Behind These Scars

by Lilah Grey

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to mask my nervousness, “it’s pretty potent stuff.”

  “Well, after drinking enough espresso to send a rocket into space, I'm fine. I have a massive headache, but I'm heading your way. What's the address? I'll meet you there, and we can figure out what to do next.”

  I give her the address to the house before saying goodbye.

  I feel bad about drugging Olivia, but at the time, I didn’t see any other option. I might tell her at some point; I’ll just have to make sure she’s in a straitjacket or behind a locked door before I let it slip.

  She sends me a text message a few minutes later.

  Olivia: WHERE IS MY CAR?! WTF!?

  On second thought, I might take this whole sleeping pill thing to the grave…

  Luke (Libby): I kinda borrowed it…

  Olivia: …

  Olivia: This is going to be the most expensive Uber ever.

  Luke (Libby): Sorry! Put it on Luke’s card.

  Olivia: Oh, I am, and I’m going to make sure he gives me a raise after this too.

  Oh, man. Olivia is not having a good day at all. I feel awful, but I didn't have any other choice. She'll forgive me. I think…

  I’m sitting down on the couch in the living room, waiting for Olivia to arrive, when I hear a knock on the door. It’s faint enough that I think it might be my nerves playing tricks on me, but then I hear it again, this time a little louder.

  I creep to a window at the front of the house and peek through the curtain, asking myself, for the second time tonight, who the hell’s at the door?

  22

  Libby

  “What are you doing up so late, Mrs. Dunne?” I say, opening the front door.

  I was relieved to find Mrs. Dunne on my front porch but at the same time a little confused. What in the world was she up at this hour of the night?

  She smiles. “I find that the older I get, the less sleep I need.”

  She’s wearing a knit shawl, the same one she was wearing the day Margaret was killed. She clutches it with one hand as she gestures with the other.

  “And who can sleep with everything going on in this neighborhood these days?” She glances around. “Things just aren't how they used to be,” she says with an exasperated sigh.

  “Yeah, I think this street has seen more action in the past few weeks than it had the entire time I lived here.”

  I don’t have a single memory of a cop car on this street, not even an ambulance. It was quiet here.

  “How are you, dear?” She brushes my arm with the back of her hand. “I had to check after… well, I don't know what happened.” A smile grows on her lips as she straightens out her shoulders. “I just saw that strapping young detective take him away.”

  She won’t even say Luke’s name. I don’t understand what she has against him. As far as I know, they never had an argument or even spoke to each other.

  “I’m fine. Luke didn't do anything,” I add. “He was protecting me from someone who tried to hurt me.” Maybe that's a little bit of an understatement. He did do something to Wade, but he deserved it.

  “He did that? To that man?” Mrs. Dunne shivers, clutching her shawl even tighter against her chest.

  “How did you know what happened to Wade?”

  “Oh, I saw him stumbling about in front of my house and called the cops. I would've helped him, but he looked a little too unsavory for my liking. You can never be too safe these days.” She shakes her head. “Anyways, I stopped by because I saw that you were up, and I’ve just finished a batch of brownies.” She winks at me. “I could use a taste-tester. What do you say?”

  I’ve always had a weak spot for sweets, especially Mrs. Dunne’s brownies and cookies and cupcakes and basically everything that came out of that kitchen of hers. She worked magic in there. But… I should probably wait for Olivia.

  “I’m not sure, Mrs. Dunne. I need to—”

  She waves at me like she's batting a fly out of her face. “Oh, none of this Mrs. Dunne nonsense. You can call me Rose.”

  She tilts her head and places a hand on her hip. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

  I bite my lip for a moment, and then relent, accepting her offer. It doesn’t take much to convince me to eat free brownies.

  “Are there chocolate chips?” I ask as she pulls me along toward her house.

  She laughs, glancing at me over her shoulder. “Are there chocolate chips? Of course! Only the best for you, my dear.” She turns around and jabs a finger into my ribcage. “And you won't say no to seconds either.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been inside Rose’s home. It had to have been sometime before I went to Millwood. Even though it’s been years, nothing’s changed, aside from a thicker layer of dust on the furniture and light fixtures and wainscoting. But underneath the dust and dirt was the same furnishings and details I’d come to know after spending many afternoons with her, prolonging the time before I had to go home.

  It used to annoy Margaret. She always wondered why it took so long for me to come home after school. Once I told her I was spending time with Mrs. Dunne, she relaxed a little.

  “Are you comfortable, dear?” Rose calls from the kitchen.

  I turn my head to the kitchen. “Yes, very.”

  Old, frayed wingback chairs flank a large wood-burning fireplace. Quilts with floral patterns, color fading from them, hang from the chairs. There’s an assortment of knickknacks and pictures cluttering the mantel above the fireplace. A battered china hutch filled with unused plates, saucers, and cups looms to my right, next to the kitchen.

  I swallow the last of my milk, washing down my third brownie. Yes, third brownie. I've been here no more than ten minutes, and I've already eaten three brownies. They're just so warm and gooey and fresh.

  Rose was right; I couldn't say no to seconds… or thirds…

  Fourths? I’m not addicted. I promise.

  I don’t know how she does it, but every batch is better than the last. And the longer I sit here, the better I’m beginning to feel. Although that just might be the sugar talking.

  Rose walks into the living room holding another plate of brownies. “Another one, dear?”

  I groan, my hands clenching the edge of the sofa as I rock back and forth, reeling from my sugar high. As much as I want to say yes, I tell her no.

  “Well, at the very least, let me refill your milk.” She swoops in and whisks away my glass before disappearing back into the kitchen.

  I stand up, tottering for a moment as my blood pressure struggles to normalize. I press my hand against my stomach and take a deep breath as the purple blotches at the edge of my vision begin to fade.

  After a few moments, I'm back to normal, crossing the living room to inspect the photographs on the mantel. Even though I've been here countless times, this is the first time I've looked at them from close up.

  I pick up a photograph of a much younger Rose. She’s in her nurse uniform: a white, collared dress with long sleeves and buttons down the front; her short bob pinned underneath a white cap. She was quite beautiful with her glowing smile, rosy cheeks, and colored lips.

  I set the photo back down in the empty space where dust hadn’t settled. There’s a clatter of glass and metal in the kitchen as Rose opens cupboards, moving things around.

  I continue to browse the rest of the photographs. They're what you'd expect—photos of Rose and Earl with various backdrops: mountain ranges, state parks, beaches, and outside the houses they'd lived in. I glance at them with little interest, but just as I'm beginning to head to the kitchen and check on Rose, I notice another picture frame tucked away behind a couple of taller ones.

  It’s portrait of a girl. There’s something strangely familiar about her, but I can’t seem to place it. It sits just out of reach like the name of that one band that sings that one song—what’s it called again? I pick up the photograph and rub my fingertips along its dusty surface, hoping that a closer look might jog my memory.


  She’s young, no older than ten or twelve, and wears a bright white dress and an even brighter smile. Still… I’m not sure what seems so familiar about her.

  “My daughter, Abigail,” Rose says wistfully.

  I nearly drop the frame when I hear Rose’s voice behind me.

  She places a glass of milk on the coffee table and then walks over to me. She removes the frame from my hand, letting out a sigh as she cleans the frame with her apron.

  I can smell the sweet scent of alcohol on her breath.

  “She was a darling. My sweet child.”

  Was…

  “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

  Rose hadn’t mentioned her once during the many afternoons we spent talking.

  “She passed a long time ago,” she murmurs, dragging her fingertips across Abigail’s face, stopping just below her chin.

  I place my hand on her back. “I’m sorry.” I can feel the rise and fall of her slow, steady breathing.

  “Oh, it wasn’t a surprise. She wasn’t a healthy child. Always sick.” Her voice sounds distant and weak. She places the picture back on the mantel, stares at it for a moment, and then turns back to me.

  “You’d think as a nurse, I’d be able to care for my own child,” she says, shaking her head, looking at me with wet eyes. “We both know what it’s like to lose someone we love.”

  I nod, thinking about my father rather than Margaret.

  A wave of vertigo rushes over me, and I clutch the mantel.

  “Are you okay?” Rose asks, grabbing my shoulder.

  I swallow, but my mouth is bone-dry.

  “Yeah. Just fine.”

  “Come sit,” Rose says, wrapping her arm around me.

  Even with Rose guiding me, I have to focus on each step, making sure not to trip over the rug or chairs as we maneuver around the room. The world begins to spin as I sit down on the couch. There's a strange weightlessness to my limbs, and I can't shake the feeling I'll be sucked into the couch at any moment.

  “You remind me so much of Abigail,” Rose says. The springs inside the couch groan and creak as she sits down next to me.

  “Do I?”

  It’s getting hard to focus. My body sways side to side as I grip the edge of the couch. I reach for the glass of milk and bring it to my lips. My hand’s trembling and some of the milk spills out of the corner of my mouth as I gulp it down.

  Why am I suddenly so thirsty?

  Rose wipes the milk from my cheek with the corner of her apron.

  “I remember the day you moved in,” she says, patting my knee. “You were hanging out the window, hair fluttering around your face. When you hopped out of the car, I thought I was losing my mind. I thought my Abigail was back.”

  “Oh,” is the only thing I can mutter as I fight the fog billowing in my head.

  “Are you okay, dear?” Rose asks as she tests the temperature of my forehead with the back of her hand. “You don’t look very well.”

  I don't feel very well either. Not at all. I feel nauseous as a headache begins to form behind my right eye.

  I shake my head, afraid that if I open my mouth to speak, one of those brownies might come out instead of words.

  “Go on and use the bathroom back there.” She points past the dining room toward the bedroom at the back of the house. “I don’t want you climbing any stairs if you feel nauseous.”

  I make to stand, but I totter on my feet for a moment. Rose wraps a hand around my arm and grabs my shoulder, steadying me.

  “Oh, dear. I’ll be back there in a minute to help you. There should be something in there to settle your stomach.”

  I close my eyes as I shake my head. After a few deep breaths, I feel well enough to walk to the bathroom.

  The faucet creaks as I turn the knob. I splash handfuls of cold water on my face, trying to wake myself up. The ceiling creaks as Rose moves around on the second floor.

  I let out a sigh and turn the water off, patting my face dry with a towel. I open the medicine cabinet to find something for my stomach, but as I peer inside, I don't even know where to begin. There are more bottles and vials in here than most pharmacies.

  “What in the world?” I mutter as my eyes rake over the sizable collection.

  I hardly recognize any of the names on the labels as I pick through row after row of prescription pills and liquids. I narrow my eyes as I read label on the bottle in my hand. My grip slackens. Pills rattle around in the bottle as it drops into the sink. It’s the same medicine Luke uses for his heart condition.

  “Is everything alright in there, dear?” Rose calls to me; the stairs begin to creak as she moves down them.

  “Ye—Yes,” I sputter as I back away from the medicine cabinet. “Just fine.”

  My heart jumps to my throat as the pieces began falling into place. I need to get out of here. I need—Olivia! In my rush for brownies, I’d forgotten to let her know that I’d left. I thought I was going to be back by now…

  I thought…

  I can hardly think right now. The vertigo is returning, and I can’t take a step without stumbling. Fear grips me as my calves bump into the bed and I see Rose's silhouette in the doorway. I try to pull Luke's phone from my back pocket but my fingers are growing numb and heavy, fumbling against it.

  My legs tremble as the edges of my vision begin to blur. Rose walks toward me, Margaret’s locket hanging from her neck.

  “I hate seeing my sweet child sick,” she says, pushing me onto the bed.

  The last thing I feel before everything fades to black is the back of her cold, bony hand as it brushes against my cheek.

  23

  Luke

  The drunk tank.

  They put me in the fucking drunk tank. The air is acrid with the scent of urine. There are no benches, nowhere to sit aside from the concrete floor. Each time I lift my foot, it feels as though I’m peeling velcro from the bottom of my shoe.

  Damian thinks I killed Margaret. Says he has proof, too. It’s as much amusing as it is alarming. What proof? I didn’t kill her. Scout’s honor. Hell, ever since I found out she was dead, I assumed she swallowed a handful of sleeping pills and chased them down with a bottle of wine.

  She wasn’t the most stable person. It seemed like something Margaret would do. The final passive-aggressive act: Do you see what you did to me? You did this to me. I had no other choice. It’s not me; it’s you.

  Adamant until the very end.

  Proof… it's all a bluff. He has nothing but a hunch, and he's hoping I'll give something up. He tried to get me to talk, but with my hands in cuffs, things have changed. I'm not opening my mouth until Dave, my lawyer, is here. Olivia's already taken care of that. I used my phone call on her. She was already on her way to pick up Libby. Once she does that, she'll head my way.

  Now, all I have to do is wait until Dave shows up and posts bail. It should be any minute now, but I can’t be sure; time seems to stand still in a place like this. It’s a separate world governed by its own set of rules. I’ve never been behind bars before, but after this short stint, I have no plans of returning.

  Damian will try to keep me here, but eventually, the truth will come out. Yeah, I assaulted Wade, but I didn't kill Margaret. He's wasting his energy on me.

  The only thing comforting me right now are thoughts of Libby. Her legs wrapped around my waist. The taste of her lips. The way her eyes roll back in her head when she comes. Fuck, she drives me wild.

  I never intended to fall for her, but that's how it works, right? No matter how much you plan, life has its own way of doing things. I've decided it's best not to question it all the time.

  When this all blows over, I'll take Libby and leave Milton for good. She may choose to go her separate way sometime after that, but that's her choice. I only want the best for her. If that means she wants something or someone else, so be it. She's been through hell, and I'm not about to put her through it again.

  I hope she chooses to stay, though. We c
ould be great together. I can’t imagine anyone else by my side but Libby.

  I let out a heavy sigh and raise my head to look around at the rectangular cell once again.

  There are two other men. Both of them were here before me. One’s mumbling incoherently to himself in the back corner, strung out and high on something.

  He's a ragged man. Stringy, long brown hair falls in dirty clumps on his shoulders. He waves his dirt-smeared hands animatedly in front of him as though he's in a heated argument with an invisible person. Now and then he lets out a wicked laugh. The type of laugh you’d expect to hear echoing down the halls of an insane asylum. A mad man's cackle.

  To be honest, I’m surprised that there aren’t more like him in here.

  You’d think that larger cities—Austin, New York, Boston, wherever—would have worse drug problems than a small town like Milton. That may be the case. More people, more drugs. But drug problems in larger cities are more or less hidden. Swept under the rug, so to speak. You could go days, weeks, months, hell, even years without seeing someone strung out or doped up so long as you stay on the beaten path. In Milton? There’s not much space to hide. It’s all out in the open.

  In the bigger cities, the drug addicts are nameless degenerates. Here, they’re your neighbors. It’s the waitress who serves you lunch, or the guy who bags your groceries. The boy next door. The preacher’s daughter. You know them, or are at least familiar with them.

  Sometimes I’m glad that Henry kicked me out when he did. It was a blessing of sorts. This town seems to have a toxic effect on people. You might be able to fight it off for a time, but sooner or later, it will infect you in some form or another.

  No one’s immune. Not even me.

  The cackling old man squeals as he thrusts a spindly arm in front of him.