What Happened That Night

by Sandra Block

  I twirl the pen between my fingers. “Believe me, it’ll be worth it.”

  • • •

  At the end of the day, I’m getting ready to leave when my phone vibrates, rattling in the drawer as if it’s alive. I yank it open with a squeak.

  It’s from Daisy. Emailed the message James sent me.

  With the code?

  Yup. BR emailed me right back. Wants to get together. She sends an emoji of a snake, and I laugh and send her a picture of a snake and a gun.

  She sends a smiley and xxxooo.

  And I xxxooo her back. Because I really xxxooo her right now. Then I get on my office phone and call James. “He took the bait.”

  “Good,” he says. “So now we have to get someone near the office for a few minutes at least. Less than a hundred feet away would be best.” Deep-throated laughter rings out in the background, and he muffles the phone. “We don’t need much time to pick some stuff off his computer. A few snippets, passwords.”

  Sylvia starts powering off her computer and deposits all her blue pens in her mug, like she does every day.

  “I have his work address,” I say. “Should we try for tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, we should get it done soon. Before someone catches it.” He pauses. The laughter rises up again. “I was thinking, maybe it shouldn’t be you though, who does it.”

  “Why not?” I ask. Sylvia throws on her coat and whips on her scarf like she’s in a race. “Cake appointment,” she half whispers, pointing to her wristwatch.

  I give her a smile and a thumbs-up. “I can do it, James. I’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know,” he demurs. “Vihaan Patel already sent one guy after you. Blake Roberts might be on the lookout too.”

  This gives me pause. “That’s true.” I lean back in my chair, as secretaries and paralegals are abandoning their posts all around me.

  “Okay.” I hear something slam in the background, then coworkers swearing. “Got to go. I’ll call you later.”

  As we hang up, I realize the perfect person to hang out near Blake’s office and not attract any attention in New York. I dial the number, though I doubt she’ll answer. She never answers her phone. But if worse comes to worst, I figure I can hit her up at her usual spot after work.

  This time, she does answer, and her smoky, hoarse voice has never been more welcome. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s Dahlia.”

  “Dahlia!” Natasha’s voice lightens. “What’s up, babe?”

  “Not much. I was just wondering…” I unbend a paper clip on the desk. “You feel like making some money?”

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Five Years Ago

  I am living out of boxes, but I’m happy. Happy enough, anyway.

  Eli quit the job after two weeks, and some new girl’s starting. Sylvia something. She seems nice. Overall, I don’t mind being back in Boston. The work is just challenging enough, and it’s something to do every day. Somewhere to go, instead of hanging out in my pajamas and fighting with my family.

  I ran out of my medication, but I don’t think I need it right now anyway. I haven’t thought about suicide once this whole month. That might not seem like a real accomplishment, but for me, it is. It’s something. Life is something I can get along with, for now.

  Cash is low, but Eli brings leftovers from his new job at the restaurant. It scares me sometimes though, what I would do without him. He’s not just my anchor; he’s my everything. I know it’s not healthy, but I try not to beat myself up too much. He’s all I have right now. Maybe someday that will change. I’ll make friends from work, go back to school. Baby steps, Eli says. And he’s right. So again I’m quoting Eli, but that’s okay. He can be my everything for now.

  The days are fine, right up until bedtime.

  The evenings are bearable. I go out with Eli sometimes, but he mostly wants to drink and pick up men, and I have no interest in either right now. So I stay up reading or watching crappy TV, but I can only drag that out for so long. Then it’s time to go to bed.

  Bed is the problem.

  Usually, I lie there, trying to turn off my brain. My brain turns against me at night. It wants to replay the night, over and over. What I could have done differently. How I should have just said no to Daisy and stayed home. How I’m never going to graduate. My brain doesn’t want to count sheep. It wants to count all the ways in which I am a loser.

  Then when I finally do sleep, I always wake up there.

  A stale mattress is all I remember. Every time, I hear laughing, some kind of bird noise, then the smell of the mattress, and I wake up drenched in sweat. When I try to analyze it, the image slips away. I tried to write it all down, but it didn’t help. I can dream about it all night, but I still don’t know what happened. A mattress tells me nothing.

  Last night was the same, more nightmares. And this morning, I am feeling tired and a bit raw, but it’s okay. I have somewhere to go and something to do. And that is something.

  Baby steps.

  I do my ablutions. I put on my clothes, my makeup, and get ready to start my day. It’s chilly in my little box this morning. They said on the radio that the day would be unseasonably cold. So I grab my spring pea coat, which I haven’t worn since I was back in college.

  And in the pocket is a glossy business card.

  RAE-ANN RHIMES

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Dahlia

  It turns out Natasha did indeed feel like making some money. As soon as possible.

  So the next day she’s in New York City, at the base of Blake Roberts’s building.

  “I’m getting hungry here,” Natasha whines into the phone. “What’s going on?”

  We’ve spent nearly an hour moving her back and forth to get the best reception for the cell phone in her other hand. “Okay, that’s good,” I say. “You’re in a good spot. James says we need at least ten minutes.”

  She grumbles.

  “It won’t be too long,” I say, as if I’m talking down a toddler. She huffs into the phone in response, and it strikes me that she’s jonesing for something besides food. “So,” I say, to distract her. “Have you been to S.O.R. lately?”

  “Got kicked out again.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad,” I say, as Sylvia erases something on a document, making a scratching noise.

  “Yeah. They say I stole from some girl. Which I didn’t.” She sighs heavily into the phone again. “Dude, I am really getting tired of standing here.”

  How are we doing? I text James.

  It’s working. Want to get a bit more info though.

  “So, what else is new?” I ask. I would like to make small talk, but our lives have very little in common right now. Except that we were both raped, and she likes taking my money.

  “Friend OD’d the other day,” she says rather matter-of-factly. “Which is pretty sad. But you almost come to expect it by now, in a way.”

  “Wow,” I say, which is inadequate, but it’s hard to backtrack that far with her. “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, it sucks, but whatcha gonna do? Live by the game, die by the game.”

  We’re good. Got three different passwords. Should be enough.

  “Okay,” I say brightly. “You are released. James will give you the other hundred at your usual spot.”

  “All righty then. Pleasure doing business with you.”

  As I put down my phone, Sylvia takes a loud sip of coffee. “James will give you the last hundred in the usual spot,” she echoes, her voice a question. “Sounds very mysterious.”

  “Yeah. We’re a regular pair of gangsters,” I joke, to deflect the question. “It’s actually a loan for a friend,” I add, for good measure.

  “Hmm,” she answers, probably not believing me but also not caring enough to challenge it. She leans down to grab some paper for the printer. �
�So, what do you think of bubbles instead of birds?”

  I stare at her. “Bubbles instead of birds?”

  “You know, instead of rice, for coming out of the church?” She takes her seat again. “We were going to go with birds. But that’s just a logistical nightmare and you have to get a permit and everything.”

  “Oh yeah. Well, bubbles are nice,” I say distractedly, trying to catch up on the work I missed while babysitting Natasha.

  “Don’t you think bubbles could get messy though? My mom said they might stain the dresses.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe,” I say. She answers, but I don’t hear a word. Because there’s a new text on my phone from a number that I don’t recognize.

  I guess you didn’t learn your lesson the first time, bitch.

  Who is this? I type back.

  One of the people who fucked you so good, you couldn’t walk for days.

  My face feels hot, as if I’ve been scalded.

  Now you want to complain about what a whore you were. So, it’s time to teach you another lesson.

  When I swallow, it is painfully dry. Fuck off, I text back, but the bravado rings false to me.

  Oh, we will. Lesson #1. You might want to watch out for Simone.

  Sylvia’s phone rings, and I jump. “Miller and Stein. Can I help you?”

  A picture pops up of me holding Simone as a kitty. An old Instagram photo from an account I never use anymore and clearly need to close. Then, another photo comes on the screen. It takes a second to recognize the lump of gray as a dead cat, its neck twisted and paws bloody, with one glazed eye staring, the other an empty eye socket.

  Gagging, I put the phone down.

  • • •

  “You okay?” Sylvia asks with concern. “You don’t look so hot.”

  “I’m fine,” I lie. “Just getting a migraine.”

  “Oh. Those suck.” She bangs the stapler with the heel of her hand. “My cousin gets migraines.”

  I can’t even answer. My brain is stuttering, picturing Simone meowing softly, hurt somewhere. At once, I call Eli and wait out too many rings. But just as the phone should go to voicemail, he picks up.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I say. “Are you home?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Phew.” I realize my hand is in a fist and loosen it. “Can you check on Simone?”

  There is a pause on the phone. “Check on Simone? Why, is she supposed to be doing homework or something?”

  “Just…check on her for me. Please.”

  “Fine, fine,” he says with a sigh of exasperation. “I’ll call you back.”

  “No,” I say. “I’ll stay on the phone. Just go ahead.”

  “This minute.”

  “This minute,” I confirm.

  He heaves another sigh, and I hear him walking and the door open. “Never mind what I was doing. That’s not important. Just need to check on the cat right this minute for some reason.” I hear his shoes clomp down the stairs, then the key scraping in the slot and the click of the dead-bolt lock. “And I’m here. And I’m looking for a cat.”

  I’m holding my breath.

  “Simone,” he calls out. “Simone.” His footsteps sound out as he wanders through the apartment.

  “Is she—”

  “Aw, who’s that good girl with the crazy mommy?” he coos. “Who’s the good kitty?”

  “She’s okay?” Relief floods through me.

  “Yes, she’s okay. What’s wrong? Did you have some kind of premonition about her or something? Choking on a hair ball?”

  “Never mind,” I say, breathing normally again. “Could you do me a favor though?”

  “Anything, my dear.”

  The stapler slams again, and I grip the phone tighter. “Could you keep an eye on her today?”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Dahlia

  A few days later, we’re on our way to Maine for Christmas Eve. James twists the gas cap back on and climbs back into the Prius, the fresh scent of gas hanging off him. The evening is crisp and cold, a fine dusting of snow on the ground.

  We’re three hours into the ride, deep into the country now. Towering trees, with bare branches weaving into black. And I don’t have to worry about Simone at least. Daisy has agreed to keep her not just for the visit, but as long as I need.

  “Hey,” James says. “Did you see the article on Henry Holstein?”

  “No.” I adjust the seat back.

  “Check it out. From their local newspaper.”

  Googling the name and newspaper brings me quickly to a huge article, which makes sense. Child pornography would be a big deal for a schoolteacher. Accompanying the article is a photo of his house, an old white farmhouse with the words pedophile and pig in fuzzy, red spray paint. I think of his maniacal laughter on the video. Pig. I don’t bother to read the article.

  “Has he called you again?” James asks.

  “No. Blocked the number.”

  “Good.”

  As I close the article, a text appears on the screen—a cute picture of Simone in the sun, taken by Daisy. It’s a blissful improvement over the last cat picture. After this, she sends another text.

  Got info from my friend about the Red Sox hat.

  What??

  Special version of hat as charity for St. Jude’s in 1999 with Javier Ramirez signature. Only five hundred in circulation.

  Wow. Thanks!

  “Who was that?” James asks through a yawn.

  “Daisy. She got more information about the Red Sox hat.” I tell him her news.

  “That definitely narrows it down.” He folds the wrapper over a half-eaten protein bar and sticks it in the cup holder.

  “So, 1999,” I say, doing the math. “We were only six years old then.”

  “I was four,” he says with a Cheshire grin.

  “Yeah, I know. Stop reminding me. I’m a cradle-robber.” I take a sip of coffee. “Probably someone who grew up in Boston then.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Unless they bought it off the internet or something.” He checks his speed, then slows by about five miles per hour. Other than our getaway adventure with Cary G, James is an exceedingly careful driver.

  He clears his throat, like he’s about to say something, and I look over.

  “About Ramona,” he says but then falters, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

  “Yes?”

  “I wanted to tell you something…” His lips purse, his fingers still tapping.

  “Okay?” I encourage him.

  He takes a quick breath and gets off at an exit. “Forget it. I’ll tell you later. It’s not important.”

  “All right,” I say, wondering what he was about to say as we drive past an intersection with the usual chain stores. Within minutes, we are transported to a rustic, picture-perfect town with open fields skirted by pine trees. A few stores dot the landscape. An old bar, a diner, a gas station.

  We turn down his street and finally up to his driveway.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  • • •

  As we walk in, the smell of a ham cooking pervades the house.

  “Dahlia,” his mom says with genuine warmth. She reaches out, and we hug. His mother is pretty and petite. I can feel all her bones through her thin sweater. “We are so happy to have you,” she says with a strong accent.

  “Me too.” My voice comes out too high-pitched. “Thanks so much for having us.” I am gripping the neck of the red-wine bottle we brought.

  James comes up behind me with our luggage, and he swallows her up with his hug. When they pull away, her eyes are misty.

  “I’m going to throw our stuff upstairs,” he says.

  “Dahlia takes the guest room,” she says, pointing her head up the stairs. />
  “Yeah, I’ll sleep in the den,” James says.

  “Hello!” a voice booms out behind us.

  “Dad,” James answers, his voice more restrained.

  “John Gardner,” he says to me with a handshake and smile. He and James exchange a perfunctory hug. They are both tall men, though James is maybe an inch taller. “How was traffic?”

  “Not bad,” James says.

  We start taking off our boots while his father whisks our coats away to the front closet.

  “Come in,” his mother says, motioning toward the kitchen. “I made the tofu for you. No ham,” she says. James must have told them I was a vegetarian.

  “Can I help with anything, Ms.—”

  “Asuka. You call me Asuka. Please.”

  “Okay.” I walk into the kitchen, which is the same tasteful design as the foyer. Dark-cherry wood and the jade-green granite countertops. I put the wine bottle down.

  “So, how long you know James?” She lays out crackers on a cheese plate.

  “Well, we’ve worked together a while. But I only really got to know him in September.”

  “I see,” she says and sprinkles some croutons on a huge salad in a light-brown wooden bowl. Through the doorway, I catch a glimpse of the family room. Multicolor lights from a tall, fake tree reflect on the leather chair. A sparse smattering of gifts surround the base. Upstairs, we hear James rumbling around.

  I’m turning back to the kitchen when a large family portrait on the wall catches my eye. A formal, family oil painting with James and his parents. There’s also a boy who looks like James, maybe a couple of years older.

  But no Ramona.

  “James?” Asuka calls up, and we wait for him to come down.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  James

  They changed her room.

  Everything is tan and mauve, like a hotel. Not at all like Ramona’s room, which used to be Rob’s room. No trace of either of them in there now.

  I open the closet to put Dahlia’s bag in there, feeling like I’m snooping somehow. But it’s empty too. No clothes carrying her scent. No rolled-up posters of bands she outgrew, no sandals mounded on the floor. Stuffed in the back of the top shelf, something catches my eye. Blindly reaching in, I pull out a bedraggled teddy bear. Holding the stubby, soft leg, I am hit with a flash of a memory. Rob was playing with the bear one day when we were little. He was maybe eight, too old to be playing with teddy bears. He was trying to put my mom’s underwear on it and my dad found him and smacked him. I still remember his heavy breathing as he towered over us, Rob crying, four pink finger blotches across his cheek.