by Mary Carter
“We just paraded through the entire precinct,” Mrs. Rhodes said. “Take them off. They’re morbid.”
Cliff glanced at Ava, then nodded. He strode to the windows and took off the first sheet. Then the second, and the third. Ava could feel the open space behind them. Endless, open space. Eyeballs staring at them.
Ava slid down in her seat and hid behind her sketch pad as Emma described her attacker. “He was tall and strong. And his face was kind of puffy.”
Pillsbury Doughboy meets the Hulk, Ava thought to herself. It helped her sketches if she related them to characters. Ava worked quickly and lightly, asking, as she sketched, the usual questions about the perpetrator’s eyes, and forehead, and nose, and the shape of the chin. Why did Cliff have to take off the sheets? They were gone. Gone, gone, gone.
“He had a really big nose,” Emma said. She sounded chipper. Ava expected her to cry, or sound afraid. She was very poised. Children of politicians were probably raised that way.
Ava nodded. “Lips?” She wished Cliff would just throw the sheet over her head. If she sat under the table to sketch would anyone say anything?
“I don’t know,” Emma said. “It happened so fast.”
“It’s okay. Just say whatever you feel.”
“Thin. I feel his lips were thin.”
“Good.” He should have made up another reason they had to keep the sheets up. Or Ava should have said they were hers. She was the artist; the room should be set up the way she needed. “Okay. When you’re ready, open your eyes and I’ll show you the picture. Remember, you’re safe now.” Emma nodded. Then, her eyes opened. Ava turned the sketch toward her.
Emma frowned. She cocked her head. Then, she shook it. Nobody had ever done this before. Normally they gasped in recognition. Was Emma in shock? “It’s not him,” Emma said.
She was in denial. Ava wasn’t going to correct her. She more than anyone understood how powerful denial could be. “Okay, we’ll work on it,” Ava said. “Which part doesn’t look like him?”
“Every part,” Emma said.
Emma’s mother glanced at Cliff. “This isn’t working. We’ll have to reschedule.” With another sketch artist, she meant.
It was her fault for insisting they remove the sheets. Who did she think she was? Would she walk into Ava’s home and insist she take the sheets off there as well? “Let’s start over.” Ava ripped the sketch out and set it on the table. She turned to a fresh sheet. “Start at the beginning—”
Mrs. Rhodes stood. “We’re done here.”
“Sometimes when a person is in shock—” Ava began.
“Does Emma look like she’s in shock?” She had a point. Emma did not look like she was in shock. And Ava found that very troubling. Emma had almost been kidnapped.
“Emma, you have been very, very brave,” Ava said. “But you don’t have to pretend. Not with me.”
“Pretend what?” Emma cocked her head.
“Yes, pretend what?” Mrs. Rhodes said.
Ava was upsetting them both. She was only trying to help. “Please, let’s try this again.”
Cliff put his arm on Ava’s shoulder. “They have somewhere to be.”
“What could be more important than this?”
“Somebody has a sixteenth birthday party,” Mrs. Rhodes said. She shared a grin with Emma.
“You can’t go on with the party.” The words tumbled out of Ava’s mouth before she could stop them.
“Ava?” Cliff said. Ava never interjected any personal conversation into her work. Cliff looked mortified. Mrs. Rhodes looked furious. Emma was simply watching Ava with open curiosity.
Ava shot out of her chair. “You have to cancel it.”
“Why on earth would we—” Mrs. Rhodes started to say.
“At least postpone it.”
“Do you want to come?” Emma asked. “You could sketch my friends.”
Had the mayor’s daughter really just invited her to her sweet sixteen? In theory, Ava would love sketching all those girls from wealthy families. Imagine, going to a party like that. It might just make up for all the parties she’d never been to. “I can’t,” she said. Her voice came out rushed, panicked. Fire extinguisher, fire extinguisher, fire extinguisher. “I’m already going somewhere.” Ava slapped her hand across her mouth and thought about where she could be going, but her mind was a dark, swirling tunnel, taking out every thought in its path. Normal people went all sorts of places, didn’t they? Movies and yoga, and book clubs, and bars, and birthday parties. Ava squeezed her hand around her charcoal pencil. It snapped in two. A splinter cut into her palm.
“Quite all right,” Mrs. Rhodes said. Ava wasn’t really invited. She was acting like a fool. This was why she didn’t go out of the house. This was why! It’s never as bad as you think it’s going to be. The idiots who said that were right. It was worse. Much, much worse.
“I just want you to be safe,” Ava said.
“Do you think he’ll come again?” A thread of alarm came into Emma’s voice. Finally. She needed to be afraid. It was the only way she would be able to protect herself. Team Bozo by the door apparently weren’t up to the job.
“No,” her mother said. “He won’t.”
“You don’t know that,” Ava said. She turned to Emma. “I’m sure you have a lovely room.” Emma nodded. “If you stay in your room for a while. Do you have Popsicle sticks? You can make a mini-mansion. I can show you—”
Cliff stepped forward. “Mrs. Rhodes, I apologize—”
“But it’s labor-intensive,” Ava said. “You have to wait for the walls to dry before you lay down the ceiling. That’s the trick.”
Mrs. Rhodes stood. She grabbed Emma by the arm and hauled her up. “Is this woman for real?”
“I’m deadly serious,” Ava said. “Just lie low. Until they catch him. Wait. Or were you talking about waiting for the walls to dry? I was serious about that too.”
Mrs. Rhodes snatched the sketch from the table and shoved it at Ava. “Catch him? Based on this?”
Ava tried to look at the picture, but little colored dots were parading in front of her, obscuring her vision. “If I don’t have my party, he wins,” Emma said. She laid her hand on Ava’s forearm. Except for a few tumbles in bed with Cliff, and quick hugs, or pats from her mother or therapist, Ava wasn’t used to being touched. Emma had a soothing touch, and Ava was surprised to discover she didn’t mind it at all. But this was wrong. Ava was supposed to be soothing Emma, not the other way around. Emma looked deep into Ava’s eyes. Ava wasn’t used to that either, but she didn’t dare break eye contact with such a brave young girl. “Don’t you see?” Ava shook her head. She didn’t see. “He might as well have snatched me and shoved me into a deep, dark hole.”
“But—” Ava said.
“I’m going to be with my friends and I’m going to celebrate.”
They were all getting up and moving to the door. Ava had failed. She’d failed. And that monster was still out there. The sketch remained on the table, untouched. Ava picked it up. “Shouldn’t we get this to the media?”
Emma stopped. “I like your drawing,” she said. “But it’s not him.” And then they were gone. Only Cliff remained, staring at her. Ava glanced down at the drawing. There was something so familiar about it. The shape of the face. The jutting chin. The big, warm eyes. She gasped. Ava had drawn her father.
“It’s the sheets. And the Xanax,” Ava said, following Cliff out the door. “It has to be.”
“You didn’t have Xanax,” Cliff said.
“You gave it to me in the car.”
“I gave you aspirin. You just thought it was Xanax.”
“What? How could you?”
“Where was I supposed to get Xanax? The 7-Eleven?” Cliff was walking away too fast. The precinct was alive. Keyboards tapping, phones ringing, cops conversing. Where was her blindfold? Why was Cliff walking away? Had she embarrassed him? She wanted to go home. Home, home, home. She wanted to walk across the police precinct
and pour herself a cup of scalding coffee, and maybe take a donut if there were any left in the box, which there probably weren’t. But she’d never make it all the way across. She hated herself. Served her right that she wouldn’t get to eat a chocolate, cream-filled donut. Served her right! Donuts were for those brave enough to walk across the room and claim them. Oh, the things outdoorsy types took for granted. It was nothing to them, nothing to walk across a room. And they had no idea how lucky they were.
A party! Emma was almost kidnapped and she was going to celebrate. Ava wished she had her life to live over. She wished she were the mayor’s daughter. She couldn’t breathe. The room was constricting and expanding like an accordion. She dived under the nearest empty desk, slipped a paper bag out of her pocket, and breathed into it. She needed to get her heart rate down. Adrenaline made all the systems in the body speed up, which was great if one was being chased across the Serengeti by a ravenous lion, but dangerous if you were simply trying to walk across a room. Over the long haul, getting this worked up too many times could damage her heart. And people said this was all in her head. Breathe, Ava; don’t worry about what other people think; just breathe.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Soon fatigue would set in and she would sleep. Somehow she was going to have to get out from underneath this desk and go home. Cliff would drive her. He might expect something from her when they got to her house. Sometimes she wondered if she was really into him or just really grateful. She didn’t like to think about it. What did that make her if it was the latter?
She had to find Cliff’s desk. She’d never even seen his desk. What kind of girlfriend was she? Was there a picture of her on his desk? Did he have a ball, a bowl of candy, or keys, a notepad with a list of suspects to interrogate? He’d never once complained that she had never come to his work, or his apartment. She would find his desk, find something about it to admire, compliment him, and get him to take her home. That monster was still on the street preying on young girls, his picture wasn’t going to get distributed in time to warn the next victim, and that was all Ava’s fault. This was why she never answered the door.
Ava crawled out from underneath the desk. Eyes all around were on her—she could feel them like lasers burning into her skull—but nobody said a single, solitary word. Which meant Cliff had told them all about her. She could only imagine the conversations.
She doesn’t like to go outside.
What do you mean? She doesn’t like the sun? What is she, a vampire?
I like the sun, you fuckers. I love feeling the sun on my face through the windows.
She has agoraphobia.
Is it catching? Hope you’re wearing a glove.
Ha-ha. It’s fear of the open marketplace.
A shopping disease? I wish my wife had a shopping disease.
Did they know she was sleeping with him too? Was she the laughingstock of the precinct? Ava kept her eyes glued to the floor so she couldn’t confirm whether or not eyes were on her. Perhaps they thought she’d lost something under the desk, a pencil perhaps, or an earring. She hoped they wouldn’t notice she wasn’t wearing any. She didn’t even have any pieces of jewelry. She was not normal.
Eyes on the tile, which could use a good scrubbing, she kept walking. Past desks, and bookcases, and more desks, and there, she recognized his calves. Cliff was short, but he was strong. He was standing by his desk, talking on the phone. He had his back to her. Maybe he could get her a donut before he brought her home.
“I will reschedule with Gary Vance.” Like she told him to do in the first place. Why didn’t she trust her gut and stay home? “I’m sorry, sir. She’s handicapped.” Who was handicapped? Who was he talking about? “No, I’m not saying we have to use her—I’m just—”
Oh my God. He was talking about her. Her lover was calling her handicapped.
“Cliff?” She didn’t mean to yell. He whirled around. Her eyes flew to his desk; she needed to ground herself. There were photos on his desk. How nice of him to keep photos of his handicapped girlfriend on his desk. If only she drove a car, she could get front-row parking. There were two photo frames. Which photos of her did he have? She lurched forward and grabbed the first one. She brushed a bowl on the desk and it toppled over the edge, shattering bits of glass and paper clips across the floor. She stared at the photo. Two little boys with dark hair and hazel eyes. Carbon cutouts of Cliff. They looked to be about six and eight. Sons. Cliff had two boys. Why didn’t he tell her? Was he ashamed of her? Did he think she was unfit to be around his kids?
Cliff took the photo from her. She reached for the second. He tried to block her. “I’ll scream,” she said. The second was of a beautiful bride and groom. Cliff. And. His wife.
“You’re married.” It was a punch to the gut. Her voice came out strangled. She was stupid. So, so stupid.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to find out this way.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh.” This was why he didn’t mind her being—what was it he always called her? A homebody. I like knowing where you are all the time. Of course he did. She was the cheater’s dream girl. He was right. She was handicapped. She was blind. A year. She’d been sleeping with a married man for an entire year.
He reached for the photo. She let him take it. He reached for her. “Don’t you dare,” she said.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“No. Get Jim.”
“Who?”
“Joe.” Shit. Now she couldn’t remember anyone’s name. She couldn’t move. “Blindfold.” She should make a scene. Why not? She’d never come here again, never work here again. What would a normal person do? Kick Cliff in the balls? Call his wife? At least knock everything off his desk and say something. How dare you. How could you. I hate you. Anything. Instead she stood, and she waited, as her body trembled, and her heart pattered, and sweat gathered on the back of her neck, and colored dots danced in front of her eyes. She was doing something, something very, very big. She was standing. She would not pass out; she would not make a scene; she would not give him that satisfaction.
“Joe is out to lunch,” Cliff said in a low voice, near her ear. “Please, let me take you home.”
He would never take her home again, never make love to her again. He was married. He was married and he was a liar. “No,” Ava said. “I’ll crash the car. If you drive me home, I’ll make you crash the car and kill us both.” Apparently her aunt Beverly wasn’t the only one in the family with a touch for the dramatics.
“So what do you want to do? You look as if you’re frozen in place.”
“Blindfold me,” Ava said. “And call my mother.” What did he expect from a handicapped girl?
CHAPTER 5
Gretchen Wilder was no longer the woman Ava grew up with. The one who cared what the neighbors thought. The one who closed the blinds against the morning sun and left them that way all day, like an eye swollen shut. Bertrand’s death had profoundly changed both of them, but instead of a left at the fork, Gretchen Wilder had taken a right. Gretchen walked into the police precinct dressed in cowboy boots, a short skirt with a tight white top, and with a red bandana around her neck. Line dancing. It was her latest thing. Everything in life could be cured by line dancing.
“Oh, Ava,” Gretchen said. Cliff hadn’t been able to find Ava’s blindfold. Her own tears were doing part of the trick. Everyone, including her mother, was a tearstained blur. Unfortunately, not blurry enough. On display. Gretchen was on display.
“You look like you’ve had quite the day,” Gretchen said.
“You look like you just auditioned for a remake of Hee Haw.”
“I’m going to let that slide. Because of the day you’re having.”
“The worst day.”
“I’m just going to pull off the Band-Aid. I’m sorry.”
“What Band-Aid?”
“Your aunt Beverly is dead.”
Ava hurried up the walk to her front door while her mother stopped to judge her mailbox
. “It’s spilling onto the ground!” Gretchen cried, bending to pick it up. Ava unlocked the door and stumbled in. Her mother was still complaining about the mail. Ava shut the door, leaving it just a little bit ajar so her mother could get in. She collapsed on the sofa. She had a good excuse about the mail, but she didn’t want to defend herself anymore today. The regular mail guy used to bring the mail to the door. There was a new mailman now. Ava didn’t know if the old one quit, got married, or jumped off a bridge. She wished he would’ve told her something. How hard could it be to send a postcard? She had so few people in her life. So now the new mailman was putting her mail in the mailbox. She should have moved it next to her front door, but she thought leaving it there would force her to get outside every day. So far, it hadn’t exactly worked out. Her mother entered, plunked most of the mail on the kitchen counter, and presented the rest to her as evidence. “You have five letters from London.”
“Aunt Beverly?” Ava grabbed for the mail. Had her aunt written her before she died? They were all from a barrister. Jasper Keyes, Esquire. “I was hoping one would be from her. That’s it. I’ll never have the chance to get to know her.”
“Don’t get me started,” Gretchen said. She picked up one of the letters and ripped it open. “He wants you to call him right away.”
“It’s a federal offense to open someone else’s mail.”
“She must have included you in her will. I’m surprised.”
“Mother, please. Can you please not speak ill of her?”
“She hated me. From the very start. Just because I was American and wasn’t rich enough or posh enough for her.”
Maybe she hated that you were hard. That you wouldn’t dance. Ava kept her mouth shut. Her mother danced now. She had more on her mind than rehashing ancient history.
“Are you going to call him now?”
“What time is it in London?”