That heifer just wants to go back and gossip with everyone. I smile sweetly back at her. “Oh, I’ve been painting. I lazed by the pool all summer long. Taken a few road trips. You know, it’s the first time since I was sixteen that I haven’t worked. It’s so nice to take a break. I think I’ll wait until spring and then I’ll start looking for something.”
The green-eyed monster fills her eyes. I know it’s petty, but it makes me happy.
“Well, I wondered why you were still so tan. Must be nice living the life of leisure. Some of us don’t have that luxury. We have kids to support.”
She stands there, her overly highlighted hair looking slightly green under the lights. Her dress is too short and too tight. She looks like a middle-aged woman trying too hard. One of those women who is intimidated by someone younger.
“Kids. Ugh. Smelly, horrible things. Boy, they age you fast. Well, you take care of yourself. You know, they say stress will kill you. Make sure you’re meditating and eating right.” I give her the sweetest smile I can. “Looks like you’ve found the pounds I lost.” And I turn my back on Lynette. I hear her huff, and the next thing I hear is the bell on the door as she storms out.
“Miss. We’re ready for you.” The young girl looks ready to bust out laughing, but is trying to remain professional.
While I lie on the table waiting for my massage, a sigh escapes. I swear I work harder now than I ever did in my corporate job.
It’s already Thanksgiving. I’ve let Gram talk me into visiting for a week. The house smells homey, just like I remember. She has a pocket full of caramel candies and is wearing White Shoulders. Nostalgia floods my senses. We spend the day talking and preparing for the holiday.
When I wake up Wednesday morning, it’s cold in my room. The handmade quilt on the iron bed keeps me nice and toasty, but my nose is cold. When I look out the window, I see the snow. Living in North Carolina, I don’t have a chance to see snow very often. I forgot how much I’ve missed it.
After pulling on a robe and a pair of fuzzy socks, I pad out to the kitchen. Gram isn’t up yet. Then it hits me. She’s getting old. Even last year, she would be up by now. I glance at the clock to see it’s seven a.m. The earliest I’ve been up in a long time. Being here makes me want to get up and start the day. The darkness inside me that’s always on the lookout for those doing wrong stays quiet within the locked room. The light shining through Gram keeps it banished to the shadows.
“Easy,” I whisper. “We’ll be back soon. Our work will start again. Give me time to recharge.”
Rummaging around in the cabinets, I come up with some chai tea. Probably left over from when I was here last year. I put the kettle on and add a generous spoonful of honey to the floral cup. Her chintz set is similar to mine. I remember playing with it as a child.
There’s a blanket on the bench in the kitchen, and I wrap it around myself, slide my feet into Gram’s oversized garden boots, and step out into the cold, the cup of tea steaming.
It’s so quiet. The snow muffles sounds, making you feel like you’re in a brand-new world. The closest neighbor is miles away. I’m grateful for the peace and quiet. A broom leans against the house, and I use it to brush off one of the chairs and the table. Sitting in the chair, the cold metal seeping through the blanket, I sip my tea, watching the birds at the feeders and just being.
By the time I’ve finished my second cup of tea, Gram comes to the door.
“Gracious, child. You’ll catch a chill.”
“I miss the snow.”
She stands there in her lavender chenille robe and matching slippers, soft pink rollers in her silver hair. “Come inside. I’ll make you a big breakfast.” She purses her lips. “From the looks of you, you haven’t been eating. Not nearly enough.”
It’s so nice to let someone else take care of me. I give myself over to her care and sit in the kitchen talking about nothing, listening to her catch me up on her friends and her life while I watch her make breakfast. Normalcy hovers above my head, so close I can almost reach up and pull it tight to my chest.
She always sets a pretty table with the chintz dishes that match my teacup and a small bouquet of fresh flowers. Every week she has at least one or two bouquets scattered around the house. I’m glad to see that hasn’t changed. I was worried after Gramps died that she might let things go. But she hasn’t. If anything, she’s busier than ever. I’m so grateful she has a busy life and doesn’t need me to be here. It helps push the guilt away. That I haven’t talked to her enough or spent enough time with her since my life changed.
She puts a plate in front of me filled with more food than I’ve eaten in a long time. Bacon, eggs, homemade bread with homemade jam, and, of course, another plate with a couple of pancakes and maple syrup.
I pat my belly. “I’m going to gain five pounds while I’m here.”
For a moment I look at her and think maybe I could stay. The door in my head rattles.
“When did you get rid of the chickens?”
“One of the neighbors wanted them and I was tired of caring for them. They give me eggs.” She shoots me a sharp glance. “You need to gain about fifteen or twenty pounds so you’ll look less like a skeleton.”
I laugh and dig in. Everything tastes so fresh. When I opened the refrigerator this morning I saw the pretty eggs from the fancy chickens. The ones that lay pink and blue and green eggs. It looks like Easter inside the refrigerator.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I don’t want to spoil the day. So after we clean up the breakfast dishes and spend the morning sewing new placemats and napkins, I make my decision.
But I’m a coward. Lunch goes by, and so does the afternoon. Then, before I know it, it’s dinnertime and I’m eating the best fried chicken in the world. She always could make amazing fried chicken, almost as if she were Southern, born and bred.
I have to do it now. For dinner we’re using her old blue china with pictures of farm scenes. It’s beautiful and has to be hand washed. As we stand together in the kitchen, me washing and her drying, I work up my nerve.
“Gram? There’s a few things I need to tell you.”
She looks at me with her kind blue eyes, finishes drying the dish, and sets it in the rack. It seems so final when she puts the towel down. Like some kind of goodbye.
“It’s about time. It’s been plain as day on your face since you arrived. No matter what you tell me, Hope, I’ll always love you. I want you to know that.”
And the tears I haven’t been able to cry since murder number four, when I killed Barry, flow like a faucet turned on full blast.
She leads me into the living room and pulls me down on the sofa next to her, patting my shoulder as I cry into her sweater. Stroking my hair and letting me talk. It all spills out. Every horrible detail. Everything I’ve done. All of it.
When the tears are finally done, she hands me a tissue and I blow my nose. I sit back and look at her. Fear clogs my throat, but I manage to get the words out.
“Do you hate me? Can you ever forgive me for what I’ve done?”
And my gram looks out the window at the snow. She stands up and blows her own nose. Dabs her eyes.
“I’m going to make us both a cup of hot chocolate.”
And I sit and wait. More afraid of her judgment than I’ve ever been of getting caught by the authorities.
CHAPTER 55
BACK IN MY APARTMENT, I’M seriously thinking about turning myself in until I read a news story about good old Morris. Mason’s friend has been arrested for child molestation. According to the report, when the little boy said no, he drowned the child’s rabbit in the bathtub. Told him he was next. Any lingering guilt I felt flees. It will be a long time before I can get my hands on him, if ever. I wish with every fiber of my being he ends up murdered in jail.
As soon as I boarded the plane, the darkness was back. With the unpredictable weather, I had to fly. Despised it the whole time.
Gram told me she was afraid I will end up dead. She was
more worried about one of the bad people killing me than me getting caught. Said she couldn’t condone what I’m doing.
While she understood these people need to be punished, she didn’t think I have the right to play God. She was sure they would get what they deserve when they go on to their final resting place. I respectfully disagreed.
And yet she understood my need to punish. According to her, my father is to blame. What I went through as a child. Emotions crashed over me and I tried to get up and leave, but she grabbed hold of my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong, and pulled me back. I ran my hand over the floral fabric, tracing each leaf.
“You have to let go of the past. I think deep down you’re punishing your father over and over again each time you kill one of these people.” She smoothed my hair back from my face. “When does it end? Is this something you’re going to feel compelled to do for the rest of your life?”
“I don’t know. I only know I can’t stop. Not yet.”
And then I turned my tear-stained face to hers and asked the two questions I was dreading: “Are you going to turn me in?” I sniffed. “Can you forgive me?”
And this is why I love her so much. She put her hands on my shoulders, looked in my eyes, and said, “Now, don’t be ridiculous. This is between you and the Lord above. I know you feel called on. I would never call the law. We’re family. Family trumps the law.”
I sat there nibbling on my bottom lip.
“Hope?”
“Yes, Gram?”
“Look at me.”
I raised my face to her, and the love in her eyes almost broke me.
“There is nothing to forgive. I love you as if I gave birth to you myself.” She hugged me close. “I can’t give you absolution, only God can. But I swear I will love you with my heart and soul until I take my last breath.”
So many tears. I felt cleansed by the salty water. No longer worried about what may or may not happen.
We spent the rest of my trip having a great time. She never brought it up again. When she dropped me off at the airport, she simply hugged me tight. I slept the entire flight back. And basically for another two days afterward. My body had decided it needed the rest. My soul craved nourishment.
When was the last time I painted? Gone out and done something fun? I can’t remember, and so the next day I go to the movies and see three in a row.
Over the next several weeks, I nest. Clean the apartment from top to bottom. Go through all my closets and drawers, clearing out stuff. Basically a spring cleaning in winter. I can feel some kind of change coming, and since I don’t know what it is, I want to be prepared. As time passes, it turns cold. Before I know it, Christmas is almost here.
People walk around looking happy, packages in their arms. Christmas trees and decorations everywhere. Every year I decorate. And before I visited Gram, I wouldn’t have had the energy to do it. But now I think maybe it’s possible I can enjoy the holiday. It won’t mean I care any less about the fate of those I’m trying to help. Even Wolverine needs a day off, right?
But life always intrudes. And I find myself reading about a case that makes my stomach turn. I hope this time the guy will end up in jail. It seems so clear-cut.
But some kind of protocol wasn’t followed and the charges are dismissed. Staring into the gas logs in my living room, I think about him. I’m tempted, so tempted to do to him what he has done. But in the end, I know I can’t. This guy is huge. He looks to me like someone who’s seen his fair share of fights. There is no way I can take him.
The sleeping pills are gone. It rained when I was out and about, and the bag got wet, turning into goop. I was afraid to keep them. Too bad I don’t have access to sedatives. Then I could stick him with a needle and do with him as I wish. But unlike bullets, where you can walk into any big-box or sporting goods store and buy them, sedatives are hard to come by.
Almost everyone has something bad within them. I’m starting to think my gram and Grayson are the only kind people left on the planet. I know there are good people out there, but the majority seem to be bad. I stare at the picture of Aidan Stephens.
“You might have beaten the system, but I see you. And you can’t run and hide from vengeance.”
Looks like I’ll be making a trip to Charlotte. Aidan drowned his cat. I look at the charms left on my dresser and pick up Snow White’s apple. It seems fitting. The whole original sin concept. I line it up next to the bracelet. I’ll put it on when I get back. When it’s done.
Aidan lives in a modest neighborhood in an average house. Since Thanksgiving, I have no longer worried about the police closing in. Figure I’ll see something in the paper. The media calling me a serial killer at worst, a vigilante at best. Instead I focus on what I can control.
The clerk at the front desk of the motel doesn’t even look at me; he’s engrossed in whatever he is watching. He slides the key across in exchange for cash, and that is that.
I can’t figure out exactly what Aidan does for a living. He seems to be home all the time. Rarely leaves his house. Most of his neighbors seem to be away for the holidays. There are two I know are around. One two doors down and the other across the street, three houses down.
Through his window, I see a Christmas tree with multicolored lights blinking, tinsel catching the light. I didn’t know people still put tinsel on their trees. The tree in the window leans slightly to the right, and it’s such a brilliant green I can tell it’s fake. Every year I get a real tree. I know it’s a pain, the needles falling all over. But I love the smell. And while I feel a little bit bad about buying a real tree, at least it’s ground up into mulch and spread around the apartment complex after the holiday.
Gram is going on a cruise with two of her closest friends. One lost her husband last Christmas and can’t bear the holiday. Gram was worried about leaving me, invited me along, but I told her to go and have fun for me. That I’d be fine.
I wait an extra day to make my move, since the weatherman predicted a bad storm. Looks like Mother Nature is on my side for this one. It has been raining steadily all day, and severe thunderstorms are expected throughout the night.
The blue gun rests in my bag. As cold as it is, I’m wearing black leggings and a heavy black sweatshirt, along with a black fleece jacket. All cheap enough I can throw them away afterward. I never take the risk of keeping them. Washing them makes me nervous some evidence will be left behind. With the number of bottles of bleach in the back of the vehicle, I feel like a germaphobe.
The house directly across the street is empty. In foreclosure. I’ve seen cars parked there when other homeowners need extra parking. Nobody will pay attention, but I back into the driveway to hide the license plate just the same.
By ten o’clock the rain is coming down hard, thunder and lightning filling the sky. It’s time. I get out of the car and run across the street, not stopping until I’m around the back of his house. None of the houses have alarms. Will my luck hold out again? Not getting caught after all this time makes me believe I’m truly on the right path. The universe is looking out for me. Removing obstacles so I’m free to do my work.
The back of his house has a patio with a sliding glass door. There are no blinds on the door, so I can see into the combination kitchen and family room. He’s in the kitchen fixing something to eat. As I watch, he takes a plate and settles down into a big brown recliner. Everything is brown or shades of beige. Either this guy really likes the color brown or he doesn’t have a clue how to decorate.
I stand in the rain getting soaked to the skin. Normally I would wait until he’s asleep, but I don’t want to risk the storm passing and a neighbor hearing me. I pull on the sliding glass door the next time thunder sounds. It’s locked.
Damn. I check the windows on the first floor and they are all locked too. So there’s no other way.
Unable to come up with another plan, I reach out with a gloved hand and ring the doorbell, the gun in my hand, loosely at my side, ready to go.
The doo
r opens and light floods out onto the porch…I raise the gun and…hesitate. And that second is all it takes. He takes one look at me soaking wet, gun pointed at him, and I have to give him credit—he simply steps back and motions me inside.
“Did Dwayne send you?”
I shake my head.
“Listen, lady, I don’t know what I did to you.” His eyes dart to the left.
“Don’t even think about it. One move and I’ll drop you where you stand.”
He stands there wearing white socks and sweats, pleading. “You don’t have to do this. You have a choice.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t have a choice. You took the choice away from me when you drowned that cat.”
He puts his hands up in front of him. “It’s all good. Who cares about a stupid-ass cat?”
“You made me break my rule. Never talk to them. I hate breaking my rules.”
He drops to his knees on the floor and looks up at me. “Please don’t do this. It’s almost Christmas. My mom counts on me. Without my money, she can’t buy her meds. She’s old. She’ll die without them.”
I don’t know what it is. Is it the Christmas decorations and the tree? Is it because I’ve been feeling nostalgic for the holidays and for second chances? I don’t know. I only know I feel the tiniest bit sorry for his mom. What it will do to her if she’s suddenly cut off from the medication she needs. Aidan is a degenerate, but is that her fault?
He keeps pleading, the sound filling my head. This fucked-up situation is why I made my rule. Because if you talk to them, you will feel sorry for them.
The gun seems to lower of its own accord. He pushes up on one foot and my arm whips back up. “I’m giving you one chance. Even look at another animal and I will come back and kill you. Tell anyone about me and I will kill you. Do you understand?”
He wraps his arms around my legs and kisses my shoes.
“I promise. I’m getting help for all this anger I got bottled up inside.”
There Was a Little Girl Page 24