The Last to See Her

by Courtney Evan Tate

  Hawk stared at her with this newfound knowledge.

  Gen might have serious issues, and she was out of control.

  This changed everything.

  God only knew who was in danger.

  51

  Gen, Then

  Genevieve’s cell phone rang, and she paused while peeling an orange. It was the therapist Lila’s office. Again. Jesus, when would they stop calling?

  She answered it.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Thibault?” The voice on the other end was uncertain.

  Gen laughed.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, um, I’m calling for Lila Bernstein.”

  “Okay.”

  “Yes. She...uh, wanted me to call and see if you could please come back in. She was very concerned at your last session and definitely wants to see you again. Have you found another doctor?”

  Genevieve took the easy road. “Yes, I’ve found a psychiatrist,” she lied, throwing most of the orange away. “My husband and I are getting divorced, and I want a completely new start. I’m moving away, and so, I had to find another doctor. I know that I’m in a bad place, and I figure I need a doctor, not a therapist.”

  “Oh.” The person sounded relieved, and Gen rolled her eyes. “Good. Okay. Well, we wish you the best of luck, Mrs. Thibault.”

  “Thank you.” Genevieve hung up and chewed on her pen. What-the-fuck-ever. Fucking therapists. They kept you coming back for more, more, more so they could pad their bank accounts, and nothing ever changed. They were all money-grubbers who worked for insurance companies. She should know. Thad had her seeing one years ago.

  Fuck them all.

  She perched on the counter, her bare toes hanging off the edge. She was wearing a nightgown that she’d been wearing for days. Jenkins had come yesterday, but she hadn’t answered the door.

  He was starting to act like a babysitter.

  She’d had enough.

  It was time.

  She just needed to figure out how she would do it and when, and it would all be over.

  She was so goddamned tired.

  She closed her eyes and felt the beat of the music. She’d been playing this same album from The Doors over and over, feeling the bass, feeling the deep tones of Jim Morrison’s voice all the way in her core.

  Life was pain. Jim understood that.

  She rocked and rocked, and then hopped down and painted. She used her fingers, and used red paint as the medium. It was red like blood, red like rubies. She wished it glittered.

  She didn’t know what made it pop into her mind, but she was tracing the outline of a giant red eye when it occurred to her.

  She should be receiving the newest set of divorce papers today. Thad had texted last night. They’d be delivered to the condo.

  With a sigh, she wiped her hands on her nightgown, streaking it with red.

  Blood red.

  Without getting dressed, she grabbed her purse, and meandered down the street to the condo. People stared at her, but she didn’t notice. She didn’t realize her blond hair was stringy, and she looked like she’d been in an accident.

  In fact, at one street corner, someone approached her.

  “Ma’am, are you all right?” the woman asked hesitantly.

  Gen smiled widely. “Yes, I’m perfect.”

  She sang a Doors song the rest of the way. “Hello, I Love You.”

  When the doorman at the condominium opened the door for her, she crooned a lyric of the song at him.

  He gawked. She was oblivious.

  She’d only been in the condo for thirty minutes when there was a knock.

  Peering through the peephole, she saw a delivery guy in a uniform. Perfect.

  Genevieve tipped the courier and set the certified letter on the coffee table.

  She knew what it was. She’d been waiting for it for almost a week.

  Every day, she’d wondered, Will it be today?

  And each day it wasn’t.

  Until today. Never mind that she had sent it back five times before. This was the one. This was the time.

  Nervous energy buzzed through her fingers and toes, tingling through her veins, like ants scurrying in a thousand directions. She paced for a minute, stopping at the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring at the magnificent cityscape lining the horizon. Buildings burst through the hazy pollution, their tips scraping the clouds.

  People far below her were bustling here and there, quick to walk, slow to linger. They had things to do, places to be, and she didn’t.

  Not anymore.

  She ripped open the envelope, pulling the banded documents out, scanning through the words, hunting for the official stamps and signatures that declared this an official act of the court.

  They were all there.

  This was real.

  It was finally happening.

  She focused her gaze on the words before her.

  The black-and-whiteness of them was stark and startling. There were no gray areas, no areas open to interpretation.

  They reduced the last ten years of her life into a handful of legal phrases and technical terms. Incompatible differences associated with adultery, marriage dissolution and absolute divorce.

  She stared at the words.

  Soon, she would be absolutely divorced.

  It had only taken six months of her life to iron out the details. To separate all of their worldly possessions into two camps, his and hers, to figure out who got what. Divorcing a lawyer was the only thing worse than being married to one. Regardless that he was the one in err, because he repeatedly fucked someone else, he was out for blood and it took months to sort it all out.

  But thank God no children were involved.

  That’s what people kept saying, like it was a good thing or a blessing.

  But if she’d had a child, she wouldn’t be all alone, and someone would still love her.

  Fuck Thad, and fuck Meg. Fuck them both. Fuck them sideways. Fuck the other woman. Fuck them all.

  She felt like she was floundering. For so long, she’d put all of her energy into a man who hadn’t deemed her worthy to stay faithful to. That had done something to her self-confidence. Plus, he’d kept telling her she needed medication, and wanted her to change.

  What kind of person wanted his wife to change?

  She was perfect as she was.

  Wasn’t that what all the self-help books preached? Love yourself. You are perfect.

  She wasn’t Genevieve Thibault anymore, one half of a whole. She was Genevieve McCready again. She shared a last name with her liar of a sister again. Damn it. Why the hell couldn’t Meg have taken her husband’s name?

  Ah, well. It wouldn’t matter soon.

  Nothing would.

  She had a plan and it was time.

  She just had to have the courage to do it.

  She went into the kitchen, rinsed her coffee cup and picked up the phone and called Meghan.

  “Meg, I’m moving home.”

  Her sister paused. “Home as in...?”

  “Cedarburg.” There was a long pause now.

  “Um. Why would you want to move back to Wisconsin? You haven’t lived there in...”

  “In eighteen years. Since I left for college. Yes.”

  “But...why?”

  “I don’t know,” Gen lied. “I just feel a need to get back to my roots. I love Chicago, but the traffic and the noise...” I need to run. Why doesn’t anyone understand? She stared out from her twentieth floor windows again. Even from up here, even though the vehicles looked like Matchbox cars, she could still hear the honking. “This feels like Thad. I want to feel like me.”

  “There’s nothing there,” Meg said carefully. “Nothing but fields and cold and—”

  “And fri
endly people,” Gen interrupted. “And our parents, and familiarity, and open spaces, and distance from Thad.”

  “But I won’t be there,” Meg reminded her. “I’m not moving back. I think you need to be near me, Gen. You need a support system. Divorce is no joke.”

  “I know that,” Gen said patiently. “I’m the one living it. You’re still with your Prince Charming and point five children living the American Dream, and I’m the one sitting in an empty condo.”

  And you have my husband, too, you cheating whore, she thought. Fuck you.

  “I’ll tell Joey that you’re counting him as a point five,” Meg chuckled.

  “Well, he’s only five, so it’s fitting. I mean, honestly. He’s not a whole person yet.”

  They laughed, and then Meg sobered up.

  “Is this really something you want to do?”

  Gen nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”

  Meg took a big breath. “Well, let’s do it, then. I’ll help you with your condo, and finding a moving company, and looking online for a house there, and hell’s bells, we’ve got a lot to do!”

  She was all abuzz, and Gen could feel her energy from here. You just want my stuff. You want to sell my condo for the most possible money so you can have it. You already have my husband. You want my stuff, too.

  “But first, you promised to go to my convention with me,” Meg reminded her.

  Gen hesitated, as though she had forgotten. She hadn’t.

  “Don’t tell me you forgot. New York City? Spa days, shopping—you need a new wardrobe, sis—and nights on the town. You promised.”

  Gen paused again, on purpose, and Meghan cajoled. “Pleassssse. We need this. You need this. It can be your divorce party.”

  “Okay,” Gen said purposely, as though she’d just decided, as though this wasn’t her plan all along, as though she wasn’t prepared. “Fine. I’ll still come.”

  Her sister squealed and Gen hung up before Meg could get too excited. She was moving away from everything she’d known for over a decade. Even though the world seemed unsettled and uncertain, for the first time in at least five years, she felt at peace.

  She changed her clothes because she did smell, and she sprayed herself down with perfume. She loved a good rich vanilla scent when her emotions were heightened. It grounded her, and it was time to calm down, to get collected, to be focused.

  She waited until dark, and then she took a cab to a bad part of Chicago and waited for the man she’d found on Craigslist. She chose a back booth, and she shrunk down in the seat.

  The man came, finally, wearing a black hoodie and a chain looped from his wallet to his pocket.

  She reached out to touch it and he shoved her hand away.

  “I’m ready,” she said. “It’s time.”

  “There’s no turning back,” he told her, his face hidden by his hood.

  “I know,” she agreed. “You said you would do it. Will you?”

  He nodded.

  It would be done.

  “You’ve paid. We’re good. It will be done.”

  She nodded and sang a Doors song.

  52

  Meg, Now

  Hawk was pacing his office, while Meg looked through the journal yet again.

  “My sister can’t seem to control herself when she drops into a bad funk. She’s such a character writer that there are times when her depression gets bad.”

  “Like, how bad?”

  “Like not showering for days, like not speaking to anyone.”

  “And she’s always been this way?”

  “Definitely, since she was a young teenager. Fourteen, maybe. But my family... We always knew she was a bit different, even before that.”

  “And Thad? He knew about this side of her when they got married?” Hawk asked.

  Meg nodded. “Yeah. He always said life with her wasn’t boring. But she was more controlled back then. It was only when she started really embracing her life as an author and deciding that she was a character writer that it got terrible. It almost gave her permission, so to speak. It seemed to have gotten better.”

  “You thought.”

  “Yes. I thought.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?” Hawk demanded. “Didn’t you think it was pertinent information?”

  Meg looked pained. “I’m so sorry. We were afraid that you wouldn’t take it seriously if you knew. You’d just think she ran away.”

  “And it’s looking like that’s exactly what she did,” Hawk snapped. “If so, this hasn’t been a good use of New York tax money. This is the same as feeding me false information, you know.”

  “I’m sorry,” Meg whispered. “I just wanted you to find my sister. It’s been such a terrible few years. She’s been so... God. You can’t possibly understand. I’m sorry.”

  Hawk looked away, annoyed, yet sympathetic. How, he didn’t know.

  “I don’t even know what to say right now,” he said limply.

  A phone buzzing against wood interrupted his train of thought, and he looked at his desk to find Gen’s phone lit up. He’d had it plugged in, and was monitoring it just in case of any activity.

  This was the first time it had rung.

  “Hello?” he answered it.

  “Could I speak with Genevieve Thibault?”

  “She’s unavailable right now, but I can give her a message.”

  “Okay, thank you. This is Rita calling from Delta Air Lines. Mrs. Thibault left her laptop on her recent flight. It was turned in by a flight attendant and has been unclaimed for the past few weeks in our lost and found.”

  “How can we get it?” Hawk asked quickly.

  “Just come to the baggage-claims window. Bring the claims ticket that was attached to her boarding pass.”

  “Thank you.” Hawk hung up and turned to Meg.

  “Was Gen’s boarding pass among her things in the hotel room?”

  “No,” Meg answered. “But it’s in the pocket of my pink coat. She was wearing it that evening...she must’ve stuck it in there for some reason. God only knows what was going through her mind.”

  “We need it.”

  Meg nodded, and they traveled to the hotel together.

  They were quiet in the cab and quiet as they walked up to Meg’s room. She pulled open the closet door and fished out the ticket. The claims tab was there.

  “Bingo,” Hawk said triumphantly.

  They climbed into another cab and headed for the Delta terminal at LaGuardia.

  “This really, really wasn’t like her,” Meg said as she stared out the window at the dingy New York streets. “She never forgot her laptop. Even on her worst days.”

  “Well, she did this time.”

  They pulled up to the Delta sign and got out of the cab. They wove their way through the busy terminal and eventually found their way to the baggage-claims window, handing the ticket to the clerk.

  Within a few minutes, they had the lost laptop in their hands.

  They carried it to a lounge area, and Hawk booted it up.

  Then he clicked into the text messages that fed into her laptop.

  “Just some to you,” he said, looking through them. “And a couple to Thad. One to your mother, from the night she disappeared. There’s a picture of the two of you in the back of a cab.”

  He turned the laptop toward Meg and showed her the picture of their pink-cheeked faces.

  “You both look happy,” he observed, examining the photo closely. “Gen’s arm is around you. She’s smiling. I really don’t get it.”

  Meg sighed. “She can be like that. She’s able to compartmentalize. It’s hard to say what she believed in that moment. But we actually had fun that evening. We drank, we laughed.”

  “I’m not an expert, but isn’t drinking when you’re that upset a bad idea?
”

  Meg nodded. “Yes. But this was supposed to be a getaway weekend to celebrate her freedom. On the surface, Gen seemed fine.”

  “So she immersed herself in her story lines so much that she could easily detach from reality. And no one ever thought that was unusual?”

  “Have you ever known a writer?” Gen asked dubiously. “They’re unusual. When she was deeply immersed, she would get obsessed with particular things. Especially music. When she was feeling dark, she loved The Doors.”

  “The music group?”

  Meg nodded.

  “She didn’t like them when she was in a good mood. She thought they were too dark, too moody.”

  “But they suited her when she was dark and moody herself, or writing a dark and moody character,” Hawk guessed.

  “Bingo.”

  He pulled her phone out of his pocket and clicked into the music app, then looked into Recently Played.

  Every song was The Doors, with “Hello, I Love You” a hundred times in a row.

  “She listened to it on repeat,” Meg said, not surprised. “It seems like it suited her mood.”

  Hawk continued to look through her laptop. He was in her emails now.

  “This one time, she was writing a book about someone who was having a mental breakdown. She took it to heart.”

  Hawk looked up.

  “How so?”

  “One time, she showed up on my doorstep at two a.m. She was scraped and bloody, and Thad never even heard her get out of bed. We never did find out what happened to her, or how she made it several miles without her car.”

  “Did she get like that frequently?”

  “Yes. And it was exhausting trying to keep track of her moods.”

  Hawk pulled up Word and went to Open Recent. The laptop opened the book she was currently working on.

  He started skimming it, to get a feel for how she’d been thinking.

  “Thad and I... We just understood each other when no one else did,” Meg said defensively. “Joe didn’t get it. He’s a good man, but we got married too young, and we’re not right for each other. I think that if this whole mess has shown me anything, it’s that.”

  Hawk wanted to ask about that but couldn’t, because he was noticing the characters’ names.