Autumn Anthology

by Heather B. Moore

  “I won’t drag her to the police, or to a doctor,” Clint said. “At least, not today. I just want to talk to her, but she’s ignoring both my and Eden’s calls. Will you help us get in touch with her? Or do you believe her accusations that we’re evil and planting drugs in her room?”

  “It’s not really an accusation,” Darien said. “Call it panicked brainstorming. She knows she has no reason to suspect you. She’s just struggling to figure out what really happened.”

  “I can understand why she’s having trouble facing this,” Clint said. “Of course it’s scary for her, and I’ll admit, we were so upset last night that we were on the attack. If I could talk to her now, I may be able to calm things down between us.”

  Darien hesitated. How can I best help Mallory? Not by helping her hide.

  “I’ll talk to her,” he said. “I know where she is. I’ll do everything I can to convince her to meet with you and your wife. But let me approach her alone first. If I send you straight to her, she’ll lose whatever trust she has in me— if she has any left— and that won’t help any of us sort this out.”

  “Thank you.” Clint rose to his feet and extended his hand. “Talk to her. Then call me.”

  Discouraged that the only thing he’d learned from the meeting was that Darien had no strong, logical reasons for believing Mallory, Darien reluctantly shook Clint’s hand. “I will.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sitting on the floor in Dr. Agosto’s office, Mallory gripped her phone, her thumbs hovering over the screen as she tried to convince herself to answer Eden’s texts. The messages had started out matter-of-fact, had turned to curt, and now sounded pleading.

  Mallory couldn’t decide what to do. She felt cornered. Bewildered. She wanted to collapse onto the carpeted floor, rest her head on Darien’s folded sweatshirt, and go back to sleep.

  Don’t do it. Don’t go there again.

  She heard a key in the lock, and Darien stepped into the office. “Hey, you’re awake,” he said. “Feeling any better?”

  Mallory nodded. Darien’s hair was a mess, and his neck was red. She doubted the redness was from the wind that had styled his hair; it was blustery outside, but mild, unless the temperature had dropped rapidly in the few hours she’d been in here. Darien was nervous.

  He sat on the floor next to her. “Ready for something to eat?”

  She was hungry, but the thought of going anywhere scared her. She was sinking right back to where she’d been, unable to cope, mentally trapped. Skipping class, burrowing in an absent professor’s office.

  When she didn’t say anything, Darien spoke quietly. “Mallory, listen. I… talked to your brother-in-law.”

  Jolted, she stared at him. “Clint contacted you? How did he know—”

  “I contacted him,” Darien said.

  Dismay submerged Mallory. Even though there was no reason he should believe her, she’d hoped he did. “You… think I’m lying to you, don’t you?”

  “I went to Clint in hopes of getting information. Not because I think you’re lying.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Essentially the same things you told me. He interprets things differently, but you’re sharing the same facts. He seems sincerely worried about you.” Darien’s dark eyes were anxious, sad, but intensely focused as he met her gaze. “I’ll be honest with you. I have no idea what’s going on here. I haven’t made up my mind about anything— I don’t have enough information. But I am your friend, and I want to help you. Clint wants to talk to you. I told him I’d try to convince you to do that.”

  She leaned against the wall, struggling not to panic at how isolated she felt. Darien had talked to Clint. Darien believed Clint. No. He hadn’t said that. He’d said he didn’t know what to think. She looked at the worry in Darien’s face. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”

  “I’m sorry if you feel I betrayed you by talking to him.”

  She shook her head. “I want you to believe me. But if you did believe me without reservation, given the evidence, you’d be an idiot.”

  His platinum brows rose. “You’re serious.”

  Mallory smiled bleakly. “If you knew me well and still doubted me, that would really hurt, but you don’t. And if you’re a guy who’s so dim he’ll keep blindly defending me even when all the evidence says I may be a toxic liar— that’s not chivalrous; it’s idiotic. What matters to me is that you’re keeping your mind open and that you want to help me.”

  “I do.” The relief in his smile was so evident that Mallory felt her trust in him growing. He’d gone to Clint because he cared about her. “I told Clint I’d never seen any signs of drug use in you,” he said. “For a moment, let’s assume you’re innocent and that Clint and Eden are too. He claims she’s already checked with the neighbors to see if they’ve seen anything, but they haven’t.”

  Mallory wasn’t sure if Eden really had checked, but the possibility made her feel a little more hopeful. “I did too,” she said. “Before I napped. I looked up the phone numbers online. No one I talked to had seen anything. I left messages at the other houses.”

  “Okay, so we’ve done all we can do there for the moment.” Darien opened his backpack and took out a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels he’d purchased at the chocolate shop the night before. “You must be hungry.” He handed it to her.

  “Thanks.” Mallory unfastened the twist-tie around the bag. She should probably suggest that they get off the floor and sit in actual chairs. He didn’t seem to mind the floor, though. He’d leaned against the wall next to her and stretched out his legs.

  “Let’s widen the range for brainstorming,” he said. “You said you don’t have any enemies here, and that you don’t even know anyone well enough to make an enemy. Maybe we need to look further back. I apologize for bringing this up, but you told me a drug addict killed your mother. Is there anything related to that story that could lead someone to bother you now?”

  “He’s dead.” A knot hurt Mallory’s throat, and she set the pretzel bag down. “Just a few weeks ago. He was killed during a prison riot.”

  Darien studied her, and she could tell he was wondering how Nelson’s death had affected her. “Did his death stir everything up— remind you of what he did to your mother?”

  “Yes, but I also feel bad for him. He didn’t mean to kill her, and he was absolutely devastated about it. He was a— a friend of mine. I was the one who—” Agony flamed, charring her with memories.

  “Mallory?” Darien grasped her hand. “You were the one who what?”

  Tears spilled down her face. “I was the one who made him think of my house as a target. It was at an awful party… I threw it when my mother was a couple of hour’s away, visiting a friend. Things happened at the party that I shouldn’t have allowed. Nelson brought drugs; so did a few others. I should have thrown them out. Instead I joked about how my mom would never suspect, that she acted like she was living in rural 1910 and was the kind of person who hardly ever locked the doors or windows…” Her chest heaved; she fought to breathe steadily. The flames spread. Wildly, she wondered how to douse the memories, to change the subject.

  Darien’s arm enveloped her, his hand light on the side of her face, nudging her head to his shoulder. She slumped and let herself sob, her cheek pressed against his shirt. Spilling tears was a familiar sensation, but spilling them onto someone’s shoulder was not, and the warmth of Darien’s shoulder made it easy to release the rest of the story.

  “He got desperate. That’s why he chose our house— because he knew it would be easy to get in, and he knew my mother volunteered at the library on Wednesday nights and I always went with her to study there. But she’d stayed home that night to rest; she had a headache. The lights were off and I had the car at the grocery store, so Nelson didn’t realize anyone was home. She walked in on him when he was stuffing her laptop in his bag, and he panicked. Swung a lamp that hit her in the head. She fell. Died later that night of a brain hemorrhage. I came hom
e just as Nelson was running away.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Darien stroked her hair. “Mallory, what Nelson chose to do is not your fault.”

  “I know,” she sobbed. “But I was stupid, and the result was… I’m sorry… I thought I was handling this. I did eventually go to counseling…”

  “I doubt counseling comes with a guarantee that traumatic events will never hurt again,” Darien said gently.

  “But I’m not using illegal drugs to deal with this. Do you see why I would never— after what happened to Mom—”

  Darien lifted his arm from around her and turned to face her, frowning. “This is going to be a painful question, and I apologize. But did Nelson’s family know the details of what happened? How he came to choose your house?”

  “Yes.” Wiping her face, she tried to stop crying. “His lawyer mentioned it at the plea bargain, trying to make it sound like Nelson was a nice boy who’d been overwhelmed by irresistible temptation and deserved leniency. Things were pretty bad for him— he’d just turned eighteen, so he was an adult… the lawyer was using any tactic he could to convince the judge Nelson deserved a lesser sentence…”

  “So the lawyer more or less made it sound like you’d lured Nelson there. Almost set him up?”

  Mallory thought back. “Not quite. He tried not to sound like he was directly blaming me. Probably afraid of losing sympathy with the judge since my mother was dead.”

  Darien squeezed her hand. “But did Nelson’s family blame you?”

  “I have no idea. They never confronted me. We never talked. You’re suggesting they could be the ones planting the drugs now, trying to get revenge on me by getting me in trouble?”

  “Just a thought. If they felt like you set Nelson up, maybe they feel you deserve it.”

  Mallory tried to picture Nelson’s family coming after her. “This happened four and a half years ago and two thousand miles away. If they blamed me, why wouldn’t they have taken revenge at the time?”

  “Maybe it took Nelson’s death. What’s his family like?” Darien knelt and reached toward Dr. Agosto’s desk to grab a box of tissues.

  “Serious problems,” Mallory said, taking the tissues. “His mom was abusive. His dad was an addict; he’s the one who got Nels hooked. He had one sister, Lori, who was… um… three years older. He worshipped her. Super smart, but made a lot of dumb decisions. I can relate.”

  “Do you know where they are now?”

  “His dad died of an overdose a few months after Nelson was arrested. His mother and Lori, I don’t know.” Mallory gave up trying to imagine Nelson’s mother tracking her down, following her across the country, and sneaking into Clint and Eden’s house. She wouldn’t be patient enough for that. If she came after Mallory, it would be to scream at her and punch her.

  But what about Lori?

  “It’s far-fetched, but so is everything else,” Mallory said. “I’ll call my uncle to see if he knows anything about what Lori Sanders is up to.”

  Chapter Eight

  Clint waved Mallory and Darien into his office. “Thank you for coming.”

  Eden sprang to her feet then hesitated, as though not sure how to greet Mallory. She looked haggard, and Mallory realized she must have left work early to come here. Methodical Eden leaving work early?

  “I’m sorry,” Mallory said. “I should have answered your calls. I haven’t handled this very well.”

  Eden took a halting step forward and wrapped her arms around Mallory. Mallory hugged her back, and to her surprise, Eden didn’t let go, but cinched her arms so tightly, she all but deflated Mallory’s lungs.

  “Mal.” Eden’s voice broke. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been rotten to you for years.”

  “That’s… not true.”

  Eden drew back and looked into Mallory’s face, tears streaming from her eyes. “I hardly kept in touch with you after leaving home, and when Mom died, I left you to deal with it on your own. You were still a kid, and I didn’t even bother to—”

  Mallory felt her own tear-achy eyes fill again. “I didn’t expect you to— you had a life away from—”

  “You expected me to abandon you? Leave you with our old uncle who didn’t have a clue?”

  “Uncle Mike did his best—”

  “He’s a good man, but how long did it take him to figure out you were suffering from depression? How long did it take him to get you some help? And what did I do to help— text you maybe a few times a week to ask if you were getting out of the house or tell you to find some friends, or go to school, that you should just deal with everything?”

  “Eden—”

  “No wonder you don’t trust me to help you now.” She clamped her hands around Mallory’s shoulders. “I will help you.”

  Clint put his arm around Eden’s waist. “Let’s sit down and hear what Mallory has to say.”

  Eden released her. Dazed by a love and concern more open than she’d ever experienced from Eden, Mallory sank into the nearest chair. Eden pulled a chair close and linked arms with Mallory so their shoulders touched. Mallory wondered if Eden wanted to comfort her or keep her from escaping, but the sisterly contact was soothing, so she didn’t push Eden away.

  “Darien, you’re welcome to…” Clint gestured toward the only remaining chair in his office, his desk chair.

  “Thank you, Dr. Westcott, but I’ll stand.”

  Clint sat; Darien stood next to Mallory, who explained what she and Darien had discussed about the Sanders family. Clint leaned forward while he listened, arms on his desk, gaze sharp.

  “I talked to Uncle Mike today,” Mallory continued. “I told him what’s been happening here and asked if he knew anything about what Lori Sanders is up to. He said he has no idea what Lori’s doing, but admitted that a couple of days after Nelson’s funeral, someone threw a rock through his window.”

  Eden gasped. “Through Uncle Mike’s window? He didn’t tell you this before?”

  “You know Mike— the silent stoic who never says anything he doesn’t have to. I asked why he didn’t tell me, and he said because there was no point in worrying me. There was other vandalism too. Mom’s grave.”

  Eden’s fingernails speared Mallory’s arm. “What happened to it?”

  “Graffiti. Profanity, mainly. Mike wouldn’t tell me exactly what it said; you know how he is about bad language, but the idea was that Mom deserved to die.”

  “Do the police think Lori Sanders is responsible?” Clint asked.

  “Uncle Mike said they questioned her. She didn’t admit to anything, and they didn’t have any evidence against her. But a few days later, a friend of Mike’s told him that Lori had quit work without warning and left town along with her newest loser boyfriend— who apparently has done time for drug dealing.”

  “What about Nelson’s mother?” Eden asked.

  “Mike said she moved to Wisconsin a couple of years ago. I don’t think she’s involved in this.”

  Clint tapped his fingers on his desk, lips pursed. “If thuggish vandalism is Lori’s style, would she really have the patience to—”

  “Maybe the thuggish stuff is her boyfriend’s style,” Mallory suggested. “Nelson used to tell me how clever Lori was. Devious. Maybe she wants more satisfaction than a broken window and junior-high-school dirty words on a gravestone.”

  “Getting you busted for possession, thrown out of school, and sent to jail?” Clint said. “If the police in Gilroy think Lori is on a vengeful rampage, it would have been nice of them to call to warn you.”

  “I wish they had. But it wasn’t much of a rampage. Just two instances of vandalism. And she didn’t make any threats against me. It probably didn’t occur to them that she’d travel to the opposite coast to harass me.”

  Neither Clint nor Eden spoke, and Mallory wondered what they were thinking. It probably didn’t occur to them because it’s a ludicrous idea.

  “I want to go to the Birch Falls police,” Mallory said. “But I’m nervous doing that if I’ll be asking t
hem to investigate whether Lori Sanders is in town while you two insist the drugs you found are mine.”

  “We don’t want to blame you for something you’re innocent of,” Clint said, his tone so cautious that Mallory knew he still thought she was at least as likely a suspect as Lori.

  Eden turned in her chair and clung to Mallory’s hand. “If there’s another explanation for the drugs, we’d be grateful to find that out.”

  At least they were willing to question her guilt. That was the most she could hope for. “I’m calling the police,” Mallory said.

  Chapter Nine

  The next day, Mallory had difficulty staying awake in class. The interviews with the police, and the officers’ visit to the house, had kept her up late again, and at work this morning, she’d been so tired she kept forgetting things, like how to switch the vacuum on, how to use her ID card to open doors, or which end of the mop went on the floor.

  She had no idea what Eden, Clint, or Darien had said to Detective Jenny Ridley when she’d interviewed them last night, but the fact that Mallory wasn’t in handcuffs by the end of the evening had to be a good sign. But if she was wrong about Lori Sanders— or if she was right, but the police couldn’t prove anything, and they decided Darien and Mallory’s theory was ridiculous— she could still up in prison.

  By the time she reached her Wednesday evening class, she couldn’t concentrate at all, only wonder foggily if Detective Ridley had learned anything, dream about how comfortable it would feel to rest her face on the desk and watch the darkening sky through the classroom window. For the first half of class, only sips of ice water from her mother’s insulated metal water bottle kept her conscious.