“Sorry.” I didn’t explain. Didn’t need to. Susan knew me well.
She repeated her question. She wanted me to tell her what had happened, why Rose was so furious. I told her about Seth’s bruises and welts. The Department of Human Services complaint that Mr. Royal and I had filed.
“But those complaints are confidential,” Susan said. “There’s no way that Rose or any parent can find out who contacted—”
“Seth told her I’d asked about his bruises and had the principal and school nurse take a look at them.” I felt the impact of Rose’s fists slamming my window, her legs ramming my door. The car rocking with impact. I picked up an embroidered throw pillow, hugged it to my chest.
“Okay, so you reported abuse. And then?”
“And then, DHA got some kind of emergency order to remove Seth and Katie from the home. They got them out the very next day.”
“Who’s Katie?”
“Seth’s sister.”
“Was she hurt, too?”
“I don’t know. They took both minors.”
“Okay.” Her voice sounded uncertain.
“We had no choice, Susan. You should have seen that little boy’s chest. He had red welts on his ribs. And a bruise under his eye.” I shook my head, chasing away the images. Noticed a thin coat of dust on the coffee table. But so what? The house was sold. I didn’t need to keep it pristine for showings anymore. I could let dust build up to the ceiling.
“—and after all, he has a violent history. And the abuse started right after he got out of juvey, didn’t it? Sounds like he’s the one hurting Seth.”
Was she talking about Ty? No, I couldn’t imagine Ty harming little Seth.
Then again, I wouldn’t have imagined him killing his father. Or showing up at my home, threatening me.
Besides, we couldn’t be sure when the abuse started. It might have begun years ago without anyone noticing. Or over the summer, long before Ty came home.
Or not. Despite my doubts, Ty might be responsible. Maybe that was why Rose was afraid of him, why she wanted him out of her house. I saw him at my doorstep, anger pulsing in his forehead. Why was I trying to deny it? Ty was a killer who’d spent years locked up with other violent youths. He might well have been hurting his brother. I sat up, replaced the pillow against the sofa cushion. Took a breath.
“Now. About the list.”
The list? For the briefest moment, I didn’t recall what list Susan was talking about.
“Becky thinks Rose wrote it.”
Oh, that list. The list of seven names, the first three belonging to murder victims. The fourth belonging to me.
“So pack a bag,” Susan said. “You’re staying at my house.”
What? God, no. With her three banshee daughters and a passive-aggressive husband? “No, Susan. Really—”
“Just for a few days.”
“No.” I said it more emphatically than I’d intended. “I mean I don’t want to intrude—”
“Elle, don’t argue. You shouldn’t stay alone, not now, with that psycho Ty out there and Rose out on bail. Even if they have nothing to do with the murders, your name is on that list. And so is Becky’s. We have room for you both. If you don’t want to share the guest room, Lisa and Julie will double up and you can have Lisa’s room.”
“I don’t know.” I wasn’t sure which was worse. Spending the night at Susan’s house of chaos or facing a knife-wielding murderer.
Susan waited. I pictured her at her desk, surrounded by files and case notes. A voice in the background interrupted, sounded urgent. Susan said she had to go, her clients had arrived. “See you later. Just bring Becky and come. I’ll bake banana bread.”
I agreed to talk to Becky about it, but said I didn’t want to disrupt her family and besides, I’d be fine at home. Even though I hadn’t had the locks changed yet, I would double bolt the doors. I was talking about the bolts when I realized that Susan had already clicked off, that I was talking to dead air.
I was on my way to Charlie’s study, to get a bottle of Syrah from the rack on top of the bar when the doorbell rang. I figured it was Becky, coming by to urge me to stay at Susan’s. I was so sure that the person on my doorstep was Becky that I almost opened the door, but at the last moment, I realized that it might be Rose, so I put the bottle and glass on the foyer table and checked the peephole.
It wasn’t Rose. Wasn’t Becky either. Not even Ty. No, the person at my door was Jerry.
“Elle.” His voice boomed through the door frame. “It’s me. Open up.”
I didn’t move, didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to deal with Jerry.
“Come on, Elle. It’s important. I know you’re home.”
He did? How?
“We need to talk.”
Jerry was persistent. If I didn’t answer, he’d keep yelling. Wouldn’t go away. “Jerry,” I called, “it’s not a good time. Is this about the house? I’ll email the forms to you tonight.” I hadn’t signed them yet, had to get on it.
“It’s not about the forms, Elle. It’s something else.”
Damn. Was the buyer backing out? I opened the door. Jerry looked dapper, as usual, his hair slicked back, his suit expensive. He held a bouquet of red roses in one hand, a bottle of Syrah in the other.
“Hi there.” He smiled.
I swallowed. “Jerry, like I said—”
“These are for you.” He held out the flowers, stepped forward toward the door.
I didn’t take the roses. Jerry had no business buying them.
“Look, Elle, I know how you feel. I get it. But look, we succeeded. We got it done, sold your house. We need to celebrate. Plus I don’t want you to have hard feelings about me. Can’t we sit down while you sign the papers online, drink some wine, and make peace? I want to part on good terms, that’s all.”
My neck was strained, looking up at him. He looked like a huge puppy with large sorry eyes and slumped shoulders. Still, I didn’t want him to come in. Didn’t want his flowers or his wine either.
“That’s sweet of you, Jerry. But really, I’m going out—”
“Really? You’ve got a date? Who’s the guy?”
I hesitated too long. Didn’t answer.
“Come on, Elle. This is me. You don’t need to pretend. I know you’re not seeing anybody.”
“It’s not your business.”
“Besides, I won’t stay long. Just one drink.” He stepped forward, brushing past me to enter the house. “Let’s sign your papers and toast your sale, and I’ll be out of here.”
“Jerry, no.” I put up a hand, blocking him.
He stopped, pouting, feigning surprise and pain.
“I told you this isn’t a good time.”
He nodded, bit his lip. “Okay. Fine then. I guess I’ll go.” He held out the wine and roses. “Here. Take these. I bought them for you.”
An awkward moment passed before I accepted them. “Look, this was sweet of you. But you should have called first.”
“Why? What’s the point? You don’t take my calls.”
It was true. I’d been avoiding him. I felt my face redden.
“Fact is, a divorced woman your age should be grateful for the interest of someone like me.” He didn’t smile. “You could do a lot worse.”
What? Had he been drinking? “Time to go, Jerry.”
“You sure? Because frankly I’m tired of your I’m-too-good-for-you attitude. I’ve been patient, but I’m going to be honest with you, Elle. This is your last chance.”
My last chance? That was it. Jerry had crossed a line. I dropped the flowers onto the foyer floor, grabbed the door, and showed him out.
“Really? That’s how you’re going to play it? Fine. I’ll see you around, Elle. At settlement. Be sure to send the papers.”
I pointed to the street.
He sauntered past, spun around on the front stoop, and tried again. “Just one drink?”
I didn’t answer, just shut the door.
“Well,” he shouted from the po
rch, “even if you don’t share it with me, promise you’ll drink the wine. I want you to relax and enjoy. My treat.”
“Bye, Jerry.”
“Promise?”
What the hell? “Fine. I promise.”
When I was sure he was gone, I threw the roses in the trash, almost threw out the wine, too. Instead, I opened it. The cork came out easily, and I poured a glass, pretty much gulping it down. Jerry, Ty, Rose, Seth. Duncan. Stan. Patsy Olsen, Stephanie Cross, Joyce and Mrs. Marshall. Faces and voices swam in my head. I poured another glass, took it and the bottle to the living room. Jerry’s gift was unwelcome, but there was no point in wasting a good bottle of Syrah.
CHAPTER TEN
Rain pounded the windowpanes. I moaned and started to roll over. My muscles screamed in protest. No part of me wanted to move. I didn’t argue, lay still with my eyes closed. Didn’t move or think, didn’t exactly sleep. Just lay in bed, aware only of rain.
The first time I heard my ringtone, I let it go. It sounded dim and far away, and my arms were too heavy to reach for it. But it rang again. And again, who knows how many times before I finally forced my eyes open, my head off the pillow, my torso off the sheets to look for the phone. Where the hell was it?
The ringtone stopped before I could locate the source. But there I was, sitting up, awareness creeping into the slog of my mind. The rain—hadn’t it just been raining? It had subsided, had diminished to a gentle drizzle. The nightstand clock said 9:14.
And I was naked.
Naked?
I looked down again, making sure. Yes, indeed, I had not a stitch on. No nightgown. No t-shirt. No comfy sweatpants. Nothing. A puzzling shiver of disgust skittered down my back, and I pulled the sheet up over my chest, covering myself, looking around the room, at the bathroom door, into the closet, as if hiding myself from unseen eyes.
But of course no one was there. I was alone.
I leaned back against the pillows, confusion setting in. Why was I naked? Had I taken a shower late at night and fallen asleep before putting on a t-shirt? I didn’t know, couldn’t remember. But I never slept naked. Never. Not since Charlie. So why had I decided to last night?
And why was I so repulsed? Nudity didn’t normally bother me, but now my body felt nasty. I needed to wash, get clean. I forced myself out of bed, into the bathroom, into the tub. I turned on steamy water and soaped up, scrubbing away angry images of the day before. Rose Evans. Ty. And someone else? I couldn’t remember. I rinsed and soaped again, straining my memory until the water cooled.
My phone rang again. I let it go. Started over, running hot water until I was burning, and scrubbing and washing until my flesh was raw. Then I repeated the process, scrubbing, soaking, reheating the water. And still, I didn’t feel clean.
The phone continued to blare my ringtone. “We’re caught in a trap. I can’t walk out …” At some point, it occurred to me that the call might be important. Otherwise, why would someone keep calling? I ought to find my phone and answer. But not yet. I wasn’t clean yet.
Eventually, as it rang, I dragged myself out of the tub, grabbed a towel, and followed the ringtone to the stairway. The ringtone stopped, but I found my phone on the foyer floor along with my toothbrush, t-shirt, and sweatpants, the clothes I would have worn to bed.
Why would I have shed my clothes and dropped them in the foyer with my phone and toothbrush?
An image flashed—a man, silhouetted in the doorway. I tried to see his face, but the figure vanished. The phone began again. I pounced, grabbing it without even looking at the screen.
“Elle? Thank God.” Becky’s voice. Frantic. “We were going to call the police.”
“Becky.” I closed my eyes, basked in the familiar, normal sound of her voice.
“Are you all right?”
“It’s the strangest thing.” I wasn’t sure how to describe what had happened. I wrapped the towel around myself. I was dripping onto the hardwood floor, making water stains.
“What’s going on, Elle? Have you looked at the clock? Do you know what time it is?”
Yes, I did. I tried to remember. Nine something?
“Where are you? Are you sick? Why didn’t you call in?”
“What day is it?”
“What’s wrong with you? It’s Monday. And it’s almost ten.”
Monday? “Oh God. I forgot!” I wheeled around, dizzy but mortified, and bounded up the steps, holding my toothbrush and sweatpants. My class—how could I have messed up so badly? I needed to get dressed, get to school.
“You forgot? Seriously?” Her tone shifted from worried to furious. “How could you forget to go to work? Elle, what’s wrong with you?”
Good question. What was wrong with me? What had happened to the weekend? Fear rumbled in my belly, providing an answer: my dissociative disorder. It must have finally taken control of my mind, making me miss not just a stretch of conversation, but an entire weekend. Maybe next time, I’d slip away for good. I pictured a hospital, a straitjacket. Becky and Jen bringing flowers once a week.
Stop, I told myself. Get going. I tried to hurry, but felt like I was swimming through pudding. Or was it Jello? What difference did it make? Why was I wasting time thinking about swimming in desserts? I raced to my closet, yanked a pair of black pants off a hanger, a cream-colored blouse. “I’m coming in now.” I jabbed an uncooperative leg into the pants, missed the leg hole, realized I hadn’t put on underwear. Pulled my leg out, ran to the dresser.
Becky was talking. Repeating herself. “Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said? I’m telling you not to come in.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m okay. I’m on my way. I’ll be there in fifteen. Have my class write stories using their spelling words—”
“Elle, dammit, stop jabbering and listen!”
Was I jabbering? I stopped, listened.
“There’s a substitute. Mr. Royal had to get someone at the last minute and he’s ticked off, so it’s better if you play sick and stay home. But what the hell happened? Why didn’t you answer your phone all weekend? Jen and I called maybe a hundred times. Susan called, too, which is incredible of her given what you said to her.”
What? “I didn’t say anything to Susan. I haven’t talked to her.” I sat on the bed, trying to sort my thoughts. Nothing made sense. Sleeping nude, not going to work, not hearing the phone for two days, not remembering a whole couple of days. My head felt light as if it had floated off my body, disconnecting me from my life.
“Elle, I was standing right next to her when she called you Friday night. I know you talked to her.”
I did? I tried to remember, couldn’t. “What did I say?”
“You know very well what you said.”
“Becky, I don’t remember saying anything to Susan.”
“Really?” She didn’t believe me. “Why not? Did you hit the wine again?”
Again? What? “No. I mean, I don’t remember. Just tell me what I said.”
Her voice was cautious, unconvinced. “We were supposed to stay at Susan’s Friday night. Do you at least remember that?”
Now that she said it, yes. I remembered Susan insisting that we sleep over. Taking out underwear and a t-shirt, starting to pack a bag.
“But you didn’t show up, didn’t even call. About eleven, we got worried. Susan called to see where you were and you blasted her. Tell me you don’t remember that.”
I told her I didn’t remember that.
“What you said about her kids? Elle, she was almost in tears. I agree that they’re spoiled and rude, but even so, your language was uncalled for.”
Oh God, what had I said? I let go of the cream-colored shirt and black pants, let them slide to the floor, ran a hand through my hair. Noticed my overnight bag in the corner of the room. Had I taken it out to pack for Susan’s?
I didn’t remember packing. Didn’t remember lambasting Susan’s daughters. My neck tingled, and I touched it, vaguely expecting to find slime.
Becky was still scolding
me. “… would have come to check on you, but Susan figured you’d been drinking and needed to sleep it off and chill on your own for the weekend. But then this morning, you didn’t show up at school, and we all went nuts.”
I sank onto the floor beside my clothes, wiped away a tear. “Becky, listen. I don’t know what happened, but something’s wrong with me. I don’t remember anything that happened since Friday night. I had no idea it was Monday. I don’t know what happened to the weekend. This morning, I almost couldn’t wake up.” The man in the doorway glimmered in my mind, disappeared. My chest tightened.
“Sounds like a hangover.”
Boom. I remembered a bottle of Syrah. Jerry giving it to me.
My doorbell rang.
“Becky, someone’s here.” I held the towel up, watched the bedroom door.
“It’s Susan and Jen. I told them you didn’t come to work and Susan freaked. They’re prepared to find you murdered.”
Murdered?
I stopped breathing. Mrs. Marshall grinned at me with her carved, bloody smile. Joyce slumped over her steering wheel with her throat slashed. Stephanie Cross lay lifeless—and now, my friends expected to find me dead.
Of course they did. I was next on the list.
I turned, looked at my pillows, the rumpled sheets. Recalled the murkiness of waking up, the heaviness of my limbs. My inability to move or think or remember. But my friends were downstairs, ringing the bell, frantic. I got off the phone, struggled to pull on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Every movement took concentration, as if my body parts weren’t quite my own. I started down the stairs, careful to measure each step. What was wrong with me? Why had I slept so deeply and so late? How had I lost two whole days? Why had I been naked, felt so unclean? Why had I been so awful to Susan on the phone? Why couldn’t I remember? Was it really because of my dissociation disorder? Or was it something else?
“WTF, Elle?” Jen shouted. “Open the eff up!” She banged on the door.
I heard Susan’s voice. A key turned in the lock. They were coming in, expecting to find my body.
Near the bottom of the staircase, I saw my sweatpants and toothbrush on the floor. Fragmented thoughts pulled together, formed a simple explanation for the state I was in: I’d been drugged—or maybe poisoned.
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