What You Hide

by Natalie D. Richards

  I cringe as I put the phone to my ear. “Hey.”

  “I’ve got a funny story,” he says. It won’t be funny, and it won’t be a story. It’ll be a recap of everything that happened in the pool house.

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Your mom calls me. Tells me she finds you half-naked in the pool house with a girl.” He waits a beat for effect, before continuing. “The real kicker here? Apparently, this girl is in some kind of mysterious, serious trouble, but you won’t talk to her about it.”

  “Because it’s not her business.”

  “Our son half-naked with a girl in the pool house isn’t her business?”

  “No one was half-naked! I was fully dressed, and Mallory was wearing a hockey jersey that came down to her knees. Whatever you’ve got in your head is wrong.”

  “Good, because for a minute I was thinking you were skipping school to make out with a half-dressed girl in the pool house.”

  His pause is significant because he knows he’s got me. And I know it too.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “Well, you generally start with a joke, but I’m considering grounding you until you’re thirty-five right now, so I’d consider going with the truth.”

  “You really need me to go into all the gory details of getting physical with a girl?”

  Dad lets out a sigh, and his tone softens. “No, Spencer. I need you to tell me why you’re failing half your classes, and why you’re refusing to get serious about college applications, and why you intentionally waited on that library roof, not even making an iota of an effort to run for it when the police came.”

  He knows. My skin prickles with the shock of it. I always figured he wasn’t paying attention, but I should have known better. Dad’s like me. A funny guy. It doesn’t mean there’s nothing else to him.

  “Would you have wanted me to run from the police?”

  “I think getting in a position where you have to make that choice tells me something is wrong. This isn’t you, kid.”

  I close my eyes. “I don’t know what to say, Dad. I have a bad feeling you aren’t going to like my answers.”

  “Spencer, when we picked you up at the hospital, and the nurse handed you over, you wouldn’t stop crying. I mean you were two days old, and you were wailing like you had the lungs of an opera singer. Did you know that?”

  “No. Mom said I was perfect.”

  “Well, you were a handful. The nurse couldn’t settle you. Your mom couldn’t settle you. We were all a wreck, me included. You were bound up in one of those blanket bundles. Those baby burritos the nurses create for all newborns.”

  “Dad—”

  “There’s a point, so just listen. For one second, I had this terrifying thought. Maybe we didn’t deserve you. Maybe you were crying because you knew some other family would love you better or give you a better life.”

  My throat goes thick with tears. “I’ve never—”

  “And then Mom handed you to me, because she was feeling so terrible that she couldn’t fix your sadness. She thought she’d lost her mom-touch. So, I reached down and tugged on your blankets. The nurse was hollering, but I wanted to see you, so I ignored her. Everybody was griping at me, but the second I got you unwrapped, you stopped crying. Just like that.”

  I let out a short laugh. “This somehow leads to me making out with a girl in the pool house?”

  “No. But it reminds me that when you looked up at me in that hospital, I knew two things. One: that you’d be better looking than me. You should have seen the nurses fawn over your curls.”

  I laugh again. “And the other?”

  “That you and I would figure it out.”

  I breathe hard, a lump swelling in my throat. I don’t want to do this here. I don’t want to feel any of this, and I sure the hell can’t talk about it.

  “It wasn’t a random hookup in the pool house, okay? It wasn’t cheap or gross.”

  “That’s not the issue, and you know it. As far as I know, this girl didn’t do a single thing anybody has a problem with. Frankly, I’m a little pissed with you for putting her in such a bad position with your mom.”

  “Mom was pissed with her.”

  “No. Mom was freaked. And she was mad because you lied to her. She’s worried because you’re not acting like yourself and you’re keeping secrets.”

  “What if I am acting like myself? What if I’m just changing?”

  “Change, we can handle. But you need to help us out. Tanking your grades and getting in trouble with the police isn’t how you do this. You talk to us.”

  I let out a slow breath. “Okay.”

  “Okay,” he repeats. “I’m going to give you a little time. Let you get through the holiday.”

  “And then what happens?”

  “And then you’re going to give me some answers.”

  Mallory

  Tuesday, November 21, 7:19 p.m.

  It’s colder outside than I expected, and dark enough that it feels like midnight. I pull up my hood, and I’m surrounded by the smell of dryer sheets. It takes me back to Spencer’s pool house, and I can’t be there. I can’t think about him.

  I must focus on the things I can control. I have to be grateful that I had one nice day with him. That I’m wearing clean clothes, and I’m on a good night’s sleep.

  I tell myself this as I leave the library. As I turn around to view my temporary home, a curtain moves in the upstairs window. The same upstairs window where I saw a face before. My mind recalls the writing on the wall. The message on the book inside the display.

  Sister where are you?

  Is the person in the window behind all this? Is that possible? Is there some way it could be Charlie in there? Messing with me?

  “Crazy,” I say, because no matter how much it feels directed at me, it can’t be.

  Unless what happened to Billie Reeves was Charlie’s fault. If he’s capable of killing a woman he promised to marry and hiding it as an accident, then I’m pretty sure he could manage an elaborate display in a library.

  But would he be insane enough to stalk me here? To leave these elaborate clues for me to find? And why would he wait if he did? He had every opportunity to attack me the nights I’ve stayed here.

  It’s not him. My every instinct tells me that’s not the answer.

  So, what if I’m reading this all wrong. Maybe this is someone trying to help me.

  Or warn me.

  At the window, there’s no one by the curtain, no evidence this library is different than any other.

  I turn away. I need to talk to Ruth about Billie. She might know how to find more information. And I need to call my mother because if she doesn’t know about Billie and he’s planning something—no. I can’t go there yet. One step at a time.

  Main Street is busy, and I don’t want to be walking too late, so I move fast. My backpack slams again and again into my shoulders, and the wind is so cold it cuts tracks of tears down my face. Sends icy knives into my lungs.

  I turn on Grayson and head north, eyeing the darkening sky with a frown. A car passes me, going slower than the others. I shove my hands into my pockets and put my head down. The wind is painful and relentless. Brake lights flare red in my vision. I walk less quickly as I see the car that passed me has stopped in the middle of the road.

  It’s idling twenty feet ahead of me. I look left and right, wondering why it would stop, but there aren’t any houses. No open businesses or even driveways. There’s nothing around here.

  Nothing but me.

  I’m here.

  My heart loses a beat, but I take a steadying breath to force down the panic. Is it car trouble? Is it someone I know? Please let it be someone I know. But nothing about the sloped bumper or metal grill is familiar. The taillights are red slits—narrowed eyes watching me.<
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  This could be nothing. A stranger checking the address of a party. A friend in a car I don’t recognize. A lost pizza guy.

  The car makes a soft mechanical clunk. White lights appear between the red. Reverse lights.

  It’s like a brick dropping through my middle, seeing those lights. The car rolls backward, so slowly I can hear the crisp friction of rubber tires against cold pavement. Random images around me take on new, important meaning.

  There is a bridge behind me. There are dark houses across the street. An alley.

  Not good. None of this is good.

  A frantic energy seizes my mind, and I flip through my options. Fight. Hide. Run. The last is the only feasible option. The closest public building is a corner store one block up. But I have to get past the car.

  I clench my jaw and set my eyes. Start walking with my eyes straight ahead and my chin up. The bumper comes into view in my peripheral vision, but I don’t look. I act like that car rolling backward doesn’t exist. The car stops beside me—a motorized whir sends goose bumps up on my skin. They are rolling down the window.

  There are rules to this sort of thing. Like hikers encountering a bear in the wild, women have a reliable set of if-this-than-that responses for handling unknown men. And I’m way past the be-aware-but-not-paranoid phase. Now I need to look like more trouble than I’m worth.

  “Cold out here, isn’t it, girly?”

  Cold sweat is trickling down my back, but I snap my head toward the driver, locking eyes with him. “No.”

  He laughs, breathy and slow, but I’m already facing ahead again, cataloging the quick snapshot of his image.

  I walk faster, going over the image forming in my head. White man, maybe in his thirties. Bad teeth. Sparse beard and red-rimmed eyes that confirm there’s probably more than a Camel Light behind the smoky, sweet smell rolling out of the car.

  The engine shifts gears, from reverse to drive, I’d bet. The tires crunch-pop on the pavement, rolling forward now. Following me. Keeping pace. My heart is moving as fast as my feet, and my throat feels tight. Swollen.

  “Hey, don’t worry. I’m a nice guy. I’m not trying to hurt you.”

  I say nothing.

  “I’m a concerned citizen,” he says, and I hear a laugh. It isn’t the driver.

  I gaze back at the car. A figure moves in the interior, the dark vague impression of a person in the passenger seat, at least as large as the driver. There are two men in that car. Two of them and one of me.

  My heart is at full gallop now, but I do everything in my power to keep my expression stony. I speed up, moving to the farthest right edge of the sidewalk, away from the road. Just get to the store. Just—

  “Where you going in such a hurry in this weather?”

  “Tell her we’ll keep her warm,” the other faceless voice adds.

  The rasp of his voice sends an electric shock of terror into my limbs. I bolt, hearing their laughter trailing behind me, the slow crunching roll of the tires. My backpack slides off one shoulder, taking my jacket off my shoulder. I think I hear them laughing. One of them comments on my sweet little ass.

  A car horn blares, and I turn back—a large white minivan pulls up right behind the car harassing me.

  “Hold your damn horses!” the bearded guy screams, and then he punches the gas and blares by me, one hand extended out the window, middle finger raised. He screams at me too, after he’s passed me. It’s short and obscene. I don’t know if it’s the encounter or the running or simply everything, but I’m suddenly sure I’ll throw up. Right here and now.

  The van passes too, but I stop, bracing my hands on my knees, my breath a panicked steam in front of me. In and out. In and out. A month ago, I was a normal girl. I had good grades and people to sit with at lunch and, yes, an asshole stepfather who scared me.

  But I had a home. A life.

  Now I’m on the side of the road, cold and hungry and terrified.

  I glance at the numbers on my arm and tears spring to my eyes. I liked Ava, but how can I go back there? How could I sit in a house next to Spencer’s and think about how much I loved being with him and know I’ll never have those feelings with him again? It’s better this way. He can be the one guy in the world who never hurt me. If I go back, that could change.

  Given his mother’s reaction, it would definitely change.

  I suck in a shuddery breath and remember what I need to do. I try to power on my phone, but the battery’s dead. I don’t get so much as a flicker. So I head to that corner store, slipping inside the heat and warmth with a sigh of relief. It’s claustrophobic inside, with crowded, narrow aisles and weak lights. I hear music, but have a hard time seeing the clerk behind the cigarette racks and displays of lighters and key chains and other hodgepodge by the cash register.

  A small girl with dark hair emerges from the clutter. She has a beautiful tattoo of lilies behind her ear. She isn’t smiling. “Can I help you?”

  Absently, I pick up a candy bar and a black beanie cap and put them on the counter. As she’s ringing me up, I decide to ask.

  “Is there a pay phone anywhere around?”

  She gives me an odd look, glancing at the cheap phone chargers in a plastic tub beside a display of bumper stickers. A charger isn’t the problem. Finding a safe place to plug it in…

  I sigh. “My phone got stolen.”

  She gives me the total, and I hand over my cash. “Is there a phone anywhere nearby? I need to make a two-minute call.”

  She looks reluctant, before pulling an ancient black cordless phone from behind the counter. “It won’t call long distance, so don’t bother.”

  “It’s local,” I say, and then I dial the number to the women’s shelter, the one that’s easy to memorize, because I guess you want a number that’s easy to memorize when battered women are running for their lives when they need to use it.

  Ruth answers on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

  “Is this Ruth?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “It’s Mallory.”

  She pauses, which tells me she knows I’m not at home. I don’t know if she called my mom or if my mom called looking for me. I’m not sure it matters either way.

  “Mallory, it’s good to hear from you. Where are you?”

  “Can you talk to me without having to make a call?” I ask.

  She is breathing on the other end of the line. I can almost see the frown on her face. “Your mother is very worried about you. Are you at home with her?”

  “Did she call you?”

  “She did. Yesterday. She’s concerned.”

  I clench my fists. “If you’re going to call her, I need to go. I don’t want him to know where I am.”

  “All right, then talk to me. Where are you?” Ruth asks.

  I ignore the question because there’s no way that information wouldn’t trickle back to my mom. “It’s not important. Listen, I looked up some things on Charlie.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Information on the internet, from his past. He was engaged.” My eyes flick to the store clerk, who’s definitely close enough to hear me. She’s engrossed in her phone, but she could be listening. “The girl he was engaged to died of blunt force trauma.”

  “I’m…sorry to hear that.”

  “Uh, yeah, so am I because he’s in a house with my mother.”

  “And you feel like this is proof that he might hurt her?” When I’m quiet, she adds, “Was the death ruled a homicide or suspicious in any way?”

  “I’m…I’m not sure.”

  “It would have been on the death certificate,” she says.

  She’s probably right, and I feel like it’s not a detail I would have missed. I wince and check the girl at the register again. She looks at me but shrugs one shoulder. A universal I’m-not-judging gesture.
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  “Do you have reason to believe he did something or is it wishful thinking?” she asks.

  “I’m not wishing for people to be hurt!”

  “But you’re looking for some kind of proof, aren’t you?”

  My shoulders slump, but I don’t answer. Ruth fills in the blanks.

  “I know you want proof for your mother, but often there isn’t proof.”

  “I don’t expect to prove anything. I just want her to have a good reason to leave.”

  “I’ve been doing this job for thirteen years, and one of the things I’ve learned is that there is no magic line that makes women leave.”

  “I remember. You told me before.”

  “Then listen this time. I’ve seen women cleaning the stitches in their eyebrow while they tell me he isn’t so bad. I’ve seen women read police reports and swear they had it all wrong.”

  “Yeah? Well, what about women who find out their husbands have a dead ex-fiancé? What then?”

  I hear a soft thump and imagine her putting down a mug of coffee. “Mallory, blunt force trauma is most often the result of a car accident or a fall. If it was suspicious in any way, the death certificate would indicate as much.”

  I press my forehead to the cold metal shelf nearby. My breath drains out of me because she’s right. I know this is a Hail Mary, and I’m about to lose the game.

  “Mind you, I’m not saying he’s innocent,” Ruth says.

  “Just that my mom would probably ignore this too.” I stand up straight, glancing out the window at the dark street. “So it’s not worth going to the police?”

  “I think you should talk to the police. You can talk about this and your situation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you, Mallory. What are you going to do? Not your mother or the baby. I’m asking about you. You can’t stay on the streets. You’re way too smart for that.”

  “What can I do? I can’t abandon her. She’s having a baby. Once the baby is here…”

  “You’re a bright girl,” she says, ignoring my talk about the baby. “Good grades and a solid head on your shoulders. Have you thought about emancipation?”