The Thin Wall (Corona Heights Book 1)

by E. M. Parker

  After fighting to compose herself, Fiona could only manage a three-word answer. “Not very well.”

  Paul nodded, like he expected to hear that. “We know what your coping mechanisms were in the past, and we know how destructive they were. Has that changed?”

  “Of course it has.”

  “Are you sure? I need to know.” The complete lack of belief in Paul’s tone was enough to finally send Fiona over the edge. She stood up from the chair with a clinched fist, prepared to either storm out of his office or punch him in the face. “Are you suggesting that I’m drinking again?”

  “I’m not suggesting, Fiona. I’m asking. There’s a difference.”

  “No, I’m not drinking, okay? I’m fucking scared.” Fiona began pacing the office before finally deciding to walk out. “I can see that it was a mistake coming here. Sorry for wasting your time with my drunken, babbling nonsense.”

  Paul stood up before she could leave. “Fiona, wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come across like that. Please don’t leave.”

  Fiona stood in the doorway, hesitant to reenter the office.

  “I’m not doubting you,” Paul continued. “My responsibility as your lawyer is to fight for you in every way possible. Right now, that fight is for your integrity, because that is the only hand you have to play. Ultimately, the court doesn’t care what kind of house you live in, what kind of car your drive, or what kind of job you have. What they really want to know is that you can be trusted to provide a mentally and emotionally stable environment for Jacob. But when you start talking about ghosts and curses… let’s just say that’s not going to sit too well. There are still a lot of battles you need to fight, but this is not one of them.”

  “So, you’re saying I shouldn’t do anything about this? That I should just stay there and wait for God-knows-what to happen?”

  “If you can hang on until we have our day in court, yes, that would be my legal advice.”

  Fiona felt deflated as she reentered the office and sat back down. “How long am I going to have to wait?”

  “Well, there could be a way to expedite things.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Have you given any more thought to taking Kirk up on his offer to talk? In my experience, the most successful custody cases end when the two parties can come together on a mutually agreed upon course of action rather than relying solely on the courts. His meeting request could signify that he’s open to such negotiation.”

  “I don’t think I could bring myself to call him after what happened the other day,” Fiona declared, completely glossing over the fact that she called him last night in what amounted to a drunk-dial. “How do you know that he doesn’t want anything more than to humiliate me again?”

  “I don’t know, and neither will you, unless you call.”

  “I’ll have to think about that one.”

  “Think hard. Despite the way things turned out, the two of you were married once. You loved each other once. I can tell you from years of doing this that the love never completely goes away, even in the nastiest situations. You need someone to talk to who doesn’t charge you by the hour.” Paul cracked a smile, and this time, Fiona reciprocated.

  “This session should be free.”

  “You may be a sympathy case, but you’re not a charity case. No free rides this go ‘round.”

  “I don’t care how much I have to pay you, I just want this all to be over.”

  “Call Kirk.”

  “And what about my apartment? How am I supposed to live there?”

  “If it’s really that bad, get a hotel room until you can figure something else out.”

  “Believe me, I’ve thought about it. But I can’t afford a hotel room and my rent.”

  “Then my advice would be to lay low and wait it out. If Olivia tries to reach out to you again, don’t respond. It sounds like she’s playing games. But if she isn’t, if something else truly is going on, you can’t make it your problem. The more energy you give to that, the less you will have for Jacob. This may be your best and last opportunity to make things right with him, and if you miss out on that, the regret will make what you’re experiencing right now look like absolute child’s play. Don’t let that happen.”

  Fiona stood up from Paul’s desk determined to take his advice. She would find a way to deal with Corona Heights, and its strange noises, and its unhinged tenants, if that’s what it took to accomplish her objective. It was determination that brought her out here in the first place; determination that nothing or no one would stand between her and her son. And she would have to summon all that determination again, perhaps more, to finally make it across the finish line.

  “I won’t let it happen,” Fiona answered, absolutely believing it.

  She had no way of knowing it then, but Corona Heights, and its strange noises, and its unhinged tenants, had much different ideas.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  AFTER SPENDING A GOOD PORTION of the afternoon scouring the depths of a depleted job market, Fiona canvassed seven motels before settling on one that fit both her limited price range and minimum standard of cleanliness and safety. The Red Lodge Inn didn’t provide much: a bed, a basic bathroom with clean towels, and a decent view of Denver’s eclectic, and sometimes sketchy, Colfax Avenue. But what it had going for it most was that it was nowhere near Corona Heights.

  She dreaded being back here, even for the ten minutes it would take to pack clothes and toiletries for the two days that she planned to spend at the motel, but she took comfort in the fact that she had finally found a safe space to get a decent night’s sleep. Perhaps some time in a different environment would help her get the perspective she needed to make the situation in Corona Heights work. At least, that was what she told herself. The truth of the matter was that she simply didn’t want to be scared anymore.

  Fiona walked through the quiet lobby with her head down, avoiding eye contact with the handful of tenants she passed. From what she saw, they were all normal-looking, well-adjusted people. None of them looked unbalanced like her immediate neighbors, or frightened of the air they breathed like she was. She wondered if they lived in some other part of the building altogether, sequestered away from everyone else. She silently cursed the thought of their good fortune, while at the same time holding to the optimistic promise that their warm presence provided.

  She was determined to carry that optimism with her as she entered the creaky old elevator that would carry her up to the sixth floor, and the cold abyss that was her apartment. She would think of these normal people as she quickly packed her clothes, hoping it would make the abyss seem a little less dark and endless. While she was away, she would formulate a rock-solid plan to become one of those normal people, and if she was fortunate, that plan would succeed.

  “It will absolutely succeed,” Fiona declared aloud, unconcerned if anyone in the lobby heard her. She repeated the line again as she entered the elevator, and once more when she stepped onto the sixth floor. She was preparing for a fourth go when Quinn suddenly emerged in the hallway.

  He dropped a large black trash bag to the ground as he closed Iris’s door. Then he picked it up, hoisted it over his shoulder, and slowly made his way in Fiona’s direction. They made eye contact immediately. It was uncomfortable, and Fiona had to fight the temptation to reverse course back to the elevator before he could catch up. Instead, she put on a smile as they met.

  “Looks like you’re packing quite the load,” Fiona said as she glanced at the heavy-looking bag. She immediately closed her eyes in horrified embarrassment, praying that Quinn didn’t take the double-entendre the way she did. God, you’re a world-class idiot sometimes.

  If Quinn did read more into the reference, his tired expression didn’t show it. “My mom’s weekly purge,” he said with a limp smile.

  Fiona nodded, eager to shift the focus away from his load. “She has a sizable collection of things in there.”

  “Too much, if you ask me. These pur
ges only happen because I basically force her to. She holds on to a lot of stuff that she doesn’t need, and if I wasn’t here to tear it away from her, you would probably see her on that Hoarders show.”

  The thought made Fiona sad. Iris held on to those things as a way of staying connected to a past that she refused to let go of. Fiona did the same thing. Instead of hoarding physical items like Iris, she hoarded guilt, regret, and idealized memories. The methods may have differed, but the outcomes were equally devastating.

  “Well, it’s a good thing she’s got you, Quinn. You’re a good son, and I can see how much she appreciates what you do.”

  “It’s not always easy with her. Sometimes she’s downright intolerable. But I’m all she’s got. I’d never turn my back on her.”

  Fiona hoped that Jacob would one day say the same thing. Right now, she couldn’t be sure. “She’s lucky to have you.”

  Quinn nodded, not as warmed by the thought as Fiona expected he would be. After an awkward silence, he grimaced as he shifted the large bag to his other shoulder.

  Fiona took the cue. “I shouldn’t keep you. That thing looks like it weighs a ton.”

  “Yeah, I should probably get going. I need to get some rest for the second round of purging tomorrow.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

  The two of them exchanged uneasy smiles before Fiona walked away. She only made it a few steps before Quinn called out.

  “Hey Fiona?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry for that exchange earlier with my mom and Noah.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Mom explained some things to me after the fact, about the situation between you and him. I just want you to know that the two of us aren’t friends. I hardly know the guy. In fact, if he’s ever a bother to you–”

  Fiona interrupted before he could finish. “I appreciate that, Quinn. But it’s not a big deal. Really.”

  “Are you sure? Because some of the stuff my mom said…”

  “I’m sure,” Fiona answered, ignoring the sudden shift in Quinn’s demeanor. Eyes that were once bright and friendly suddenly became narrow and distant. The sight gave her a chill that she didn’t expect.

  “Okay. Well, if you change your mind, just tell my mom, and I’ll–”

  “I won’t change my mind. But thank you.”

  The light in Quinn’s eyes returned just as suddenly as it had disappeared. “Fair enough. You have a good day then.” He looked over her shoulder and pointed at something. “By the way, there’s a package at your door.”

  Fiona looked down the hall and immediately saw the gift bag in front of her apartment, unsure of why she hadn’t noticed it before. “That’s odd. I wasn’t expecting anything.”

  “Must be your lucky day,” Quinn said with another tired smile before continuing down the hallway.

  Why don’t I feel lucky? Fiona thought as she approached her apartment.

  The plain pink bag was placed neatly in the center of the doorway. The red and white tissue paper covering the top of it gave no clue as to the contents inside, but as she got closer, she could see an envelope attached to one of the handles with her name clearly written in black ink.

  Hesitant to remove the paper, she picked up the envelope first. Aside from her printed name, there was nothing else written on it; no postage, no return address. She opened the envelope with nervous fingers and slowly pulled out the card.

  To Fiona. I hope there are no hard feelings. But in case there are, consider this a peace offering. Let bygones be bygones?

  It was signed with an illegible scrawl that she had a difficult time deciphering as an actual language, let alone a name.

  She put the card back in the envelope and turned her attention to the bag. Something deep inside of her, the powerful instinct that she still refused to call a guardian angel, told her not to look in it. She ignored the instinct, removing the strands of tissue one by one, until she saw the black bottle cap.

  Fiona retreated from the bag in horror, only to be pulled back to it by the force of a curiosity that masked itself as denial.

  This can’t possibly be what I think it is.

  It took one more look at the black cap, followed by its removal from the bag, before the reality truly set in.

  It was the same brand of Bushmills whiskey that she bought a few nights earlier, only to pour down the sink in a fit of disgust and regret.

  But somehow it was in her hand, filled to the brim, begging her to open it a second time. This time you won’t pour me down the sink, she could almost hear it say. This time you’ll let me help you, the same as I always have. You need me, Fiona. That’s why I came back.

  She knew it wasn’t the same bottle, just like she knew it couldn’t actually talk. But she couldn’t deny it’s immediate and overwhelming power to render everything else around her invisible.

  Momentarily blinded by her tears, Fiona felt around on the ground until she found the bag. She shoved the bottle inside without giving it another thought, fumbled with her keys until she finally lined them up with the lock, and rushed inside her apartment. She closed the door with such force that the dog three apartments away began barking.

  Despite the frantic whispers that tried to convince her she was overreacting, Fiona ran into the bathroom, opened the bottle (refusing to acknowledge how much the rushing scent of oak and pepper made her mouth water), and poured its contents down the toilet.

  “Fuck you!” Shattering glass punctuated the sound of her guttural scream as she threw the bottle against the shower tile, streaking the tile and nearby wall with the remnants of brown fluid. The alcohol that she tried so desperately to get rid of now filled the bathroom with its dry, metallic scent, burning her nostrils every time she breathed it in.

  Fiona knew she needed to clean up the mess before the smell settled in permanently, but she was rendered immobile by the torrent of thoughts that suddenly flooded her mind.

  The only person who could have left that bottle was Noah. He had seen her in the liquor store buying that exact same brand. He was in her A.A. meeting the very next day. He knew how vulnerable she was, and he knew just what to do to exploit that vulnerability. It made sense. All of it.

  Except for the card.

  The handwriting was light and delicate, not like she imagined his would be. And the signature, if it could be called that, was unlike any she had ever seen. If Noah wanted to send a message, why would he attempt to do so anonymously, when Fiona would immediately trace it back to him anyway?

  Or maybe it wasn’t Noah at all. Maybe the handwriting was Natalie’s. That would explain the feminine script, and possibly the obscure signature. But Natalie didn’t strike Fiona as someone who had either the cunning or the patience to strike in such a passive-aggressive way, no matter how much damage it had the potential to do. She was more apt to break the whiskey bottle and slice Fiona’s throat with the jagged edge rather than mentally torture her with the promise of a drink.

  So, if it wasn’t Natalie, where did the bottle come from? The possibilities made her head spin in much the same way a glass of the Bushmills would have, and she suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to lie down.

  “Just for a minute,” she told herself as she walked into her bedroom and plopped down on the air mattress. “Then you need to clean up this mess and get the hell out of here.”

  She massaged her forehead in a vain effort to make the spinning stop, but the violent tornado of thoughts and images continued to swirl, leaving its mortally destructive blow on her already fragile psyche. There was nothing left to think about now; no more tears left to shed, no more treaties to negotiate with Corona Heights or the so-called human beings in it, no more fear of what Paul, or the courts, or Kirk thought of her, no more hanging on until she had her day in court. The only thing she could do now was leave. Plain and simple. If there were consequences to be had, she would gladly accept them. There wasn’t a single c
onceivable outcome, short of never being able to see Jacob again, that could be worse than the hell this place had become.

  “Time to go,” Fiona said loudly, as if she were trying to communicate with someone on the other side of her bedroom. Or perhaps she was trying to communicate with the apartment, and indeed the building itself. “Screw you, and screw what you’re trying to do to me. It’s not working. It will never work. Go fuck with somebody else.”

  Forged by the spirit of her words, Fiona got up from the air mattress, took her suitcases out of the closet, and began stuffing clothes in them. She would come back for the rest of her things after she found a storage unit to put them in. Hell, she would leave them behind altogether if she had to. It had most likely been tainted by the foul energy of this place anyway. And if that was the case, it belonged here.

  After filling the first suitcase, she quickly moved to the second. As soon as she unzipped it, she heard her name.

  “Fiona?”

  She assumed that the voice was coming from inside her head, the same as she assumed when she first heard it three nights ago.

  “Are you really leaving?”

  And similar to then, she quickly realized that she was wrong.

  “You can’t leave.”

  For the first time since they had been communicating, Olivia wasn’t whispering. Her voice was strong, confident, and unafraid of being heard. But it couldn’t have been her. She was nowhere to be found when Detective Sullivan looked for her.

  “I need to see you, Fiona.”

  Fiona dropped the suitcase. “Olivia? Is that really you?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “But I thought you were gone. I came over to your apartment. A detective went inside to find you, but you weren’t–”

  “My mom wanted you to think I was gone. But I was here the whole time.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Because she doesn’t want me to see you.”

  “Why? What did I do?”

  “It’s not what you did. It’s what you know, or at least, what she thinks you know.”