by Edwin Hill
“All right, sweetie,” Hester said.
She took Kate to the bathroom, and a moment later sat with the girl on her lap beside Morgan. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I lost track of time. It was a … I don’t even know how to describe tonight. It was awful.”
She paused and felt like she might start to sob, but she pushed the feeling down. Still, it took her a moment to speak, and when she did, she told Morgan everything, about Sam and Gabe, about the trip to New Hampshire, about seeing Jamie get shot. Morgan listened. And then he stood and lifted Kate onto his hip. “How about I take you upstairs,” he said. “And I’ll read you a story in a bit.”
Kate nodded. Morgan took her to her room, and a moment later he was back on the sofa with Hester. “Did you bring Kate with you?” he asked.
“To New Hampshire? No. I had no idea who I’d meet there.”
“But you brought her to meet this client, right? And tonight? You brought her into a strange man’s house with nothing but a basset hound to protect you? And she saw him get shot?”
“I didn’t know that would happen,” Hester said.
“But you didn’t know what would happen. You didn’t know anything about this guy, and you went into his house, and now it turns out he’s probably a serial killer.”
Hester sat up and pushed away from him. She’d expected him to comfort her, not come at her with this anger. “I’ll tell you one thing I wasn’t expecting,” she said, sitting as far from him as she could, her back pressed into the corner of the sofa. “I wasn’t expecting that there would be a body in the backyard. Should I tell Kate not to go anywhere because there might be a dead body waiting for her? I also wasn’t expecting that when I got home and told you about it that you’d scream your fucking head off at me. You’re an asshole. Do you know that? You’re a real fucking asshole.”
Two kittens chased each other across the living room, and then leaped onto the sofa.
“And you know what else?” she said, shoving them onto the floor. “I’m sick of these cats.”
Morgan stood. He tossed a pillow across the room. “Do you know what I wasn’t expecting? I wasn’t expecting to get a call from my sister this afternoon telling me that you’d told her to stay the fuck away. Last I checked you couldn’t stand Kate and couldn’t get rid of her fast enough.”
Hester had forgotten the e-mail she’d sent to Daphne. “I have never said that about Kate. Not one time.”
“You make it so obvious! I’ve been worried out of my mind for three months about my sister, and you’ve been telling her that we don’t want anything to do with her? There’s no we in that. There’s just you.”
Hester closed her eyes and sighed, wondering why this had to happen tonight of all nights. She put a hand on Morgan’s arm, but he shrugged her off.
“That’s not what I told her,” Hester said.
“She read me the e-mail,” Morgan said.
“Okay. You’re right. You’re right about everything. Some days the situation with Kate annoys me to no end. I’m a shit parent. Guilty. I’m the shittiest parent in the world. And I shouldn’t have sent that e-mail without talking to you, but I knew you wouldn’t let me. But let’s be real here. Do you really want Daphne to come back? Do you want to spend every day of your life worrying that she’ll take off again? And maybe take Kate with her? How would you feel about that, worrying about where both of them are? And I should have told you what was going on with these people. And I should never, ever have put Kate in danger like I did tonight. You have to know that I didn’t mean to do that, but to be honest, I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, and I feel like I do most of it by myself. Where have you been?”
“I took her to day care.”
“One time! You took her to day care one time, and I’m supposed to thank you? And I keep making these mistakes and I’ve been …” Hester lowered her voice and whispered fiercely. “I feel like all of this happened without anyone asking me.”
Morgan stared at her. He leaned forward, hands on his knees like he was about to spring forward. In the kitchen, a kitten knocked something off the counter. “You’re crazy sometimes. And you should get your story straight,” he said, and Hester wanted to hit him. “You tell my sister to stay away, and now you’re telling me that you don’t want Kate here anymore? If we don’t take care of her, who will?”
“You know this is more complicated than that,” Hester said. “You know I like Kate. You know I love Kate and would do anything for her. That’s the very reason I wrote to Daphne. And you know I don’t mind babysitting. I never mind babysitting.”
“It’s not babysitting when it’s your own kid!” Morgan shouted.
His face was red, the freckles popping from his cheeks. He was angry in a way that Hester had never seen. She tried to let what he’d said wash over her, but suddenly felt as though she couldn’t breathe. She stood and left the apartment. Out on the landing, she glanced down the stairs to the front door and actually contemplated leaving. Those were her choices, right? Stay or leave. This life with Morgan and the kid and the princess dresses and the bouncing horse and the never-ending threat of vomit (or worse) and the play dates, or a life by herself. None of this was what Hester had asked for. And, she realized now, what she wanted more than anything was to be asked.
She trudged up the attic steps to her apartment, where she stood in the middle of the piles of crap and wished this night was a night when she could still draw the bolt and put on Jaws 2 and curl up under her ratty quilt and drink. Behind her, she heard Morgan on the stairs. They stood silently without looking at each other for five minutes. “Kate’s up,” Morgan finally said. “I told her she could watch Cars. She wants to know why we’re shouting.”
“So do I,” Hester said.
“Can you find anything in here?”
Even though Hester knew he was offering her an olive branch, she wasn’t ready to take it. Part of her wanted to be nice and let the tension dissipate, but she was right, wasn’t she? It was okay to be pissed off and whiny sometimes because most days—today included—she showed up. Most days, she was right here. And most days, she didn’t ask for much. “I need you to leave,” she said.
Morgan looked at her for a moment, and then started taking dishes from the sink to wash them.
“Stop that,” Hester said. “Don’t clean. This is my apartment.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Morgan said.
“Get out.”
“I’m not leaving.”
She pulled him from the sink and threw the soapy dishes on the floor. She shoved him away and then clasped her hands together and fought back tears. “Please,” she whispered.
He took a step back. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
“It is babysitting!” Hester said. “Don’t you get that? It’s always babysitting, and it always will be, even if we wind up putting her through college. Every single minute of this is a favor, not an obligation, and someday someone had better thank me for it.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s not what I meant. You need to do it without it being a fight. Without solicitation. It needs to mean something.”
Morgan looked at her for a moment and then cupped her cheek in his hand. He turned without another word and left. Hester sat on the top of the attic stairs and listened to him put on his coat and head out into the night by himself. She wondered how long he’d be gone. Maybe she’d be asleep by the time he came home. If he came home. Maybe, in the morning, they could pretend none of this had happened.
Downstairs, Kate sang a song to herself. The kid was still here, and Hester still had to be good. She still had to show up and care, but it would be impossible to get the kid to sleep now. A kitten crept up the attic stairs, exploring, and Hester let it rub her leg. Waffles shimmied through the dog door at the back of her closet and trotted over the mess to Hester’s side. “You always get things right,” she said, scratching the dog on the neck. Waffles rolled on her back for a belly rub.
“Aunt Hester,” Kate shouted a moment later. “When Kate watch Cars?”
“In a minute,” Hester called down the stairs.
“How many?”
“Five.”
Hester stood slowly and poured herself a tumbler full of scotch from the bottle on her counter, added an ice cube as a mixer, and then changed into her Little Mermaid pajamas and Lion King slippers. She washed her face, took her hair down, and tied it into a ponytail. Back in the apartment, she parked Kate in front of the TV and sucked down her scotch. Even now, even after tonight, Hester knew that no matter what she said, no matter how much she complained, she’d fight to keep Kate safe. Even if it meant babysitting for the rest of her life. She ruffled Kate’s hair. “You know Aunt Hester loves you more than anyone in the world, right?”
“More than Monkey?” Kate asked.
“More than Monkey.”
“More than Waffles?”
“Even more than Waffles.”
“Kate thirsty,” Kate said.
Hester poured some apple juice into a sippy cup. “You have to brush your teeth again if I give you this.”
Kate nodded. She took a long sip of the juice and burped. “Aunt Hester like Cars?”
“Sure,” Hester said.
She settled into the sofa, watching the animation flash in front of her, hoping to feel her brain shut off. Instead, she thought back to the postcards, to the one of Wendy’s mansion on Beacon Hill, with the quotes written in neat, precise handwriting. When Kate fell asleep, she lifted the girl under one arm and the scotch under the other and headed up the stairs to her own apartment, where she slid a videotape into the VCR and flipped on the TV. She glanced out the window, where the first flakes from the storm had begun to pelt the glass, and then she curled up under the quilt as the opening credits to The Shining began to roll, a car driving through the mountains, the score swelling. She finished her scotch and poured another two fingers. And as usual, the quiet intensity of the movie calmed Hester and reminded her that they were all—herself included—doing the best they could. At least she wasn’t trapped in a hotel with a homicidal husband.
A half hour into the movie, a sea of blood poured from the elevator into the ornate hallways of the Overlook Hotel. Bodies were strewn across the floor. One of them had an axe in its back. Hester leaned her head against the sofa as a sudden wave of exhaustion swept through her. She had to be sure not to let Morgan find them asleep in front of a horror movie, especially not with a half-empty bottle of scotch. She’d really be in trouble then.
Kate stirred and woke. She looked at the screen, transfixed by the flashing images.
“You shouldn’t watch this,” Hester said. “It’s scary.”
Kate stroked Hester’s arm. “Like pajamas,” she said.
“Maybe you’ll get a pair from Santa,” Hester said. “We can be twins. Like the girls in the movie. Do you like mermaids or cars better?”
“Mermaids.”
“I thought so.”
Hester muted the sound and let Kate rest her mop of curls on her lap. Daphne hated the Little Mermaid pajamas, and had since Hester first wore them at Wellesley. Daphne hated anything girly, anything that made her or Kate vulnerable to the world, but Daphne wasn’t here, was she? Only Hester was.
Kate’s breathing grew steady. Waffles woofed in her sleep, her legs twitching as she chased rabbits in her dreams. Hester’s eyes began to close.
On the TV, Shelley Duvall ran through the hotel with her son in her arms, snot streaming down her face, long black hair falling from a ponytail, terrified by a woman hiding somewhere in one of the rooms. Hester took another sip of scotch. Don’t sleep, she reminded herself. Morgan couldn’t find them here.
A woman hiding in a hotel.
A phantom.
One that could kill.
A husband trying his best to keep his sanity, trying to be someone he wasn’t. The imagined becoming very, very real.
Hester’s leg jolted, and she sat up. She looked at the screen again, at Wendy Torrance fighting for her life, and it made sense to her. Or at least a small part of it did.
CHAPTER 22
Gabe sat in his car on that nondescript street in Everett. He’d been there for hours. He’d ducked down in his seat and watched the police arrive with their battering ram, along with Detective White.
Angie.
She looked confident leading them into the house. And she’d seemed broken when she’d come out moments later, blood staining her hands and knees. He wondered if she’d recognize his voice when she listened to the 911 tapes, where he’d told the dispatcher that the air around Jamie’s house smelled like rotting flesh, or whether she’d even remember speaking with him earlier that day. He hadn’t meant for anyone to get hurt, but he watched as the ambulance appeared and the EMTs wheeled out a gurney. It was all he could do not to get out of the car and join the neighbors standing behind the line of yellow tape. Of course, there was no doubt that Twig was dead. When they wheeled her out in a black body bag, the camera flashes started to go off.
As the news vans began to arrive, Gabe turned the radio to the local station, where the story had taken on a life of its own. Somehow the media had learned about Jamie’s military record, that he had PTSD and, before that, that he’d played football in high school and sustained numerous concussions. “Like Aaron Hernandez,” one commentator said, before going on to say that Jamie had been arrested for selling pot when he was sixteen, as part of a local Everett gang.
“A long history of violent behavior,” another reporter said.
Gabe should have been happier to see things go this way.
He hadn’t expected to see Hester there, or the little girl. He’d called the police to keep the two of them safe, and yet here they were in the middle of it all. He watched Hester walk out the front door of the house, clutching the girl over her shoulder, gripping the dog’s leash, startled by the line of camera flashes that went off. A reporter shouted a question at her, and Angie held up a hand and escorted the three of them to the truck.
Now, two hours later, Gabe still watched from the street. Some of the reporters had packed it in for the evening, and most of the neighbors had lost interest. As he sat there, Angie came out of the house and stood on the front porch. She leaned on both hands and seemed to be shaking off tears. She lit a cigarette and answered her phone, speaking to whoever was on the other end for a few moments before hanging up, checking her notebook, and dialing. Even if Gabe hadn’t been watching, he’d have recognized her number when it popped up. He’d memorized it, like he’d memorized Hester’s.
“Mr. Bellows?” Angela said.
“Yes,” Gabe said.
“I was hoping to talk to you. Tonight, if I could. I sent another detective over to your apartment, and it doesn’t look like anyone’s home. Could I meet you somewhere? It’s important.”
“Why?”
“It would be good to talk in person. Tell me where you are.”
Gabe watched as she snapped her fingers and whispered something to a uniformed police officer, who nodded and ran inside. Was she trying to trace his call?
“Ask me now,” Gabe said. “Ask anything you like. I’ll tell you the truth.”
“Do you know Laura Ambrose? Twig?”
“I’ve never met her. Not that I remember, at least. You found her, didn’t you? It’s all over the news. You have a suspect too, right?”
“I can’t really comment. You know that. It’s an ongoing investigation. Which is why I want to talk to you. And your roommate too. Do you know where he is?”
“No,” Gabe said. He listened to the radio. “The reporters want Jamie to be guilty,” he said.
“Is he?”
“What do you think?”
“I’m more curious to hear what you think. Why don’t you tell me where you are? I’ll come pick you up. You can tell me more.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything you want to tell me. I’ll com
e alone if that would help. Let me …”
Gabe clicked off. She knew. Or at least she knew enough. If they didn’t leave soon, it would be too late.
*
Angela hit redial. She listened again as the call went to Gabe’s voice mail and a computer read off a number. She’d held off from asking him if he’d ever been to Holderness, where Twig’s family had a summer house. She’d also kept herself from telling him about the search warrant or the finger they’d found in the batik box. She fumbled with her notebook and dropped it to the porch floor, papers scattering in the wind and snow. “Give me a hand here,” she said to a deputy, trying to keep the panic from her voice. “Find Felicia Nakazawa’s phone number,” she said.
“Here it is,” the deputy said.
Angela ripped her glove off and dialed, praying that the woman answered. The phone rang. She stepped into the narrow hallway where Jamie’s dog whined from her crate. Animal control would be here soon, but even from here, Angela could see the bloodstains on the dog’s white coat. There was blood everywhere. In the kitchen. On the floors. On Angela’s shoes and clothes. Blood, and it was all her fault. They’d found Twig’s body in the shed, and then used a periscope and seen that knife and thought the strawberry syrup was blood. They’d moved in too quickly, that was all there was to it. She’d made a judgment call, and it was the wrong one. But she wouldn’t have any more blood on her hands, not tonight, not if she could help it.
But she could see Felicia Nakazawa hurrying out of the police station earlier that day. And she could see Sam Blaine at her side.
*
Sam left the naked man sleeping in the king-size bed and slipped out of the hotel room. He considered calling Gabe one last time but thought better of it. The more distance he put between them tonight, the better. Earlier, Gabe had told Sam that he knew where the key to Hester’s house was hidden. He’d told him much more, too, that he’d already been in her apartment, that he’d watched her sleep, that he’d imagined a life with her, and Sam had listened. He was a good friend that way. And he’d made sure Gabe knew, as much as he wanted it, that it couldn’t be. Not this time.