“Our little girl is growing up,” he’d gently reminded Riley, explaining that it was time to let her make her own decisions.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says. “What I wouldn’t give to go back to those days when you were young.”
She releases a lengthy, regretful sigh and takes out another pair of blue jeans, plus the green-and-white blouse with three-quarter-length sleeves, a front keyhole accent, and a tie closure. This was always one of Clarissa’s favorites. Riley spends considerable time arranging and rearranging the outfit on her bed just so, sharp and tidy, smoothing out every wrinkle. She takes a step away for a final examination, feels satisfaction over the presentation, then leaves.
She goes to the living room window and checks out Ms. Confident’s red Mercedes in its parking spot. The rain has diminished into a light drizzle, but she still wonders whether the sun will ever again shine on her dreary world.
The phone rings. She takes it out of her pocket: Erin calling. She answers.
As if the two had hung up only minutes ago, Erin says, “I was just wondering, do you have enough bedsheets at the apartment?”
Predictable as an atomic clock.
“Um . . . yeah?” Riley says.
“You sure? ’Cause I found a box filled with a bunch. I know they can’t be mine.”
She’s about to move away from the window when she sees Samantha Light exit her building. With a new accessory—her briefcase—in one hand, she flips her umbrella open with the other but doesn’t go toward the parking lot; instead, she heads for the sidewalk, then stops to answer a phone call.
“Hey, sis,” Riley interrupts, still distracted by Samantha, “I’m kind of busy. Can I call you back in a few?”
“What are you doing?”
She forgoes giving details; Erin doesn’t need to hear that Riley is spying on Samantha Light through the window, so she says, “I’m in the middle of a thing.”
“What’s the thing?”
“Nothing major. I’ll explain later.”
“Wait. I—”
“Gotta go.”
She hangs up, moves in closer toward the window, and gazes with interest.
Where’s Ms. Confident going now?
Riley doesn’t know, but she’s interested enough to find out. She grabs her raincoat and umbrella.
She’s out the door.
21
Samantha Light is still standing on the sidewalk and chatting on her phone when Riley arrives; she stops at just the right distance to eavesdrop on the conversation.
“Oh, sure. I can definitely have it done by then,” Samantha says with a southern drawl that heightens Riley’s interest. Cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder while balancing the umbrella on an arm, she digs through her briefcase. “Can you have someone leave it there for me?” She nods so fast that it nearly jars the phone loose, then adds, “Okay. Got it.”
The call ends, then Samantha is on the move, and Riley follows at a slow pace from several feet behind. They leave the complex, end up on a side street. She continues to secretly observe Samantha, still with that confident stride, still looking as if she’s on top of the world. But she doesn’t go far. Samantha hooks a right and marches through the doors of a small café located just a half block from her complex.
By the time Riley catches up and walks inside, Samantha is already on her way to a table; she checks her watch, then with flawlessly manicured nails taps a beat while waiting for the menu.
Riley waits at the hostess’s station, using this opportunity to study the young woman at a closer range. She looks more polished today with her trendy tortoiseshell-framed eyeglasses, her pretty tan blouse, and her black skirt with a slit running up the side. Black stockings cling to a pair of well-toned Pilates legs, complemented by shoes that do not look cheap.
“Would you like a table, ma’am?”
Riley startles.
The hostess stands before her. She considers Samantha, now looking over her menu.
Why not?
“Sure,” she says.
Riley takes her seat at a table close enough to continue observing. Samantha removes papers from her briefcase. Riley wants to know what Samantha is reading, but because of the distance between them, she can discern only that they’re drawings of some sort. Samantha flips through the pages, then looks up and catches Riley peeping at her; she politely smiles. Riley pretends she was daydreaming and unexpectedly noticed Samantha, then smiles back. A connection. And relief: Samantha doesn’t seem to recognize Riley from the night she spied on her at the apartment building.
She tries to exercise discretion while keeping watch over Samantha. During the course of her meal, the woman fields two phone calls, both of which seem to be work related. In one she shuffles through pages from the document and appears to be discussing them—either that, or she’s keeping herself occupied while the caller goes on. For the next discussion, Samantha seems pensive, as if she’s trying to solve a problem. Riley’s curiosity jumps a notch. For someone so young, she sure seems extremely important and successful.
Halfway through her meal, she decides a trip to the restroom might afford her a glimpse at that document, but just as Riley passes, Samantha returns them to her briefcase.
Damn it.
Inside, she checks her appearance and reapplies makeup. But when she’s about to hurry back to the dining room, Samantha enters. She walks up to Riley, holds out her hand, and says, “I think you dropped this by my table.”
Riley takes the photo. Feeling her face warm, she puts the picture inside her purse and says, “I—I didn’t even realize that I . . . It must have fallen out. Thank you.”
“No worries,” Samantha says, then lets out a diminutive laugh, clearly aimed at easing tension she doesn’t quite understand. Her drawl becomes thicker. “You should see me. I’ve actually thought about hiring a personal assistant to follow behind and catch everything I drop.” She takes a tube of lipstick from her purse, looks into the mirror, and while applying the makeup asks, “Is that your little girl? In the photo?”
Riley’s only answer is a faltering half nod.
“She’s absolutely beautiful,” Samantha says, pulling away from the mirror for a final inspection.
Riley is tongue-tied.
“Are you okay?” Samantha asks.
“She was killed.” The statement comes flying out. “My daughter was. About ten years ago.”
Sliding two fingers down a gold beaded necklace, Samantha says, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—” She looks at Riley’s wrist, then quickly averts her sight.
Riley glances down. Her sleeve has hiked up several inches, exposing the scar. She feels her ears becoming red, then her face, then her neck. In a panic, she yanks down her sleeve and rushes out, leaving Samantha alone in the restroom.
By the time the young woman appears in the dining area, Riley is already on her way out the door.
22
“Just a little two-alarm fire is all,” Riley says while she and Erin walk through the hallway.
Erin looks at the black-stained ceiling, looks at her sister. “Who on earth is responsible for all this?”
While opening the door, Riley steps in front of Erin to block her view of the new lock. Inside, she throws her keys onto the counter. “It wasn’t intentional.”
“Well, that’s a huge relief.”
“Not so much for the guy who started it. Apparently he hadn’t finished his smoke break but decided to pass out anyway.”
“Oh, dear Lord.”
“I’m told there have been other similar incidents. Only not with this much firepower.”
“Don’t tell me it was the same guy.”
“Other residents.” Riley opens her fridge and grabs two cans of soda. She offers one to Erin. Erin shakes her head, and Riley puts the extra can back. “But here’s a silver lining. One of the neighbors told me Aileen wants to launch a campaign to educate people on the hazards of smoking in bed.”
“Like they actually
need to teach people this? Not to fall asleep with a burning butt?”
Riley shrugs. Her smile is drenched in sarcasm. “At the very least, it’s an opportunity to bring this blossoming community closer together.”
“Sad that it took a tower of flames to do it,” Erin remarks, ignoring Riley’s sarcasm, then she clumsily changes topics. “Hey, did you have a chance to check your sheets yet?”
Riley resists the urge to roll her eyes and says, “Yep. I’m all good.”
“I can bring the others over, you know. Just say the word.”
“Got it. Thanks,” Riley says, trying to wind up the conversation.
Erin’s scrutiny wanders to the lock on Riley’s door, which is a different color than before. Riley managed to dodge that bullet on the way in, but it appears to have boomeranged back. Erin blinks a few times, then says, “Riley, did you change out your lock again?”
“Uh-huh.” She avoids looking at Erin. “I didn’t like the other one. It wasn’t secure enough.”
Erin considers the lock again. Riley lowers herself into a chair and does a double take at the doll on her side table—it’s been moved. She leaned it against the lamp’s base the night they unpacked, but the little girl now sits an inch or two away, head slumped forward.
“Riley?”
She comes back to her sister.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, why?”
“You got quiet all of a sudden.”
“I’m fine,” Riley says, trying to fake buoyancy while slipping in a vigilant glance around the apartment.
Erin nods, but everything about her body language is screaming no. She excuses herself, goes to the bathroom.
And Riley can’t stop looking at the doll. She tries to reason: There was a lot going on the night she and Erin unpacked, and the change is barely significant. Is it possible she bumped into the table and hasn’t noticed the movement until now?
Am I being paranoid?
As she leans the doll back against her lamp, the bathroom door opens. She jumps into the chair, waits for Erin’s return, but Erin doesn’t make one. Riley leans over to glance down the hallway and finds her sister peering into the bedroom. But from the look on her face, she’s not checking out the latest furniture-refinishing project.
Oh hell.
She’s staring at Clarissa’s clothes laid out on the bed.
Erin catches Riley’s gaze and doesn’t speak, but her dropped jaw and dazed expression demand an answer. Riley rushes to the bedroom and hastily closes the door. “Relax,” she says, faking nonchalance. “I just like taking her clothes out to look at them.”
“Your deceased daughter’s clothes—you like looking at them. Ten years after her murder.”
“I know it might seem kind of strange, but I’ve been so lonely lately, and it helps me feel closer to her. It’s really no big deal.”
Erin mouths, No big deal. Riley follows her into the living room. Erin lowers herself onto the love seat, then stares straight ahead as if gathering her thoughts.
“Riley . . . ,” she at last says, tempering her tone with kindness, “I know you’ve been through so much . . . but this isn’t a healthy way to grieve. It’s like denial.”
“It’s not that at all. Clarissa was murdered. I’m well aware of it.”
“But laying out her clothes isn’t normal. You realize that, right?”
“Since when is there anything normal about losing a child?” Riley feels a firm emotional tug in her chest. “I’m doing my best to cope.”
“I know that. I really do. But have you discussed this with your counselor?”
“No, why?”
Discomfort apparent, Erin shifts her body. “Maybe you should.”
23
Riley finishes ironing Clarissa’s clothes for the day—a navy skirt and white chiffon blouse—then holds the garments up side by side to admire them.
She smiles.
She can still remember the first time Clarissa wore this ensemble. There was a big debate at school that day, and as a good-luck gesture she’d surprised her daughter with the new outfit. Clarissa got so excited that she threw her arms around Riley.
“You’re the best mom ever,” Clarissa had said.
“You’re the best daughter ever,” Riley says out loud, remembering her reply.
She lays down the clothes, skirt beneath blouse. Placing a finger against her lips, she studies them.
Something is missing.
The gold cross Riley gave Clarissa—she wore it with this outfit to the debate.
Riley goes to her bureau, opens the top drawer, takes out the cross. She smiles again.
She brings the necklace to her bed and drapes it over the blouse.
Perfect.
Riley spends several hours pounding wet pavement and fighting the rain on her hunt for a job, but so far the effort has proved futile.
The folks at Glendale have been kind enough to offer information on their website about how to transition from a psychiatric hospital to the outside workforce. Sadly, they fail to mention what to do when your face has been plastered all over the television and newspapers and you’re labeled an accused killer. Of your own daughter, no less.
For painful and obvious reasons, her former job as a schoolteacher is out of the question. Today, at the establishments where she applies, employers either blow her off after recognizing her face and name or have no available openings. She even tries for a few low-profile positions like telemarketing sales, but those employers don’t seem interested, either.
She’s doing her best to push forward, but life keeps pushing back, and she wonders how much longer she can endure this discouragement before it swallows her alive. Though Erin set her up financially for the month, she can hear each tick of the clock, every day taking her one step closer toward running out of funds. Independence was what she wanted, and independence she has, but the price is steeper than she first imagined.
At least there’s one reason to feel grateful. For the time being it seems as though the media has still backed off, probably having moved on to the next big thing. If she can remain under the radar, hopefully they’ll stay gone.
The rain comes down harder, and she decides it’s time to call it a day on this useless job search. She’s about to walk back toward the car when Samantha Light crosses her path on the way into Urbana Grill.
Riley moves closer to the restaurant window, looks inside, and continues studying Samantha, who is now chatting it up with the hostess. A few moments later, a handsome young waiter passes by and smiles at Samantha over his shoulder—she flirtatiously smiles back at him, then continues talking to the hostess.
A charmed life, indeed.
Riley considers the fancy white tablecloths, the beautiful decor, the well-dressed staff. She’s never walked into a place this fancy, can’t afford it.
But she simply cannot resist.
24
Samantha sits at a table, casually skimming the menu.
Riley waits for the hostess and tries to be discreet while keeping an eye on the young woman. Today, she wears the tortoiseshell-framed glasses, and she’s let her hair down. Her bright kelly-green blouse is made of fine-spun silk and almost perfectly matches her shiny patent-leather pumps: Samantha pays attention to the finer details.
Riley requests a table in the adjacent dining room, which offers a clear view of Samantha as the waiter delivers a glass of red wine. Samantha orders her lunch, and the waiter moves on to Riley’s table.
Her stealthy position provides an opportunity for another detailed examination of Samantha Light. Riley is surprised to find that her first impressions were slightly off. Samantha’s hair is dark, yes, but Riley missed the subtle mahogany highlights, a combination almost identical to Clarissa’s.
Samantha’s phone goes off. She grabs it from her purse, answers, then starts talking. Riley tries to overhear, but the conversation at a crowded table nearby grows louder, making it impossible. Samantha ends the call, pl
aces her phone on the table, then glances around the room until she lands on Riley.
Riley pretends to be pleasantly surprised.
Samantha seems to be as well. She smiles and waves.
Riley waves back.
But Samantha looks as if she’s deliberating over a thought. A few seconds later, she rises from her chair and walks to Riley’s table.
“So,” Samantha starts, “I’m not the kind of person who likes to let false impressions stand, but you left in a hurry the other day, and I didn’t get a chance to apologize.”
Riley shakes her head.
“About your daughter’s photo. I upset you and feel awful about it.”
“No, it wasn’t your fault.” Riley looks down at the table. “There’s more to it. I . . . I lost my husband in an accident shortly before Clarissa died.”
“Oh no . . .” Samantha touches a finger to her lips and says, “I’m so sorry . . .”
“The reason I’m telling you this is because my life is really complex, and it’s hard to come up with a good explanation for why I feel cornered when new people express sympathy.”
“I don’t know what happened, and I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been through . . .” Samantha pauses as if deciding what to say next, and a line etches its way between her brows when she says, “This isn’t the same thing, but my mother killed herself when I was a girl.”
Riley slides a finger beneath her sleeve. She rubs it across the scar on her wrist, realizes what she’s doing, then clutches her chest.
“Yes, it’s exactly like that,” Samantha says, “like having someone reach into my chest and rip the heart right out of it. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I can understand some of what you went through the other day when I asked about your daughter. People would innocently make comments, ask questions, but each time it would take me back to that horrible place. The one I so badly wanted to escape. Eventually, the pain took on a life all its own . . .” Samantha’s voice trails off as if she’s leaving her horrible place. “I think you know what I mean.”
What She Doesn't Know: A Psychological Thriller Page 6