She Was the Quiet One

by Michele Campbell

  Sarah shook so hard that her teeth chattered. She pulled the blanket over her, and pulled it up to her chin. But it did nothing to make her warmer, or less afraid. She was also angry. She’d given him the benefit of the doubt for so long. What kind of fool was she to give him a pass like that, when the signs were so clear? And he’d taken advantage.

  “You locked me in here,” Sarah said.

  “Yeah, because I’m not about to risk you trying to get up, and falling down that staircase.”

  “Why not? Then I’d be dead, like Bel. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Sarah, you’re delirious.”

  “What have you done with the children?”

  “Your mother picked them up. She wasn’t happy about it, but when I told her I got named headmaster, and I was busy meeting the trustees, she came around.”

  “You killed that girl, Heath.”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed. He could reach down and strangle her easily, if he chose to. But Heath wasn’t angry. He seemed merely hurt.

  “Sarah, you need to stop saying these things. Nobody can overhear right now, but if they did—”

  “So what? It’s the truth.”

  “That’s the flu talking. It’s making you say crazy things,” he said.

  She wasn’t surprised he would lie. He’d lied the last time she’d confronted him about something enormous. She’d had proof then, too. And still, he denied it. He denied until denial became impossible, at which point, he went for the coward’s escape. And failed. This man, whom the world viewed as a great success, was actually a failure at everything he did. Sarah kept trying to fix him. It hadn’t worked, and it was time to stop.

  “Heath,” she said, in a weak voice, struggling to get the words out. “Please, if you have any respect for me, any self-respect, stop lying. I know what you did. I won’t close my eyes any longer. I only want to understand, and make it right.”

  He looked away. When he wouldn’t meet her eyes, she knew, a hundred percent. Her last shred of denial went up in smoke, and she shook with rage, and grief for what they could have had, but lost.

  “You were always stronger than me,” he said, and hung his head. “That’s why I love you so much.”

  “Why? Why did you do it?”

  His eyes shimmered with tears, and his shoulders started to heave. This was the real Heath, the Heath she always saw at the darkest moments, weak and vulnerable and filled with self-pity.

  “I did it for you,” he said, sniveling.

  “No,” she said, and her voice, in her sickness and her shock, came out in a hoarse croak.

  “I did! For you, for us, our kids, our life together. I made a terrible mistake. Okay, that part, I take responsibility for. I slipped up with that girl. Bel came into my life at a moment when I just really needed—I don’t know—confidence, affirmation? You didn’t believe in me, Sarah. You looked at me with doubt in your eyes.”

  “Don’t you dare make this about me.”

  “The way Bel adored me—it was like a drug.”

  “I have to throw up,” Sarah said.

  The bathroom was en suite, or she wouldn’t have made it in time. She slammed the door, and heaved. There was nothing in her stomach anyway. Time passed. She lay against the bathtub and thought of all the ways he’d failed her and their children and himself. She wished him gone. She even wished him dead. But from the floor, as she pushed the door open much later, she saw him standing just outside.

  “Go away,” she said.

  “Here, let me help you back to bed.”

  She didn’t have the strength to resist.

  He sat down beside her again, and started to talk in a low, comforting voice, like one would use with an invalid, or a child.

  “I never intended to hurt Bel,” he said. “I was trying to fix the problem I created. I know what I did was wrong, but that came out of the fact that I always did right. I’m not a player. I’d never cheated before. I was foolish enough to think I could keep the affair a secret, that nobody would find out. But then Rose threatened to expose it. She’d been sending me anonymous messages, too. She had that photo, the one you showed me, and another one, of Bel getting into my car. At least, I thought she did, though I only found the one on her phone. I couldn’t let her expose me. It would have been unfair to you, Sarah. I asked Bel to get Rose out to the woods, so I could talk some sense into her. Convince her to delete the photos. That’s all I ever intended. But Bel got there first, and she was so—uncooperative. She said she was afraid of me, that she’d decided what we were doing was wrong, and she was going to file a complaint with Simon. I panicked. I just lost it. I couldn’t let her do that to us. And before I even knew what was happening, Bel was—she was—well, there was blood, everywhere.”

  Sarah listened in horror to his litany of excuses. Heath blamed everyone but himself. Sarah was responsible because she failed to worship him sufficiently, and drove him into the arms of a young girl. Rose was responsible because she threatened to expose him. Bel was responsible—for her own death—because she wouldn’t keep quiet. And on and on, his eyes lit up with self-pity. The only person not responsible was Heath. Every time, he let himself off the hook. Every time, he lied, like he always had. And she let him, and forgave him. Sarah couldn’t bear it any longer—not just Heath’s lies, but her own complicity.

  “There was blood because you stabbed that girl to death. Heath, you planned it. Why else bring the knife?”

  He looked momentarily startled, then his face settled into an adolescent pout, like he was the true victim here, if only Sarah were understanding enough to see it.

  “Well, I needed it to scare Rose,” he said, like it should be obvious. “I had no intention of using it. I feel worse about this than you do, Sarah. I feel terrible.”

  “So terrible, that you showered, and did laundry, and wiped down the bathroom with bleach?”

  “And burned what I couldn’t clean. Yes. I had to do that, or it would pull us all down. I couldn’t hurt you like that.”

  Thankfully, she was lucid enough to stop herself from confronting him about the hidden bloodstains in the bathroom. He’d run right over there and get rid of them. It was obvious he felt no remorse. Not a shred.

  He took her hand, gazing into her eyes, pleading. Her heart felt that old tug toward him, the desire to try to fix him with her love. But it was too late.

  “Nobody suspects me,” he said. “It’s a miracle that Rose showed up when she did, and picked up the knife. Her fingerprints are all over it. She even has motive. Everybody knew those girls were at each other’s throats. The cops believe Rose did it. All we have to do is keep our mouths shut, and things will go back to normal. We forget this ever happened, never mention it again, and we can finally have the life we want. The life we deserve. We can be happy, Sarah.”

  He expected her to go on as if nothing had changed. To stay with him. The thought made her skin crawl.

  “Rose knows you did it,” Sarah said.

  “If she tries to talk, nobody will believe her. Under that sort of pressure, who knows. A young girl might snap. She might even kill herself.”

  His words sent a chill through her, worse than the shivers of fever. Downstairs, the doorbell rang. The sonorous boom of it echoed up the staircase, and brought a frown to Heath’s face. He was not expecting company, apparently. He opened the drawer of the bedside table, pulled out a small silver handgun, and tucked it in the waistband of his pants. Where the hell did that come from? They didn’t own a gun. Sarah had never wanted one in the house, and neither had Heath, or so he claimed. He’d obviously had a change of heart. She could ask where he got it and when and why. But the answers wouldn’t matter, and besides, she already knew them. Guns were easy to come by. And Heath was a violent man.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her heart pounding with fear.

  “Stay here.”

  He ran out of the room, locking the door behind him so she had no choice but to obey his command
.

  62

  Zach suggested performing what he called a welfare check, to find out if Mrs. Donovan was all right. Given everything that had happened, Rose had no intention of returning to Moreland. But Zach needed to be back in his dorm for check-in, which was in a little more than an hour. She climbed out the window and down the fire escape. He met her below. They hurried through the rain to the headmaster’s house, where Rose crouched behind a bush and Zach rang the doorbell. As far as Donovan knew, Zach had nothing to do with any of this. He ought to be able to walk up to the front door and ask about Mrs. Donovan without arousing suspicion. His behavior might seem weird, but it wouldn’t put him in danger, the way it would if Rose paid a call. They had come up with a plausible story to explain his visit—or so they hoped.

  When nobody answered the door after a few minutes, Zach rang the bell again. Rose heard it echo in the massive house. Still, no answer. What was taking so long? Her legs started to cramp up from the squatting and the cold. She shifted position, jostling the bush and sending a shower of frigid raindrops onto her hair. An icy trickle ran down inside her jacket.

  Finally, the door opened. A bar of yellow light fell across the dark lawn. She couldn’t see from her hiding place who had answered. If it was Mrs. Donovan, Rose would come out and speak to her. But if it was him—well, they’d have to see. Rose’s heart was beating hard.

  “Good evening, Mr. Donovan, or I guess I should call you ‘Headmaster’ now, right?”

  It was him. The words carried past Rose and dissipated into the air. She strained to hear better.

  “Zach, right? What can I do for you?” Donovan said.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir. I’m actually looking for Mrs. Donovan. I was told she’s no longer on duty in Moreland Hall, so I thought I would check here.”

  “It’s a little late, isn’t it? If you’re in her math class, e-mail and make an appointment. She doesn’t meet with students at this hour.”

  Zach was not in Mrs. Donovan’s math class. They’d banked on her husband not knowing that, which, luckily, it seemed he didn’t. But now Zach would have to float the more elaborate story, which had to do with an upcoming test, and a tutor coming down with the flu.

  “Yeah, sorry, but this is fairly urgent.”

  “Classes are canceled for the rest of the week. What’s so urgent?”

  The wind gusted, carrying off Zach’s reply. A squall was rolling in. Bitter rain mixed with sleet lashed Rose in the face. She pulled her hood tight, and huddled against the bush. They were still talking, but she couldn’t hear a word. She stood up and stretched her legs. A minute later, the door slammed. The angry sound of it gave Rose an awful jolt. She prayed the wind had taken it. If not, a slammed door could mean that Donovan had found them out.

  He must have, because Zach didn’t wait for her. He bolted down the front path like he’d been shot from a cannon, without so much as a glance over his shoulder to see if Rose was following. She panted with fear and retreated into the bush, wedging herself between the scratchy branches and the cold brick of the house. To follow Zach to the road, she’d have to walk down the middle of the front lawn, which was completely open to view to anybody inside the house. To him, and he’d already tried to kill her once. Twice, actually, if you counted the blow to the head, in the woods, the night Bel died.

  Rose needed to wait long enough that he would lose interest and stop watching. Five minutes passed. The rain came down harder. The wind shifted, and she thought she heard someone calling her name. Rose poked her head out and scanned the lawn. Beyond the perimeter of light cast by the house, it was too dark to see anything. There were only tall trees, swaying in the wind, outlined against the stormy sky.

  “Rose. Enright, over here.”

  The sound had come from the edge of the woods. Rose turned, and saw a figure move. It was Zach, beckoning to her. She tucked her conspicuous blond hair more securely into her hood, and ran for the trees. Zach grabbed her the second she reached him, pulling her into the underbrush where they wouldn’t be seen. From his expression in the moonlight, and his taut grip on her arm, she felt his fear.

  “What happened?” she asked, keeping her voice low. “I couldn’t hear anything after he told you to e-mail her. Then he slammed the door.”

  “I tried to talk my way in, but that tutoring story didn’t hold water. He knew I was up to something, and he started to ask questions. Then I heard this pounding coming from upstairs. Like someone was banging on a door, begging to be let out. I think I even heard a scream, but it was windy. Once that happened, he told me to get lost, and he shut the door in my face. Rose, she’s up there. It had to be her, and I think he’s got her locked in. Plus, you’re not gonna believe this.”

  “What?”

  “He has a gun.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw it. When the pounding started, he turned to look, and the gun was stuck in the back of his pants. That’s when he slammed the door. He must know I saw it.”

  “We should call the police.”

  “Ugh, I tried, but my phone’s dead. We have to find Detective Howard. She seems reasonable, and I think she would want to help. She’s working out of the Odell Security Office.”

  “We can’t go there. Odell Security reports to Donovan now.”

  “Well, we can’t stay here. You heard what I said. He has a gun.”

  “You go, then. I don’t want to leave Mrs. Donovan alone with him. I’m afraid he’ll hurt her.”

  “What can you do? If you go in there, he’ll kill you.”

  “I’m not planning to storm the house. I’ll stay right here, and keep an eye out.”

  “But you can’t even see anything from here.”

  “Then I’ll go around the back, and look in the windows. Maybe I can get her attention.”

  “No. That’s crazy. If you want to stay, you’ve got to keep out of sight. I’ll get the detective, as fast as I can. If something happens, if you see him coming, run. Get to the road, flag down a car. But only if there’s an emergency—otherwise, stay in the woods, where he can’t see you. Promise?”

  “Yes. I understand. Thank you, Zach.”

  “Be safe, Enright.”

  Zach tapped her apprehensively on the arm, and turned to go.

  63

  Heath was at the front door for what felt like a very long time. This was a drafty house. Sarah knew that the door was open, and that Heath was still standing there, presumably talking to whoever rang the bell, because the wind gusted in and rattled the walls. As she lay in the bed in the throes of fever, shivering with each fresh blast, the image of Heath tucking the small silver handgun into his waistband played on repeat in her mind.

  It meant something. Something specially for her.

  Heath had asked Sarah to forgive and forget. To pretend he never had an affair with a vulnerable young girl. Never stabbed that girl to death and left her to bleed out in the woods. Never allowed her poor sister—Sarah’s dear Rose—to take the blame for his crime. Sarah should behave as if nothing happened, stand by Heath’s side, cover up his lies. That’s what he wanted from her. What he expected of her.

  But what if she didn’t?

  That’s what the gun was for.

  Why else would he have it? Who else was left for him to threaten, to kill? Maybe Rose, but Rose was beyond his reach now, safe with her grandmother—thank God. Sarah was the prisoner here. The children were gone. The dog was locked in the basement. There would be no witnesses. And as far as the world at large knew, Sarah had run away from the hospital and had not been seen since. With her illness, with the weather as dire as it was, it was possible that she’d meet an untimely end, and that her body would never be found. He wouldn’t want another body to explain. He was smart enough to realize that.

  But, come on, that was the fever talking. Heath was her husband. They had two children together. If he begged her to forgive and forget, it was because he still loved her, and wanted to save their marriage. He
would never hurt her.

  Bel Enright thought the same thing. And Heath stabbed her seventeen times and left her lying in a pool of her own blood.

  The fact was, Sarah didn’t know what Heath was capable of, or what he intended. She never would have imagined that he could kill someone, yet he had. He admitted to it, freely, making Sarah’s willful denial seem ludicrous and pathetic. What a fool she’d been, to believe him for so long. Heath had a gun. Why have it, if he didn’t plan to use it on her when she refused his demands? Not only was he armed, but Sarah was weak as a kitten. If he decided to hurt her, she wouldn’t be able to protect herself. She needed help. There was a person at the door now, and they wouldn’t be there for much longer. If she hoped to attract attention, this was her chance.

  Sarah pulled the bedspread back, and the effort of doing so left her faint. She gathered her strength, then placed her feet squarely on the floor and used the bedside table to lever herself up to standing. The room swam, and her eyes teared up. How could she manage this? She hung her head in despair. If she died here, by her husband’s hand, her children would never know. They’d grow up without her, fed a false story of her death. Heath would remarry, of course; he didn’t like to be alone. He was the sort of man who needed a wife. Someone like Sarah, wholesome and solid, dazzled by his brilliance, buying his lies, raising his children. They were so little that they’d forget her entirely, and call the new woman Mommy.

  She made it to the locked door and pounded with every ounce of strength she had left. She screamed her throat raw. And nothing happened.

  64

  After a while, a shadow fell across the slit of light under the door, and Heath came in. She’d gotten back in bed, and lay there with her eyes closed and her heart pounding, pretending to sleep. He saw through that one easily enough, or else he just didn’t care. He crossed quickly to the bed, grabbed her arm and shook her viciously.

  “What the hell was that?”

  She cried out in shock and opened her eyes. Heath gripped her arm so hard that his fingers dug into her flesh.