She Was the Quiet One

by Michele Campbell

  What the hell?

  Heath was good about taking care of the kids, making breakfast, loading and unloading the dishwasher. But he wasn’t big on doing laundry. That was Sarah’s job. Was he really going to wash his clothes, at this hour? Apparently, yes. She heard the screech as he turned the washer knob, the rushing sound as the machine filled with water. Then she heard him in the living room. She couldn’t really tell what he was doing. But several minutes later, a whiff of wood smoke reached her nose, and she thought maybe he’d built a fire in the fireplace. They sat in front of the fire most nights, but tonight she wouldn’t join him, not with the doubts she was having.

  A half hour passed before Heath came to bed. In the interim, he went back to the bathroom, and then to the front hall. She heard him leave the apartment and return with Max, who was whimpering. When Heath finally came into the bedroom, Sarah was lying with her back to the door and her eyes firmly shut, fighting the urge to ask what was up with the dog. The bed dipped as he got into it. The covers pulled taut. He didn’t say a word. An acrid smell tickled her nose, and she suppressed a sneeze. It took a moment to realize what that scent was. Bleach?

  Sarah was in the process of gathering her courage to ask why the hell he was doing laundry at midnight, when she realized the bed was shaking.

  Heath sobbed quietly. She could tell he was trying not to wake her, and she lay there, frightened, listening. Was he falling apart again? Like his mother had before him, like he had himself, the last time his career went south? Sarah flashed on the silent apartment, on Heath’s arm, hanging off the bed. She couldn’t go through that again, ever. This time, she would know the signs. She would ask him to get help. She would say something—now.

  “Heath?” she said. “Are you all right?”

  He turned toward her and buried his head against her shoulder. She held him as he cried.

  “I’m so sorry, baby,” he said through his tears.

  “Sorry for what?” she asked, her voice cold. Was he about to admit to cheating?

  “For not being there,” he said. “I love you so much, Sarah. You and the kids, you’re all that matters. I promise, I’ll never let you down again.”

  This wasn’t just about missing the milk-and-cookies social. No, this was Heath’s confession. He wasn’t just telling her he’d cheated, though. With the way he cried, like his heart was breaking, he was saying that he’d ended it, and he was truly sorry. After all they’d been through together—the long years, the troubles, the children—if Heath came back to her now, broken, remorseful, wiser, could she forgive him?

  Yes. She could. She would.

  She drew him closer, and kissed his hair.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “Everything will be all right.”

  45

  Rose awoke in a dingy room with a searing pain in her head. The bright light that filtered through the gaps in the blinds hurt her eyes. It must be the middle of the day. But which day? She wasn’t sure where she was or how long she’d been here. After a moment, her vision cleared. She saw that she was lying in a hospital bed in the Odell Infirmary. But she couldn’t remember how she got there. Vague images filled her mind. She was on a stretcher. They put a needle in her arm, and a cold feeling spread out from her vein. In its wake, she was hollow inside, and couldn’t think or feel or remember. When was that? Yesterday? Last night?

  Last night. She sat up abruptly. A sharp pain radiated behind her eyes, and the room swam. She sank down against the pillow, overcome by a wave of nausea. Her mind was hazy, but she remembered Bel—her white, still face. The blood everywhere. Blood on her own hands. The horror rose up inside her, and she started to scream. A woman ran into the room, then a man. They held her down. She fought and flailed.

  “Bel!” she screamed. “Bel!”

  They plunged another needle into her arm. She felt tired and numb and like she was separated from the world by a gauzy veil. Whatever happened felt long ago and far away. She remembered fog, and the wetness of blood. She remembered holding a knife, saw it glitter in the moonlight. Then she slept.

  * * *

  Rose opened her eyes. The room was dimly lit by the bulb of a single bedside lamp. The gaps in the blinds showed black. It was night. The last thing she remembered was holding a knife. Thinking hurt her head. Everything hurt her head. Her mouth was dry, and she was hungry. The room smelled of antiseptic. Gingerly, Rose shifted in the bed.

  “You’re awake,” a voice said.

  She turned her head, and then closed her eyes momentarily to fight the nausea. When she opened them again, she saw her grandmother, sitting in a chair, her phone lighting her in a circle of darkness. Somebody stood behind her.

  A phone, a light, the path through the woods. A man behind me.

  The man. She wanted to scream. She had screamed then. There was a man here now.

  “I’m going to turn on the overhead light, so we can see each other,” he said. His voice was familiar.

  “Please, no,” Rose said.

  Her own voice sounded funny to her ears—thin and reedy and weak. Carefully, she touched the spot on the back of her head where the pain lived. A knob the size and shape of an egg protruded from under her hair, which was dry and crusty. Blood? Putting pressure on the tender spot made Rose feel sick.

  The man flipped on the overhead light anyway. The glare seared Rose’s eyes, and she cried out. He switched off the light and opened the door to the hall. A bright yellow bar fell across the foot of the bed, but it didn’t reach Rose’s eyes.

  “Is that better?” he asked.

  It was Warren Adams, Grandma’s lawyer/boyfriend. His presence didn’t reassure her. Bel had always said he wanted them out of Grandma’s life, so he could have her to himself.

  Bel!

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad to see you so alert, Rose,” Warren said, going back to stand beside her grandmother’s chair, putting a hand possessively on her shoulder.

  Grandma wouldn’t meet Rose’s eyes.

  “We need to have a serious conversation, Rose,” Warren said. “The sooner the better. If you’re able, I propose we do that now.”

  “I’m—not feeling very well.”

  Rose looked down and saw that she wore a hospital gown. What happened to her clothes? She remembered blood, so much blood. Had that been real, or a terrible dream? She pulled the blanket back.

  “Why am I here? What happened?” Rose said, a bubble of hysteria rising in her throat.

  Her grandmother made a small, frightened noise. It was Warren who answered.

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Were you there?”

  “Was I where?”

  “I remember being outside, at night, and it was foggy. A man was there. Was it you?”

  “Me? No, of course not.”

  “I saw Bel. She looked—hurt. Someone was behind me. I don’t remember anything after that. Or really, even, much before that.” Rose paused, a terrible thought forming in her mind. “Is Bel all right?”

  “You don’t remember what happened?”

  “No.”

  “Your sister is dead. She was murdered last night,” Warren said.

  As she struggled to process his words, life with Bel passed before her eyes. My sister, my twin, no no no. Lying in bed with Bel, comforting each other, after Dad died and they moved west. Playing in the courtyard of the apartment building in the shade of the palm trees. Riding the bus together to a new school. They grew apart, but then came back together when their mother got sick. Rose remembered the night their mother told them. She remembered holding on to Bel as they cried. For all their differences, they had turned to each other. They had come east—to live with Grandma, to go to Odell—together. Bel was her only family. The only person who truly knew her. But then Bel took sides against her, and they fought, terribly, over—what? Such a waste. She loved her sister, more than she loved anybody in this world. And now Bel was—dead?

  “Dead? How?” Rose asked.
r />   “I’d like to ask you that,” Warren said. “But I won’t. You’re in serious legal trouble, and the less you say, the better. Even to us.”

  “Legal trouble— Why?” Rose asked, gulping for air. She found it hard to breathe all of a sudden.

  “I would think that’s obvious, given what happened last night.”

  “I said, I don’t remember what happened. Didn’t you hear me?”

  Rose hated this man. His coldness, his condescension. Why wouldn’t her grandmother speak, or look at her?

  “Grandma,” Rose said.

  Warren touched Grandma’s shoulder again. It was a hushing sort of touch that said not to worry her pretty head because he had everything under control.

  “Rose, you walked into the Odell security office last night, covered in your sister’s blood, holding a large kitchen knife,” Warren said. “You proceeded to tell the dispatcher where to find Bel’s body. The police went there, and they found her. Stabbed. Seventeen times.”

  Rose closed her eyes and moaned. In the blackness of her mind, she saw the knife, felt the stickiness of blood. It couldn’t be true. She wouldn’t do that. She loved her sister. There was somebody behind her. But she couldn’t remember who.

  “I didn’t do it,” she whispered.

  “The evidence suggests otherwise. They’re awaiting test results on the murder weapon, and they expect to find your fingerprints. The police also took your clothes to the lab to be tested, so they can prove it’s Bel’s blood on them. They’re beginning to interview your classmates, to gather evidence about motive. From what I know of your relationship with your sister, they’ll find plenty. The bottom line, Rose, is that the police will be able to prove you killed Bel.”

  “But I didn’t. I would never hurt Bel. I love—loved her. Grandma? You believe me, right?”

  Rose looked at her grandmother, who turned her head to the side and began to cry silently. Warren handed her a handkerchief.

  “Your grandmother is a generous woman,” Warren said. “She won’t abandon you, even with this horrible thing you’ve done.”

  “But I didn’t do it!”

  “You may think you didn’t. Your mind is disturbed. The approach we’re going to take is that you need psychiatric help.”

  “You want to say I’m crazy?”

  “That makes it sound very stigmatizing. Our doctor will place your actions in the context of the trauma of losing your mother. The damage it caused to your mind. Nobody is blaming you. We’re trying to spare you, and more importantly, your grandmother, the pain of an arrest, incarceration, trial, and so forth. This is the best way. The only way.”

  “I didn’t do it. You’re trying to make people think I did. You just want me out of the picture.”

  “Rose, I’m trying to keep you out of jail. You’re sixteen years old. For a crime as serious as murder, they’ll prosecute you as an adult. You could end up with life in prison if we don’t handle this properly. Finding a specialist who’ll say that your actions arose from severe mental disturbance brought on by your mother’s death is your only chance. Do you understand?”

  Rose looked past Warren, trying to make eye contact with her grandmother, who still refused to look at her.

  “Grandma, I swear. I didn’t hurt Bel. I’m begging you. You have to believe me.”

  “Rose,” Warren Adams said, “you were holding the knife. It was covered in her blood. You told the police where her body was. And you say you’re not guilty? Do you see how crazy that sounds?”

  “I can’t explain right now. I’m having trouble remembering. My head hurts. My brain is messed up. But I know in my heart, I didn’t hurt her. I want to talk to the police. I can make them understand.”

  “Absolutely not, that would be a terrible mistake,” Warren said. “We keep you away from the police. They let you stay in the infirmary because I convinced them you’re injured and incoherent. The second you start talking, they’ll see that’s not true and lock you up. Do you understand?”

  “But I’m not crazy.”

  Grandma turned and finally met Rose’s eyes. Her face was sunken and wet with tears, and she looked much older than the last time Rose had seen her.

  “Rose, your mind is disturbed,” Grandma said. “I blame myself for not realizing. If only I’d seen it, I could have gotten you the help you needed, and your poor, sweet sister would still be alive. I won’t abandon you, Rose. But we both need to follow Warren’s advice. He knows what’s best.”

  “Grandma, I’m innocent!”

  Grandma made a strangled sound and buried her head in her hands. Then she got up and left the room—without a hug, without trying to comfort Rose, without even saying good-bye.

  “Rose, your grandmother is very upset. They woke her with the news in the middle of the night, then we drove up here from Connecticut to identify Bel’s body. Now, we have to make funeral arrangements. She’s exhausted, she’s in shock. She needs rest. We have to go. I’ll be back tomorrow, with the psychiatrist. Don’t talk to anybody without consulting me. You understand? Not the police, not anybody.”

  “No. Please, Mr. Adams. Wait.”

  Warren ignored her and walked out, pulling the door closed behind him. Rose heard a brief staccato of voices from the hall. Then the lock turned.

  They’d locked her in.

  Hysteria built inside her, until she thought she might scream. But screaming would only bring the nurse, and the needle. Her sister was dead. They thought she was the killer. Her own grandmother believed she’d murdered her twin. If everyone believed it, could it be true? She needed to think clearly. Rose remembered holding the knife, seeing its deadly glimmer in the moonlight. She remembered being angry, to the point of hating Bel, and picking up a sharp object—an X-Acto knife—and putting it in her pocket. She went to the lake with a knife in her pocket. Not the same knife that she remembered holding later. Where did that one come from? Had she killed her own sister? Was it possible? She lifted the covers again and held up her hands before her eyes. She remembered seeing her hands last night, covered in blood, and started to shake.

  And she remembered something else. The man standing behind her. The memory felt so real that it sent a convulsion of fear through her body. He’d been holding something. Something hard—a stick, a baseball bat? She remembered the sound as it cruised through the air, the crack as it connected with her skull, the explosion of pain and darkness. She touched the raw, crusty spot on the back of her head. The bump was real. He was real.

  Her sister’s killer was still out there.

  46

  The jangle of Heath’s phone woke Sarah at five o’clock the next morning. He grabbed it so fast that she realized he must’ve been awake already. It was cold in the apartment, and he wore only boxers. But he got out of the warm bed and took the phone into the living room, so he wouldn’t disturb her. Sarah reached a hand out and caressed the empty spot he left behind. Something had shifted between them last night. She felt it as he shook in her arms, his tears wet against her neck. He was sorry for what he’d done. He loved her, and the kids, more than ever. She wanted to forgive, and as she held him last night, she thought she could. But the more awake she got, the less certain she became. Was she forgiving an affair with a grown woman, or a relationship with a teenager? Those were two very different things. And how could she be comfortable that whatever it was, was over, when he wouldn’t talk about it?

  Heath tiptoed back into the bedroom, and dressed in the dim light that filtered from the hall. Watching the curve of his back, the breadth of his shoulders, Sarah remembered that photograph, and her mind went to a dark place. Maybe it wasn’t over. Why had he taken the phone into the other room? Was there something he didn’t want her to overhear? The possibilities weighed on her mind.

  Heath sat on the bed and put on his shoes. He was leaving. At five a.m.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, the panic rising in her voice. “Who was that on the phone?”

  Her throat was raw
and dry. She noticed for the first time that her eyes burned, and her head hurt. Was she getting the virus, on top of everything?

  “It was Simon. There’s some sort of emergency,” he said.

  “What emergency?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t give details. Get some sleep.”

  He kissed her on the forehead. She watched him go with a hollow feeling inside her.

  * * *

  Sarah pushed the stroller across campus toward the day care. It was the kids’ first time back since getting sick, and they were out of sorts. It had turned bitterly cold again. Sarah pulled the plastic weather cover forward to protect them from the wind, which made Harper whine that she couldn’t see, and Scottie try to kick it off.

  “Leave it be,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended.

  Sarah hadn’t taught in nearly a week, hadn’t checked in with the substitute to find out what material had been covered, and hadn’t reviewed her lesson plans. Heath had been gone for three hours, and he didn’t answer when she texted him to ask about the emergency. Her eyes stung from the cold, her head pounded, her throat hurt.

  She had half a mind to turn around and go back to bed.

  The flashing lights didn’t register until she practically stumbled over a police car. Four cruisers were pulled up at odd angles near the entrance to the old carriage road that ran through the nature preserve. Sarah had never seen that many cop cars on campus in all her years at Odell. Two officers stood together, leaning on the front of a cruiser, consulting a map. Sarah pushed the stroller right up to them.