Mrs. Blocken looked up, shocked. “What are you talking about? Olivia wouldn’t do that.”
O.M. shrugged. “I overheard them talking before the picnic. Bree asked Olivia for a check, and Olivia said that they would talk about it later.”
I felt very cold as my brain put the pieces into place. “O.M., this is important. Did you see Bree the morning that Olivia was attacked?”
O.M. bit her lip. “No, I was asleep.” Her eyes darted away.
She was lying, and we both knew it. Her eyes flicked over to her mother.
“Whatever it is, I promise you won’t get in trouble,” I said.
“You can’t make any such promise,” Mrs. Blocken said.
I shot her a look so fierce that it silenced her immediately. That was the first time in the history of the world that anyone had silenced Mrs. Blocken with a mere look.
O.M. swallowed. “It was about seven in the morning. I was just getting home.”
“You stayed out all night?” Mrs. Blocken roared.
O.M. shrank away from her. “My band had a gig, Mom.” Her voice was small like a child’s. “I knew you would never let me go.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t let you go. You’re only fifteen.”
“Mrs. Blocken, please,” I said. I turned to O.M. “What happened?”
“When I got home, I was just going to slip upstairs. I knew Dad would have already left for the office, and that both Mom and Olivia sleep late. But when I got there, I saw Olivia in the kitchen window, already up, so I had to hide out by the garage. I didn’t know how I was going to get inside without her seeing or hearing me, and I knew she would tell Mom if she caught me. Finally, around seven thirty, just when I thought that I couldn’t stand it any longer and was going to go inside and face my sister and Mom, Bree pulled up in this tiny red car. She didn’t get out. Olivia must have been looking for her, because she ran out and jumped right in.” O.M. looked down. “I remember thinking at the time how lucky I was that Bree came and got her.”
Mrs. Blocken stared at her youngest daughter as if she didn’t even know her. Maybe, she didn’t.
“O.M., call the police,” I ordered.
“What? Why?” She looked scared and more like the fifteen-year-old that she was than I had ever seen her.
“Because Bree Butler killed your sister, and now she is alone with my friend.” I told her Bobby’s address.
Mrs. Blocken gaped.
I ran out of the house and jumped in my car. I threw the car in reverse, running over a rose bush in the process.
Chapter Forty-Five
A weak yellow glare backlit Bobby’s mini blinds. I shifted on the balls of my feet and rapped the brass knocker.
Bobby blinked at me. “India? What’s wrong?”
“Bobby, thank God,” I exclaimed. I tugged on the sleeve to his red flannel robe. Embarrassed, I looked down. “Is Bree here?”
Bobby belted his robe more tightly over his blue boxer shorts and white T-shirt. “Yes,” he said cautiously.
“Where is she?”
“She’s sleeping. Not that it’s any of your business.” He smoothed his tangled hair.
I pushed through the threshold. “Let her sleep.”
“What’s—”
“There’s an emergency at the library. We have to go.” I scanned the room, seeing Bree under every table and behind every chair. Bobby’s laptop and trashy romance notes sat on the dining room table. A mug of coffee topped a short stack of romance novels.
“Wait.” He waved his hands in my face. “What happened? Sit down. I can’t understand you if you jump around the room like a deranged kangaroo.”
“Didn’t you hear me? It’s an emergency. There’s no time to sit down.”
“No way. Not until you tell me what happened.” He sat on an armchair. “You look horrible. Did you remember to brush your hair today?”
“Someone broke into the library. We have to get down there.”
“If you think I’m going to run into the library to stop someone from stealing the Oxford English Dictionary or the change in the fine drawer, you’re crazy.”
“The robber’s gone. Lasha wants us down there to inventory what’s stolen.” I became more agitated, wringing my hands and pacing. I tired to keep my voice low. I didn’t want to wake Bree up.
“The robber?” Bobby asked in disbelief. “Is it time to circle the wagons?”
“The thief, burglar, perp, whatever you want to call him.”
“Why do you automatically assume the robber’s a man? I think I’ll have to write women’s liberation about you.” Bobby tsked.
“We have to take inventory right away so the police can find the stuff before it goes on the black market.” My story sounded ridiculous to my own ears, but I would wait to tell Bobby the truth after I got him out of the house, after he was safe.
Bobby chortled. “Forget women’s lib. Watch out thriller authors, we have a new espionage writer in town.”
“Come on,” I pleaded, pacing the room.
Bobby mellowed at my sincerity. “If it’s that important . . .”
“It is. It is.”
“Just let me go to the bedroom and change.” He rose from the couch.
“No!”
“India,” he warned.
“I mean, no, you look fine. It’s in the middle of the night and everything, I bet half the people there will be in their pjs.”
“You’re not.”
“Yes, I am.” I lied. “I always sleep in this outfit. It’s very comfortable.”
Bobby became suspicious. “If Lasha wanted me so badly at the library, why didn’t she call me?”
“She thought it would be easier coming from me.”
Bobby wasn’t buying. “Let me call her.” Bobby pulled his tiny cell phone out of his robe pocket.
“No.”
He glared at me. “What the hell is going on?”
I stepped closer to him and he backed away. “Okay, I lied. The library’s fine.” I seized his arm. “But we have to leave your house. Just trust me, please.”
He jerked his arm away from me. “Why?”
“It’s Bree, Bobby.”
“What about her?”
“She’s not who you think she is.”
Bobby glared at me. “You’ve had it in for her since day one.”
“I haven’t. Bobby she—”
“She’s having such a horrible time here, and you’re like everybody else, tearing her down.”
“Who tore her down, Bobby?” I whispered.
He threw up his hands. “Everyone. All she tries to do is help her mother and everyone else. She did everything for Olivia’s wedding.”
“You don’t understand.”
He ignored me. “At least I’m able to help her.”
“Help her how?”
“A loan. It’s the least I can do so she can afford a better nursing home for her mother. Can’t you leave Bree alone? She’s leaving tomorrow to move her mom.”
“Bobby, listen to me. Bree killed Olivia.”
“What? How can you say that?” He shoved me. I collided with the sofa and sat down hard.
“Please, just step outside with me and I’ll tell you everything. Trust—”
“Bobby?” Bree stood in the hallway, outlined by the bathroom’s dim nightlight. She wore one of Bobby’s tweed blazers over her nightgown. She buried her hands deep into the jacket pockets.
Bobby rushed to her side. “India claims you had something to do with Olivia’s death.”
Bree’s right hand flashed out of her pocket. In the low light I saw the unmistakable glimmer of metal.
“Bobby!” I screamed, jumping up from the sofa.
Bree whacked Bobby on the back of the head, and he crumpled onto the carpeted floor. Then she turned the gun on me. It was the same gun that she’d claimed she needed for protection. It was small and fit snugly in her hand, but I didn’t doubt that the danger it presented was real, no matter the size.
<
br /> Why hadn’t I warned Bobby about the gun? I thought frantically. Why had I made up that crazy story about the robbery at the library? Maybe if I had told the truth right away, Bobby and I would be outside now; we would be safe. But I knew as infatuated as Bobby was with Bree, had I told the truth from the beginning, he wouldn’t have believed me.
I flopped back onto the couch. Bree stepped over Bobby.
I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed, Please, don’t let him be dead. Please, don’t let him be dead.
I opened my eyes and saw Bree pointing the tiny gun at my chest. “Can I check on Bobby, please? If you cared about him at all, you’d at least make sure he’s breathing.”
Bree glanced at Bobby. Her right arm shook, which was little comfort. “Stay there!” Bree stepped over to Bobby and felt his wrist. “He’s fine. He’ll be fine.” Her eyes watered.
I silently agreed. Bobby’s head was made of granite.
Bree stepped in front of me again, her entire body quivering.
I couldn’t help myself. “Were you going to take Bobby’s money and run?”
“No. Bobby gave me a loan. I’ll pay every cent back. I need the money. My mother . . .” She began to cry, but the gun’s aim did not falter.
“What happened?” I asked. I hoped my voice sounded gentle, that it didn’t betray the terror that I felt.
“You’d understand, wouldn’t you?” she whispered to herself. More loudly, “Olivia has . . . had. . . everything. Great looks, great job, great fiancé, great life.”
“Bree, I’ve known Olivia my entire life. I understand,” I soothed. Please, don’t let her shoot me. Please, don’t let her shoot. I’ll be more respectful to my parents. Okay, I’ll try to be more respectful to my parents, but they’re cracked, I thought.
Bree broke into my thoughts. “By the time I started college and met Olivia, my mother had had MS for ten years.” She began to relax as she told the story. “And in my freshman year of college, Mom moved to a nursing home, the best one we could afford with a small inheritance from my grandparents. Olivia was there for me the entire time. She was so supportive.” Tears slipped down her flawless cheeks. “She told me that if I ever needed help, she’d be there.” The gun began to droop in her hand. I watched it fall millimeter by millimeter. Bree noticed the oversight and retrained the gun on my chest.
“After college, Olivia got a job at Kirk’s gym as a physical therapist. Kirk was planning to franchise it when he and Olivia started dating.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “My mom was worse, and we were running out of money. Mom was awarded disability insurance, but she had worked odd jobs all her life, cleaning, waitressing, serving people like Olivia’s family. She has no pension, no retirement. With my teaching salary, I couldn’t keep her in the nursing home. They were threatening to kick her out. The only place I could barely afford was . . . was . . . not acceptable.”
“You asked Olivia for help,” I whispered.
“Yes. Wouldn’t you? I was desperate. And Olivia said she would. She said that after she and Kirk were married, we’d work out a loan.” Bree paced back and forth on Bobby’s Navajo rug, trampling the pipes and players.
“She backed out of the promise.”
“Of course, she backed out. I’d been her lapdog for weeks, afraid that at any moment she’d change her mind.” Bree mimicked Olivia’s voice, “ ‘Bree, could you be a dear and call the florist for me?’ ‘Bree, honey, could you wait for the delivery man to drop off our washer and dryer on Thursday. He’ll be there between eight and five?’ And ‘Could you spend the week in Ohio with me to prepare for the wedding? I really need your help.’ I did everything she asked me. I even drove her to see your brother. She begged me to go with her. She wasn’t afraid of Mark, but she said that it would be easier for her if I was along. So of course, I went.”
I bit the inside of my lip and tasted blood.
“We were walking across campus when I asked her about the loan. I didn’t want to pressure her, and I’d already asked her the day before. She’d planned to talk it over with Kirk, as soon as she could.” Bree’s tears were gone, replaced by cold anger. “That’s when she said that she didn’t think it was going to work out.” She spoke more quickly. “I asked what she meant, and she said that she’d talked it over with Kirk, and they’d decided that it wasn’t a good idea when they’re starting out. I asked her how she could do this to me. To my mother. I reminded her of everything I’d done for her, for the wedding. And she thanked me. She thanked me, but said no.”
I held my breath.
Bree ran her left hand through her tangled curls. “I was so angry, I pushed her into the ugly fountain. She wasn’t expecting it and lost her balance. She fell and hit her head. She didn’t move; I thought she’d died right there.” Bree stopped pacing and began to cry, her bare feet firmly planted on the Navajo rug.
As she spoke, I slowly bent down.
“I didn’t know she was still alive.” Bree continued to speak but her words were unintelligible through her sobs.
I grabbed the end of the rug and yanked. Bree flew into the air and landed flat on her back. Her skull hit Bobby’s tiled entryway with a dull crack.
The gun went off.
Oh God! I’ve been shot, I thought. But, I didn’t feel anything. I looked behind me and saw Bobby’s shattered coffee mug.
The sound of sirens penetrated the walls. Bree moaned. I sprang from the couch. I found the gun under an end table. The sirens became louder, just outside. I leapt over Bree and out the door. Police cruisers crowded the street. One by one they trained their spotlights on me. I was blinded.
“Drop your weapon,” the voice of God commanded.
Weapon? What weapon?
“Drop your weapon!”
I realized the gun was in my right hand and threw it onto the lawn. Two police officers materialized out of the bushes and rushed me. They threw me onto the grass and handcuffed me behind my back. The grounds smelled like earthworms and fertilizer. A sharp pebble dug into my right cheek.
“Let her go,” someone ordered.
I felt male hands remove the cuffs from my wrists and the weight off my back. A hand grabbed my shoulder and pulled me up. I felt dirt in my teeth, and grass stains covered my sweatshirt, shorts, and legs.
“Are you all right?” Mains asked.
“Fine, I think.” I spat a piece of grass out of my mouth. Officer Knute stood behind Mains, his uniform conspicuously grass stained. Figured. Then, I remembered, “Ohmigod, Bobby’s still in there. She hit him. Bree’s the—”
“I know. O.M. called me.”
A pair of paramedics hurried into the house. “Knute,” Mains said. “Call the station and tell the desk sergeant to stop Lana and Alden Hayes from posting bond to free their son. He’ll be out on his own accord very shortly.”
I picked a stray blade of grass from my front teeth and beamed at Mains.
Epilogue
The steaming humidity of July had translated into the weighty air and heavy clouds of August that settled into the hovels and creases of Stripling and the surrounding Cuyahoga Valley. The summer term ended, and the library closed for a few blessed days to recuperate and prepare for the fall semester.
I sat on the vinyl glider on my half of the duplex’s front porch. With one foot folded under me, the other kicked a soft rhythm on the damp cement with bare toe tips. My sketchbook lay in my lap, but the etchings were frail. I idly doodled, accomplishing nothing of worth.
That morning, I had visited the Blocken home one last time. When I arrived, there was a moving van in the driveway, and O.M. sat on the curb. I set the package I brought with me on the devil strip—a truly Akron term that described the area of grass between the street and the sidewalk. Without a word, I sat beside her.
“My dad’s moving out,” O.M. whispered.
“I’m sorry, O.M.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“It’s okay. They haven’t really gotten along since Olivia went to college.”
For lack of anything better, I nodded.
“What’s that?” she asked, gesturing toward the package.
“It’s for you.”
I handed it to her, and she ripped off the brown paper. It was Olivia’s portrait inside a simple black frame. I had been able to mend the tear in the canvas as if it had never happened.
“Did you paint this?”
“Yes.”
“It’s good,” she said, and I knew she meant it.
Her comment was one of the most cherished critiques I ever received.
“Thank you. You know, she looked a lot like you,” I told her.
She cocked her head, looking at the painting, looking for herself inside of it. “I hope so,” she whispered.
A crack from the street jolted me off the glider and out of the memory. A massive off-white and faux wood paneled camper backfired. It rumbled to a jerky stop in front of the duplex. I stood on the porch waiting for someone to exit the vehicle, believing it was one of Ina’s eccentric cronies. Maybe Juliet—I could imagine her behind the wheel of a camper. To my astonishment, Mark, with Theodore on a leash, exited the side door. I walked across the lawn and around the perpetually cheerful leprechauns to meet him.
Mark walked toward me. He wore baggy carpenter pants, much like our father’s, and an outrageous Hawaiian shirt. Theodore sat docilely on the unruly grass and began to eat it.
“What do you think?” Mark asked happily and gestured to the camper.
“Yours?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yup. I bought it at a nice price too.”
“Because?”
“I saw the ad in the Akron paper. Couldn’t pass it up.”
Not really the answer I was looking for. “Why did you buy the camper, Mark? Are you going camping?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he remarked.
He stuck his free hand in his back jeans pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of white office paper. He handed it to me; it was a photocopy of a letter. Dated the day before and addressed to Samuel Lepcheck, the provost of Martin College, the letter began, “Dear Dr. Lepcheck: I respectfully resign from my position . . .”
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