“What did they do?”
“They ruined my life,” Riley says, tears of sadness changing into angry ones. With anyone else she’d struggle to hide the emotion, but right now she has a powerful need to let Samantha see it. “When they questioned me at the station, I tried to explain that I hadn’t hurt my daughter, that I never would, that I was trying to find her, but I could see suspicion all over the detective’s face, and right then, I knew I was in trouble. In theory, I could see how my story sounded questionable. A witness saw us arguing in the car, and a neighbor reported seeing me arrive home alone, then a few minutes later leave in a panic. Of course, when the blood on the sneaker I was holding ended up matching Clarissa’s, it didn’t help matters. About a day after the storm passed, investigators found my scarf snagged on a tree branch at the cemetery right next to where I’d woken up.”
Samantha frowns and shakes her head. “How did it end up there?”
“I have no idea, can’t remember, but by then the detective in charge—Demetre Sloan was her name—had formulated her own theory and was determined to make it stick. That while passing the cemetery, I stopped, made my daughter get out, and killed her, then came home, then left again to dispose of the body.”
“And you still can’t remember what happened?”
“No.”
“You’re sure? Not even tiny bits?”
“None of it. I wish I could. I’ve tried.”
“But you weren’t the one who killed her.”
“No, I was not.” Riley looks squarely at Samantha, rage brewing in her gut, voice hitching when she says, “Nobody believed me. Nobody. They had their suspect and were too damned lazy to search for anyone else.”
“Did they arrest you?”
Riley nods. “The evidence was circumstantial, and it ended with a mistrial, but that hardly mattered. To this day, the public, the media, everyone still believes I did it.”
Samantha gazes down at the table as if some form of rationale might be waiting there. She puts two fingers against her temple, shakes her head. “Like losing your daughter wasn’t horrible enough? Then this?”
“The only thing I was guilty of was kicking her out of the car, and believe me, I’ve paid for it every living day and sleepless night since. There was no way out. No way to escape so much pain, so much regret. What you saw in the restroom that day?” Riley pulls up a sleeve to reveal the scar that runs along her wrist. “I jabbed a pair of scissors in and kept cutting. Right after that, Erin had me committed to Glendale Hospital, but there wasn’t a medicine or treatment on this earth that could take away my pain. And the worst part? They never found the monster who killed my child.”
“What about Clarissa? Did they find her?”
“At the cemetery. Apparently, it’s one of the oldest tricks in the book. The killer found a spot where a grave had been dug for a funeral, then pushed Clarissa’s unconscious body facedown into the hole and covered it with dirt, leaving her to suffocate and die.” Riley feels a little winded just thinking about it. “The next day, a coffin was supposed to go on top of her, and that would be that. But the rain continued overnight, and the grave began to cave. Work crews found her the next day while trying to repair the damage.”
Samantha doesn’t say anything—it looks as if she can’t.
“But you know what?” Riley smiles through her tears. “After all I went through, and after all of the drugs and therapies that were supposed to magically repair my broken life, it was actually my daughter who saved me.”
Samantha silently questions Riley.
“Clarissa didn’t leave me. Not really.” She sounds stronger, more steady and clear. “Each day, without fail, the daughter I lost still lives on.”
“Of course she does, and she’ll always stay in your heart,” Samantha says with the saddest of smiles.
29
Riley already feels wobbly, but at the parking lot, a different kind of distress knocks her off balance.
Oh no . . .
She hadn’t given thought to what a huge embarrassment her outdated, beat-up Toyota Camry would be. She cringes at the large dent in her front bumper, the unadorned, mismatched spare tires she never replaced after Clarissa’s murder. Then there’s the new scratchy mess she made of the driver’s side door. Good Lord, she could have at least washed it. Compared to Samantha’s slickly polished late-model Mercedes, Riley’s car screams poverty in the worst possible way. She’d crawl under the vehicle and hide, but its ugliness would just draw attention.
“I—I’m still getting back on my feet again,” Riley says.
Samantha looks at the car, places a hand on Riley’s shoulder, and says, “Believe me, your car looks like a dream compared to the clunkers I used to drive. This is not a problem. Don’t even worry about it.”
Riley tries to appear amiable in light of the goodwill gesture but feels as if her body has shrunk to about half its size.
“It’s not about the car, anyway—it’s about the company. But if it really bothers you, we can take mine.” Samantha points to her Mercedes, then tosses Riley the keys.
Riley runs her fingers over the soft, warm leather that covers the weighty and pristine key fob. She shakes her head and says, “I don’t know, Samantha, I’d be too nervous—”
“Have you received any driving convictions?”
“Well, no, I—”
“How about any accidents?
“Not in a long ti—”
“Then we’re good.” Samantha walks to the passenger’s side, opens the door, and says, “Now get in the car and show me around this place!”
Going from Riley’s car to Samantha’s is like going from a pudding pack to crème brûlée. Riley loves the soft, supple seats, loves the intoxicating smell, how the leather generously gives way to the human form, how it feels so smooth and cozy against her skin. And the dashboard. Goodness, this dashboard! She’s never seen anything like it. So richly appointed. No gauges covered in aging, cloudy plastic, no clunky dials, just lovely screens and brushed steel buttons and a sexy steering wheel, also gussied up in leather. In this moment, Riley can almost imagine what it must feel like to be Samantha, to enjoy the spoils of a life blessed with affluence, with privilege.
Samantha looks out through the windshield, appearing content, as if she hasn’t a care in the world, as if leaving this expensive machine in Riley’s hands is as easy as lending out a pair of shoes.
Riley hangs a sharp left, and her purse flips over next to Samantha’s feet.
“Oh dear,” Riley says, hitting the brakes to slow down as they approach the straightaway. “Sorry about that. Guess I’m not used to driving a car with this much power.”
“Don’t even worry about it,” Samantha says, righting Riley’s purse on the floorboard. “I take corners on two wheels all the time.”
“Well, I don’t. Not in an expensive Mercedes that doesn’t belong to me.”
“What’s this?”
Riley turns her head toward Samantha, who is now retrieving an appointment card from the floor. She examines it.
Riley shoots her flustered gaze back out the windshield, feels her ears gathering heat, then her cheeks, and sounds mousy when she says, “It’s my therapist. I’m seeing a therapist, you know, to help me with everything.”
The conversation drops for a few seconds, which feel like a thousand.
Then Samantha takes on a light, disarming tone. “Of course you’re seeing a therapist. Who in the world wouldn’t after what you went through?”
Riley coerces a smile from herself, and they drive on.
They’ve already covered all the grocery stores, a few of the top shopping areas, even a park or two along the way. Then Samantha asks, “So where’s the best burger joint around here?”
Riley chuckles. “You make being a tour guide easy, not to mention letting me drive your fancy car.”
Samantha shrugs. “I’m just common folk like everyone else.”
Riley takes her focus off the road to
give her a dubious look.
Samantha breaks out into laughter and says, “What? You’re not feeling me on that?”
“To the burger joint we go,” Riley brightly says, letting her avoidance answer the question.
Samantha is still laughing. “Damn, woman. You’re harsh!”
Now they’re both laughing.
About a mile or so away from JuicyBurger, Samantha says, “So, your sister . . .”
Riley glances at her, prompting her to finish the question.
“You never mentioned her once while telling me your story.”
Riley’s face is loaded with self-restraint when she says, “Erin is hard to figure out. We’re hard to figure out.”
“In what way?”
“We’re different across the board. It can create conflict at times.” She keeps her attention aimed out through the windshield but can feel Samantha’s questioning look. Riley adds, “Let’s just say the relationship got messy after Clarissa died.”
“The death of a child can be enough to break up even the strongest of families.”
“We’re still trying to pick up those broken parts of us and put them back together.”
“Any luck?”
“Seems like hit or miss most of the time.”
“What does Erin do for a living?”
“She’s a lawyer.”
“What kind?”
“Defense.”
“Ahhh. So she’s a tough one, right?”
“Too much for her own good at times.”
“What’s her last name?”
“McAllister.” Riley again takes her focus off the road, looks appraisingly at Samantha. “Why?”
“No reason, really. Just wondered if I’d ever heard of her before. I’d love to meet her sometime.”
“Maybe you will,” Riley says, then thinks, That’s all I need.
30
On her way back from another unsuccessful day of job hunting, Riley stops at the grocery store, then Wendy’s apartment.
She knocks and waits.
For a long time.
Six more raps and three minutes later, Wendy comes to her door—or it would seem that way, since the peephole is enveloped in darkness.
“Hey,” Riley says, holding up a shopping bag. “I grabbed a few items for you at the store. I was going there anyway, figured maybe you could use some supplies.”
No response.
“Anyway,” Riley resumes, “I’m there a few times a week. Seems I’m always forgetting something and need to go back. So, if you want to, leave a list under your door. It’s no problem. I’m happy to grab whatever it is.”
Again, nothing.
“Wendy? Still there?”
“Go ahead and leave it on the floor.” Wendy’s voice is subdued. “I’ll get it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Riley lowers the bag, starts to walk away. She stops, then turns toward the door.
“Wendy?”
“Yeah?”
“The other day, when you asked why I wish people would ignore me? I avoided giving an answer.”
“Yes.”
Riley looks up at the ugly ceiling. She thinks. Feeling some extra strength after opening up to Samantha about her story, she says, “Something bad happened to me several years ago. After that, people got very mean, and they kept being that way. It’s not that I didn’t trust you enough to explain. It’s because talking about it makes me sad all over again.”
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“Thanks.”
“Because I already know.”
Riley gives the peephole a double take. “You do?”
“I may not leave this apartment, but TV is my world. And I never forget a face. I’ve known all along.”
“And you don’t—?”
“Nope. Don’t give a rat’s ass about what they say.”
“Why not?”
Wendy falls silent for a few seconds, then, “Because you’re kind. I can tell. And because for the first time in a long time, you make me feel like I matter.”
Riley’s heart fills with joy—something she hasn’t felt for a long time.
31
“Hey, what are you doing?” Samantha asks.
“Not much.” Riley rests the cell phone between her ear and shoulder while unloading groceries into a cabinet. She closes the door and spots her butcher knife in a half-opened drawer. It hasn’t moved today. She’s good.
“Riley?”
“Um, yeah. Sorry. I’m back after grocery shopping and looking for a job.”
“Any luck this time?”
“Nothing.”
“That sucks.”
“Tell me about it. Hey, you mentioned maybe being able to help me find something?”
“I’m waiting for a few calls, so try not to stress too much, okay?”
“It’s kind of unavoidable when there are bills to be paid.”
“Not to worry, friend. I’m on it. In the meantime, if you need some extra cash . . .”
“Samantha . . .”
“I’m not saying—I’m just saying.”
“I need to do things for myself.”
“Okay, but the offer still stands.”
“While we’re on the subject of work, you kind of skirted around when I asked what you do for a living.”
“Why don’t you stop by and see?”
“Right now?”
“Well, you can get your stuff done first. I’ll be here for a while.”
Riley puts Samantha on speaker so she can add the address into her phone.
The rain has at last taken a hiatus, which is a relief, but . . .
This can’t be right.
Riley pulls out her cell to recheck the address. She glances at the building, then again at her phone. Did she accidentally transpose two of the numbers?
This doesn’t at all fit Samantha’s fairy-tale world. A slick corner office with large windows in the better part of town, yes. But this? It’s a dilapidated old redbrick warehouse. Light-gray stains of a nonspecific origin run down the building’s front, punctuated by opaque windows, a few of them broken here and there. Off to one side, it looks as though someone used a wall and spray paint to practice their crossword-puzzle skills.
Tires screech. Riley recoils.
What would Samantha have to do with a place like this? She studies the entrance, sees a rather normal-looking guy on the approach. A few moments later, two women come out who also seem okay. Despite the run-down and abandoned appearance, the property seems to be in use, so Riley decides to at least give it a try.
Inside, she takes a freight elevator to the third level. After a jouncy and nerve-racking ride, Riley slides up the grated metal door, then walks out into a desolate hallway, its walls unevenly coated in numerous shades of paint, accented only by nicks and scratches and blemishes. Riley takes tentative steps toward the suite number Samantha gave her; although, suite seems like a stretch at best. Closer in, the sound of heavy grinding permeates the hallway, and the smell of hot metal burns through her sinuses.
Okay, this isn’t funny at all.
Riley bends her neck around the door frame to see who’s inside. Now she knows this can’t be the right place, because some guy is at work there. Wearing a jumpsuit and welding helmet, he grinds away at a three-foot-tall hunk of metal, orange-and-blue sparks shooting in all directions.
“Excuse me?” Riley tries to talk above the noise, but the guy doesn’t seem to hear her, so she edges closer, rocks back on her heels, shouts louder. “EXCUSE ME. SIR?”
The man turns off the grinder and pivots. He yanks off his helmet, and a long thatch of dark hair tumbles out. Samantha shakes her silky mane, allowing it to cascade past her shoulders.
She smirks.
Riley does her best to curb the expression of shock she knows is playing across her face.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Samantha says. “Come on in!”
As Riley moves forw
ard, she catches a strong whiff of melted wax and hot metal that nearly overcomes her.
“So, you wanted to know what I do?” Samantha motions around the room. “Welcome to my world.”
“An interesting one, that’s for damned sure, and I can’t wait to learn about it, but I have to admit, the building threw me off.”
“This one is super close to where I live, so here I am. I swear, the place feels more like home than my apartment.”
“So . . . you grind things?”
“Well, some people consider it art.” Samantha takes Riley past a room divider, and with a flourish waves her hand at a group of bronze statues.
“Holy . . . ,” Riley says, walking toward them. “This is . . . amazing.”
Samantha points to a pastel-blue sheet draped over a string of wire. “There are others behind this. I’d show you, but it’s a huge mess back there right now.”
“That’s okay,” Riley says. She walks closer to the sculptures and narrows her focus. The figures have a Gothic feel to them, winged creatures and hooded humans.
“Sorry for setting you up like this,” Samantha says, then through one side of her mouth, “Bad friend alert: my sense of humor can be a little . . . offbeat at times? Not sure if you’ve picked up on that yet.”
“I’m starting to.” Riley can’t help but notice that even in a filthy jumpsuit, the young woman still looks positively stunning.
Samantha places her helmet on the table.
Riley says, “This stuff is pretty dark.”
“It’s my therapy,” Samantha says, observing her work. “I learned at an early age not to trust anyone except my mother. Then she was gone, and there was nobody else I could talk to. It was safer to express my feelings through art rather than discussing them. Even though these all look dreary, they actually save me every day. They’re tangible embodiments of my pain. My sadness and anger.”
“What about joy?”
“For a long time, there wasn’t any to feel. My art is a reminder of how far I’ve come.”
“Where do you find your ideas?”
Samantha reaches back and pulls her hair into a ponytail. Speaking around the tie in her mouth, she says, “They’re not really my ideas. The creations speak to me. It’s like they’re trying to come out to see the world, and I’m helping them.”
What She Doesn't Know: A Psychological Thriller Page 8