Like rape?
I squirmed. Stan stepped a few steps to the left, out of the light. His shoulders were stooped. His arms long and thin. Maybe he wasn’t my rapist after all. Not that I remembered details of my rapist’s physique. I looked at the clock. It was after four. I should call Becky again. Where the hell were the cops?
The double doors opened and Officer Salerno came in, spotted us in the corner of the lobby, and came over. He recognized Rose.
“I didn’t think we’d see you back here so soon, Mrs. Evans.” He took a cop’s stance, legs apart, arms crossed.
“Why not? My son’s here.”
Stan nodded at the officer and wandered away. I watched him until he turned to enter a classroom. Told myself that he was harmless, that his shape wasn’t what I remembered.
Now that the policeman was there, I could leave, too. I picked up my bag and stood.
“Where you going, Mrs. H?” Rose stopped me. “What’s your hurry? Can’t wait to get away from me, can you. Like I’m garbage. You’re just like all of them, acting like I’m the one who killed somebody. Well, guess what? I had nothing, nothing, nothing to do with it. Not one goddamn thing. It was Ty, all Ty. I know what people say—that I made him take the fall—”
“Mrs. Evans,” I interrupted. “I have to go.” I looked at the officer; he nodded a good-bye.
“But they’re wrong. I had no part in any killing.” Rose went on as if I hadn’t said anything. “It was Ty and Ty alone. If not for him, my husband would be alive today. He’d be earning a good living, paying our bills. My kids and I would be together. We’d be fine. Except for Ty.”
Just walk away, I told myself. Go down the hall and meet Becky. I turned and began walking. Rose kept talking to me.
“But now Ty’s back, and things are worse than ever, Mrs. H. You know that no one thought about taking my kids from me, not until Ty came home.”
I stopped walking. Played back her words: no one thought about taking her kids away until after Ty had come home. She was right. What if Ty, not Rose, had caused Seth’s injuries? Rose might be innocent of child abuse. Katie and Seth might need protection not from her, but from Ty. I pictured him outside my house, the coldness in his eyes. He’d promised that I’d be sorry for breaking up his family, but was the intervention by the Department of Human Services really what had angered him? Or had Ty exploded because he no longer had power over his siblings—because his human punching bags had been removed?
“Now, Ty’s back and all of a sudden, they say my house isn’t safe for my kids. They blame me, but Mrs. H, you know I’d never hurt my kids. Katie and Seth would be home where they belong if not for Ty.”
I looked across the lobby at the main office. How often had Mrs. Marshall dragged Ty there, scolding him for fighting? Ty had been a bully as a little boy. Maybe he was a bully still.
Behind me, the double doors swung open. Two uniformed cops strutted in. One addressed the officer on duty. “Eddie, how’s it going?” The other recognized Rose. “Mrs. Evans. We meet again.”
Rose didn’t acknowledge them. She turned my way, got to her feet. “Ty’s my son, but he’s mean to the bone. Always has been. I can’t sleep when he’s around. For all I know, he’ll come with an axe and kill me just like he killed his daddy.”
While the officers cuffed her, I started for Becky’s room.
“I have every right to be here,” Rose insisted. “This is public property.” She didn’t give in. I heard her asserting her citizen’s rights until the double doors shut behind them.
The hall was empty, the floors scuffed from a day of heavy traffic. The air stuffy with smells of peanut butter, apple juice, and sweaty kids. I hurried, knowing that Becky would be waiting. We had plans to visit places for next month’s outing.
Jen wanted us to go back to the circus school for our free lesson, but I wasn’t eager and my shoulder wasn’t ready to take on the trapeze. Becky and I were going to look for a tamer activity, one that took place closer to the ground. She’d arranged for us to visit a spa, a comedy improv school, and a bar where they provided materials and you took a painting lesson while drinking.
None of the activities excited me. I was tired. No, I was worse than tired. I was lifeless. I hadn’t pulled an Elle, but I’d separated from myself, from my surroundings, going through the motions of teaching without feeling present. I felt wounded. Violated. I’d heard myself presenting new spelling words, explaining how to add numbers with double digits. I’d guided children at the computers, at the art and writing station. I’d answered questions, paid attention to Seth. But the whole day, I’d been far inside myself. Or outside myself. Someplace else.
I’d promised Becky that I’d go, but I wanted to go home, take another bath, get into bed and hide. I passed Joyce’s old classroom, lights off for the day. And my own dark room. The school was silent except for the hollow clack of my footsteps and the buzz of fluorescent lights that glowed an eerie shade of green. Except for Stan, Becky and I were probably the last ones there. I looked behind me, quickened my pace. Ran the last few steps to Becky’s kindergarten room. The door was already closed.
“Becky?” I threw it open, dashed inside.
And saw Stan.
Stan? Shoulders slumped, he stood beside Becky’s desk, a wall of children’s watercolor paintings behind him. He didn’t turn to look at me.
My stomach clenched. “Where is she?” But I knew, even as I asked, that she was on the floor behind her desk. Stan was looking at her.
I ran, shoving Stan out of the way, kneeling, taking her hands.
“Becky? Becky?” I couldn’t manage to say anything else.
Her hands were still warm. I touched her face. Tried to remember first aid. You had to check things in order: bleeding, heartbeat, and breathing. Or, damn. Was it heartbeat, breathing, and bleeding? I couldn’t think. Kept repeating Becky’s name. Put my hand to her throat to feel for a pulse, but remembered that if she were breathing, then for sure she’d have a pulse, so I put my finger under her nose, and yes, felt small bursts of warm moist air. Thank God. Becky was alive.
“What happened?” I turned to Stan.
“I came in to clean.” He watched her legs. “She was on the floor.”
I looked her over. Remembered that I shouldn’t move her in case she had a broken neck. A broken neck? I saw no blood. Had she fainted? What did you do for someone who’d fainted? I couldn’t remember.
“Get a blanket,” I told Stan.
He didn’t move. But Becky did. She moaned and stirred, opened her eyes, winced. Reached for her head. Moaned again.
I said her name again. Her gaze followed my voice, landed on me.
“Elle?” She tried to sit up.
“No, don’t get up yet,” I told her. “Lie down.”
She ignored me, sat up. Saw Stan’s legs. Looked up at his face. And screamed.
Still on the floor, Becky skittered like a crab, scooting away from Stan.
“What?” Stan asked her. “I came in to mop, that’s all.” He nodded toward the bucket near the door.
Becky cowered. I put an arm around her. “What happened?”
Her hand went to her ear. “He bashed me on the head.”
“Me?” Stan pointed to himself.
“Stan?” I asked.
“No way.” Stan shook his head. “Uh-uh, no, sir.”
Becky didn’t argue. “What time is it? Was I unconscious?” She rubbed the side of her head, wincing. Gently, I touched the spot she’d rubbed. A bump was already swelling behind her ear.
“No, ma’am, no, sir. It wasn’t me.” Stan backed away, shaking his head. “I didn’t do anything to you or to anybody. I’m just here to do my job.”
Becky and I eyed him.
He took another step back. “How come you’re looking that way at me? You know me. I’m Stan. I do my work and I mind my business. That’s all. I don’t hurt people. Why would I?”
“How should I know why?” Becky glared. “Maybe
because of the list. Because I was next after Elle.”
Stan’s eyebrows furrowed. “What list?”
“My name was after Elle’s,” Becky repeated.
I kept an arm around Becky, watched the exchange. Could Stan have written the list? Could he have killed Joyce and Mrs. Marshall?
“I came in to clean.” Stan kept backing away. “To clean. That’s all. But now I’m going to go look for the guy who did this.”
I got my phone out. “I think we should all stay here.”
“What are you doing?” Stan’s eyes widened. “Who are you calling?”
“Who do you think?”
“I think the police.”
He was almost right. Actually, I was calling 911, reporting an assault, requesting an ambulance.
Then we waited. I held Becky’s hand, wouldn’t let go of it. She could have been killed. Oh my God. Who could have done this to her? Why Becky? She was the kindest, warmest, most loving and generous person I knew.
“I think I’m all right.” Becky took her hand from mine, tried to stand. “Really. I just want to go home.”
“Don’t even try.” I tugged her arm, made her sit, and reclaimed her hand.
After a few minutes, Stan said he’d better go find Officer Salerno. I told him to stay with us. Somehow, I’d become the one in charge of the others, controlling the scene.
We waited. I hung onto Becky’s hand, couldn’t bear to let it go. Becky could have been killed. Oh God. Killed? Becky had been my best friend for over thirty years. She’d been my maid of honor, had helped me through all the troubles with Charlie, through the aftermath of his murder. And before that, she’d been by my side through my mother’s illness and death. Hell, when we’d been teenagers, before my second date with Bobby Baumann, Becky had taught me to dance, even to kiss. I remembered how she’d demonstrated by kissing my cupped hand, heard her directions about parting my lips and making them soft. Lord, if anything happened to Becky, I’d be lost. I wondered if, over the years, I’d been as good a friend to her as she’d been to me. I hoped so. I couldn’t think about how close I’d come to losing her. So I chattered, making small talk, keeping Becky engaged until Officer Salerno finally showed up, having received a call from dispatch about the incident. He stood beside Becky, asked her what had happened, looked around the room for signs of the attacker, and left us when he got a call to go meet the ambulance and guide the EMTs to the kindergarten.
From then on, it was chaos. A jumble of police and EMTs scrambling through the kindergarten. I had to move out of the way so EMTs could examine Becky, checking her vital signs, her wound. My hand felt cold without Becky’s, and I rubbed it, trying to get it warm. Uniformed police asked Stan and me questions. I tried to answer, but my mind was on Becky. On what had almost happened.
“Elle?” Becky called. “They’re ready to take me.”
EMTs with matching blue shirts were helping her onto a stretcher.
“You’ll call and cancel our appointments?” she asked.
Our appointments? Oh, yes. I nodded. Of course I would. “I’ll follow the ambulance. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
She looked small and lost. I hurried to squeeze her hand once more before they wheeled her away. I watched them lift her into the ambulance, went back to her desk to get my bag.
“You can join her, but first let’s have a chat.”
I wheeled around, hadn’t noticed Detective Stiles across the room in the book corner. He sat on a kindergartener-sized chair with Stan who sat cross-legged on a pillow. When had Stiles come in? Had I called him? I thought back, remembered taking out my phone, but not making the call.
Stan and Stiles stood. Stiles shook Stan’s hand and said he appreciated his help and his time. And Stan walked out, carrying his bucket and his mop.
I watched Stan walk away, free. Apparently Stiles didn’t suspect him of knocking Becky out.
But if Stan hadn’t, who had?
“Mrs. Harrison.” Stiles motioned for me to join him on a tiny chair. When I hesitated, he offered to move somewhere more comfortable.
I told him I’d stand.
He said, no. He wanted me to relax.
For a few awkward moments, where we would talk became the topic of our talk.
We ended up at Becky’s desk, with Stiles perched on her blotter, me in her chair.
And, then, endless seconds passed while he didn’t say anything. He just watched me. I felt heat where his gaze landed. What was he doing? Why was he wasting time? I couldn’t just sit there. I needed to get to the hospital to be with Becky.
“I thought you wanted to talk to me,” I finally said.
“I do.”
“Okay. So?”
He crossed his arms. The man would have been dashingly, disarmingly handsome except for that jagged scar that crossed one cheek. “What do you think happened here?”
Seriously? Wasn’t it clear what had happened? “Someone smacked Becky on the head.”
“And why would someone do that?” He fiddled with an apple-shaped paper weight. Tossed it hand to hand.
“You know why. Because she was next on the list.”
He met my eyes, still played with the glass apple.
“Susan gave you the list, didn’t she?”
He didn’t confirm, didn’t deny it. Just watched me.
“So now, the first three women are dead, and Becky’s name was next after mine.”
“After yours.” He tilted his head. “So this incident is a deviation from the list. Because, so far, nothing’s happened to you.”
“No. It has—somebody attacked me.”
“Really?” His face looked doubtful and he set the apple down. “When was that? When Rose Evans came after you? Or are you referring to the day you saw a woman get hit by a car?”
“No.” I shook my head. “The night before last. Someone broke into my house and assaulted me.”
His eyes shifted slightly. An eyebrow rose. “I haven’t seen that report.”
My face heated up.
“Who did you speak to?”
I looked away. The opposite wall was covered with collages of colored leaves. “I didn’t call the police.” I hugged myself. What could I say?
“Why not?” He leaned forward, eyes intensely on mine, waiting for me to go on. “What happened, Mrs. Harrison? Tell me.”
And so I did. I folded my hands, looked straight at him and said that I had very little memory of the actual attack. Then I told him about Jerry’s increasingly aggressive behavior, his Friday evening visit with a gift of possibly drugged wine. About my missing, memoryless weekend. About waking up Monday morning unable to move or remember anything but an ominous shadow, about feeling overwhelmingly contaminated, needing to bathe. About being certain that I’d been raped.
When I finished, my hands weren’t just folded. They were clenched. I stared at them, expecting Stiles to doubt, even to mock me.
He did neither. His tone changed, became gentle, and he asked if I wanted to see a doctor or talk to a rape counselor. I said no, but my eyes filled. Stiles believed me. He even asked for Jerry’s contact information.
But I wasn’t finished. I went on, told him I wasn’t sure the rapist was Jerry, that there were other possibilities. I didn’t mention Stan because I’d just seen Stiles shaking his hand like an old buddy. But I told him that Duncan Girard had been so afraid that Joyce or I would sully his reputation that he’d threatened us.
Stiles made a note. Asked if there was anything else.
There was. I looked across the room at the small tables and chairs, saw little Ty with his scraped knees and bruises. I blinked the boy away, picked up the glass apple that Stiles had set on the desk. It was still warm from his hands. I told Stiles that Ty had shown up at my house, furious, almost violent. Not only that, I told him that Ty was directly connected to two of the murder victims.
“Good work. You should be a detective.” Stiles smiled. Rather, the unscarred half of his face smiled.
“Actually, Ty’s connected to all three victims. Joyce Huff never taught him, but she taught his sister, Katie. Katie was one of her favorites.”
I didn’t see how Joyce teaching Katie connected Joyce to Ty. Certainly it didn’t give Ty a motive to kill her. But none of that mattered. What mattered was that Stiles had believed me. He’d offered me rape counseling and taken Jerry’s contact information. He’d taken me at my word when my own closest friends had doubted me and assumed I’d dreamed or imagined the rape by pulling a gigantic weekend-long Elle.
Then again, I hadn’t told Stiles about my dissociation disorder. Hadn’t confessed that I sometimes slipped away mentally and might have experienced the entire attack only in my mind.
“We’re well aware of Ty Evans and his record,” he assured me. “He’s a person of interest. And you’re right. It seems clear that someone is meticulously harming the women on that list.”
Again, Stiles believed me. About the rape. About the list. He would question Jerry. And Ty, and even Duncan Girard. He said that Stan had been cleared. His alibi had checked out. My shoulders relaxed. Tension eased in my back, arms, neck. My hand loosened around the glass apple. Stiles was in charge. Investigating the murders. Protecting those who hadn’t yet been attacked. For the first time in days, I felt light. Air rushed into my lungs.
But he was still talking.
“… so you might still be at risk.”
What? I’d missed something.
“Sorry?”
“The first three women.” He cleared his throat, started again. “The first three were attacked brutally, in a consistent fashion. Knives were involved.”
Again, my airways tightened.
“Whereas the attacks on you and your friend haven’t followed that pattern. There were no stab wounds. No blatant displays of the corpses because, thankfully, there were no corpses. You’re both still very much alive.”
The room had become cold. How? The windows were all closed.
“So it’s not just the last two women on the list we’re concerned about, Mrs. Harrison. It’s four. You and your friend, as well.”
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