoughts.

  She set the glass down on the nightstand next to where Will knelt. “Your dad will be thirsty,” she said. “You can lessen a hangover that way. With lots of water.”

  Out in the hallway, Will pressed her. He erred on the side of self-effacing. No way he was going to outright accuse her of drugging his dad and hiding evidence. “Sorry, Mom. It’s late. My brain’s scrambled. I don’t understand why we can’t just wait until Dad wakes up. Can’t he bring Rose’s journal to the station? You’ve already been through so much. That long interview …” He gave a sympathetic grimace. “All those questions …”

  She dropped her force field—that four-foot sphere of personal space she guarded so tightly—and stepped toward Will for a hug. “I don’t want him finding Rose before we do,” she said. “Rose hates your father. All those years, all that drinking …” She covered her mouth and averted her filled eyes from Will’s. “Your father abused her. By the time I pieced together what was happening, it was too late. I couldn’t protect her. The damage was done.”

  “That’s why Rose keyed Dad’s car instead of yours.”

  A sad smile rippled across her face. “You’re such a smart boy. I can’t hide anything from you.”

  “That’s why you were scared, I mean, extra-scared about Dad having an affair?”

  “I worried—” She paused. “I worried he’d reconnected with Rose.”