The three of them crowded around me, watching, waiting to see what I’d do. Becky chewed her lip. Jen worried her hands. Was I that awful? I slid the mirror out of the covers, held it up. Heard a gasp, realized it was my own.
I looked like a losing prizefighter. No. A losing prizefighter would look better. My lips, especially on the left side, had ballooned, purple and cracked. One cheek and half my nose were scraped and swollen. The left eye was open just a slit, surrounded by bulbous ballooned skin an indefinable shade of bluish purplish yellow. There were stitches along my hairline. My neck was bruised purple, yellow, and green. My hair was clumped and knotted.
My friends were talking. “Don’t worry. You look much better than when you came in.”
“In a few days, the swelling will be gone.”
I handed the mirror back to Susan.
“You’re still a knockout,” Becky said.
“She has eyes, Becky,” Susan snapped. “She can see that she looks like hell.”
“WTF, Susan. Don’t say that,” Jen said. “We need to be effing positive.”
“Yeah. The purple around her eye isn’t as dark. See? It’s turning yellow,” Becky said.
“Stop talking about my face,” I typed. I told myself I’d heal. I wouldn’t be an eyesore forever. The ugliness would fade. I hoped the memories would, too.
An awkward silence ensued. Susan replaced her mirror. Becky took her seat beside the floral arrangement. Jen opened a box of chocolates.
“So with Elle in the hospital,” she said, “we’ll have to put off rescheduling freaking circus school.”
I typed, “No. It’s fine. Go without me.”
Susan read my message aloud.
“No way,” Becky said. “You’re the whole reason we’re getting free lessons. We’ll wait ’til you’re ready.”
I pictured circus school, the platform. Shane offering me the trapeze. My stomach did a flip turn, and the trapeze became a tree branch. “Really, why wait? Take the lessons. I don’t mind.”
“No. We made a resolution to do new things together. That means all of us.”
I swallowed. Swallowing hurt. But fine, no point arguing.
“Besides, I scheduled a no-impact event for this month,” Becky said.
“Hold on,” Susan said. “Why are you scheduling events? You picked circus school. It’s Elle’s turn next.”
I typed that I’d asked Becky to help out.
“Seriously, Susan? How’s Elle supposed to schedule anything? I told her I’d do it for her.”
Jen looked up from her chocolates. “So what’s the frickin’ plan?”
“Madame Therese.”
Oh God. I typed, “Are you kidding?” On impulse, Becky and I had visited Madame Therese a year ago.
“What the eff is Madame Therese?” Jen asked. “Does she run a brothel? Cuz, honestly? I’m not into it.”
“Sounds like a dominatrix,” Susan guessed.
“Stop it, you guys. She’s a legitimate fortune-teller.”
Susan and Jen groaned.
“No, really. She’s good. Ask Elle.” Becky’s eyes lit up. “Everything she told us came true, right, Elle?’
“Wait. You two have gone to her before? You went to a freakin’ fortune-teller?” Jen’s eyes popped.
I typed that it had been a long time ago, but nobody read what I wrote. I remembered what Madame Therese had told me, essentially that I attracted tragedy and death. And that I’d come back to see her again. Which apparently I would, if Becky had her way.
“That’s a complete racket.” Jen eyed Becky. “You don’t believe in it, do you? Because fortune-telling is bullshit.”
“Not Madame Therese. You’ll see.”
“Actually, Becky.” Susan frowned. “We have a problem about that. Our resolution was to try new things together, but you two have already been to see her. So, in point of fact, this experience isn’t new.”
“Oh, let it go, Susan. This isn’t a courtroom and you’re not getting off on a technicality. She’s coming to dinner with us the week after next.”
Jen sucked melted chocolate off her fingertips. Her nails were blood red. She surveyed the candy box, making her next selection, picking up what looked like a dark chocolate butter cream. “What the hell. It’s one dinner. How bad can it be?”
“Don’t eat them all, Jen,” Becky scolded. “Those were for Elle.”
“Trust me.” Jen examined the bonbon. “Elle doesn’t give a shit about candy right now, do you Elle?”
I tried to smile. Aborted the attempt; smiling hurt. I thought of Madame Therese. I wasn’t eager to hear what she’d predict, but at least I could avoid flying on a trapeze.
Jen sucked creamy filling out of the shell. “So.” She looked up. “Susan, did you tell her yet?”
Tell me what? Becky and Susan scowled at her.
“Really, Jen?” Susan said.
Uh-oh. I typed, “Tell me what?” No one read it.
“Jen.” Susan glowered. “No. I haven’t told her. She has enough to worry about, so I’m waiting until she’s stronger.”
“But she’d want to know,” Jen argued. “And she has a right to know.”
“What’s the hurry, Jen?” Becky asked. “It’s not like she can do anything about it. So what’s the point of upsetting her?”
Had they forgotten I could hear them? I typed, furiously. “What happened?”
“That’s not the point,” Jen said. “The point is that it’s her life. Who put you two in charge of deciding what Elle should or shouldn’t know?”
I kept typing, asking what they were talking about, saying that whatever it was, I wanted to be told. Nobody noticed. They went on arguing, Susan and Becky blaming Jen for being thoughtless and insensitive by bringing it up, Jen accusing them of ganging up against her and forgetting that, even battered and stitched, I was a big girl, and I had rights.
When I pounded on the tray table, my arm hurt, the laptop bounced, and the water pitcher splashed. All three of them spun and looked at me in alarm.
I typed, “Tell me.”
“Go on, big shot,” Becky said to Jen. “Tell her.”
“I’ll tell her,” Susan said.
They exchanged glances. Susan cleared her throat, folded her hands, sat straight. Jen set the chocolates on the nightstand. Becky stepped over and took my hand.
Oh God, I thought. Someone else died. Ty? He hadn’t seemed mortally wounded. Katie? Or Stan. Oh God, was it Seth? Or someone not related to the case—
“It’s your house.” Becky’s voice was somber.
My house? They looked at me, three pairs of anxious, sorry eyes. Had it burned down—a gas explosion?
“The fact is your realtor got murdered there,” Susan said.
“So the house has a history,” Becky cut in. “Especially since Charlie got killed there, too.”
“Charlie has nothing to do with it.” Jen rolled her eyes.
“Of course he does. He’s part of the house’s history.”
“Which they knew about when they made their offer. It’s not a secret what happened with Charlie—”
“This is about Jerry,” Susan said. “The buyers were upset when they found out what happened. But really, it doesn’t matter why. What matters is—”
“Bottom line, your buyers effing bailed.”
What? I looked at Susan who glared at Jen.
“I’m sorry, Elle,” she said. “Jen’s right. The sale is off. Your buyers backed out. They think the house has bad karma.”
I repeated the last sentence in my head. My buyers backed out. What did that mean? I pictured people backing away from the house. Oh, of course. Why was I so slow absorbing information? No buyers. That meant no sale. So I wasn’t moving.
I leaned back, letting the news roll around my head. Memories swirled. Katie and her friends in the house, dancing around me with knives. Maggie chasing me out the window. A shadow coming into my bedroom in the night, looming over me, pushing into me. Jerry d
ead in Charlie’s easy chair.
And Charlie. Carrying me over the threshold as if we were newlyweds in some sappy old movie. Or surprising me with a bubble bath or a single rose. Or standing at the sink, splashing on aftershave. Even after two years, I sometimes smelled it near the sink. Or in the closet, the bedroom, the study.
“… pulling an Elle. You shouldn’t have made us tell her, Jen. See how upset she is? Are you satisfied?” Susan scolded.
I typed. “It’s okay. I’m just thinking.”
“I’ll help you find a new realtor,” Jen offered. “Norm knows goddamn tons of them.”
Oh Lord. Another realtor? I’d have to start over, staging the house, having showings. Keeping the place pristine and museum-like for new potential buyers who’d parade through, criticizing the darkness of the foyer, complaining that the cabinets were out of date. Leaving their shoe prints on freshly vacuumed carpets.
“There’s no rush,” Susan said.
“That’s right,” Becky said, “take your time.”
“But seriously,” Jen said. “Can you blame them? Would you buy a place where the realtor had just been butchered?”
“Jen!” Susan said, and Becky said, “Oh my God,” and the bickering resumed.
I closed my eyes. Realized that it wasn’t just the buyers who didn’t want the sale. The house didn’t want it either. The place had gone through a lot with me, and it wasn’t ready to let me go.
When Stiles walked in, the others left, except for Susan. She declared that, as my attorney, she should be present.
He began by asking how I felt, saying he was sorry I’d had such a terrible experience. His eyes looked sincerely sad.
“How’s Ty?” I typed.
He told me that Ty had a bunch of abrasions and a nasty concussion but was coming along.
I didn’t know much about concussions, except that football players and boxers got them. Mohammed Ali got Parkinson’s disease from them. And now Ty and I both had them. I saw Ty sitting on his sister, holding her down. Blood caked in his hair, and his gaze was off kilter.
Stiles sat beside the bed, admired the flowers. Asked if I was ready to tell him what happened.
I began typing. I wrote that I’d been ambushed and terrorized in my house. That Katie and her friends had killed my realtor, and that Ty had tried to help me.
Detective Stiles stopped me, asking questions about specifics. I had no answers.
Instead, I wrote that Katie, not Ty or his mother, had killed their father.
Stiles leaned away from the screen, unconvinced. “I don’t think so. Ty Evans confessed to that murder.”
My fingers responded, explaining why Ty confessed. That he’d thought it would be better for his family if he served a few years in juvenile detention than if Rose served the rest of her life. But that Katie had admitted killing her father.
Stiles rubbed his eyes. “So let me get this straight. You’re saying that Rose Evans thought her son Ty did it, and Ty thought his mother, Rose, did it. But they were both wrong, because Katie did it. And when Ty confessed, Katie assumed it was to cover for her because she was his little sister.”
I typed. “And when he got out, she was afraid he’d want payback, so she decided to frame him by killing victims connected to him and leaving evidence that led to him.”
“But the father’s case was closed,” Susan said. “No one would believe him if he blamed anyone else for killing his father. Ty had been convicted and gone away for it.”
I had thought about that. My fingers flew on the keyboard. “I don’t think she was just afraid Ty would reveal that she’d killed their father. I think she was afraid Ty would get in her way. While he was in juvey, she got away with whatever she wanted. Rose had no authority, so Katie had no limits. Ty, though, would get in her face, so she wanted him gone. I think she framed him so she could continue her little power regime.” She’d been the ringleader. Maggie and Trish had followed her lead, even cutting themselves with her, making the same pattern of wounds.
Stiles leaned back. “That’s interesting. Except for one thing. If she just wanted her brother to get sent away again, she could have stopped after one murder. Framed him and been done with it. But she didn’t. She kept on going.”
“What are you saying?” Susan asked.
“Simple,” he said. “Framing Ty was only a small part of it. Katie Evans and her friends killed people because they wanted to.”
I didn’t type a response. I was thinking about Katie’s power. Over her mother, over her friends. Over Seth.
I pictured his bruises. Oh God. Why hadn’t I realized it before?
I began typing. “Seth—Rose didn’t abuse him—It was Katie.”
That was why he’d hidden in the cubbies when she and her friends had come to walk him home. Why hadn’t I figured it out? Why hadn’t he told me? I’d seen how he’d cowered at the sight of them. How he’d run around the classroom to get away. That hadn’t been a game. Oh God, he must have been terrified. I’d blamed Rose, reported her to the authorities, made sure Seth was taken from her, never suspecting that, even in foster care, he’d still be exposed to his abuser. Katie had been the golden sister, the charmer. The helpful cheerful leader and cheerleader. Was it during their walks home that she and her friends had hurt him? Or had they assaulted him later, at home?
Why wasn’t Stiles saying anything? Why didn’t he look surprised at my revelation?
I typed. “You knew?”
Stiles glanced at Susan, then met my eyes. Told me that Seth had confided in his foster sister. She’d found cut marks on Seth’s arm, and she’d asked what happened. At first, he’d said they were from a cat. But finally, making her promise never to tell, he’d admitted that his sister, Katie, and her friends had used a razor on him.
What? They’d cut him, too? My chest tightened. I pictured little Seth. His whispered conversations to his dad. His angry red drawings.
Stiles continued. “Seth said that Katie and her friends chased him into the empty kindergarten, and the kindergarten teacher showed up. He was afraid they’d killed her.”
Oh God. Becky had walked in on the girls terrorizing Seth. That was why they’d knocked her out.
Lord. I shut my eyes, saw Rose coming after me, punching my car windows, kicking my fenders. I’d messed up.
“Elle, stop it,” Susan said. “I know you. You’re blaming yourself. It’s not your fault.”
Stiles went on, said that Katie was being held without bail. That Ty, once out of the hospital, would go home and stay with his mother. Rose was in shock and denial about Katie, but finally beginning to understand the reason for Ty’s confession and accept his innocence.
“And Seth?” I typed.
Stiles hesitated. “He’s being looked after. His foster family is getting him counseling.” He stopped.
“He’ll stay in foster care?”
“For now.”
“You might as well know,” Susan said. “They’ve taken him out of Logan.”
Out of my class?
“He’s transferred to Edison. His counselor thought it would be good for him to get a fresh start someplace new.”
I started to type, but stopped, not sure how to ask what I wanted to know. It wasn’t just how he was doing or whether I could see him. What I really wanted to know was if I was at fault for what had happened to him, if I’d failed him. If he’d ever be all right. If he’d ever forgive me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
My first day back, I got there early, anxious about my class. The parking lot was empty except for Stan’s pickup. Stan’s truck was almost always at the school. Wouldn’t surprise me to find out he lived in the building, in one of his custodian closets.
I’d been gone for two weeks. My stitches were out, but I still had scabs and bruises. I walked with a limp, and the skin around my eye was puffy and yellow. What would the children think? What did they know? What should I tell them?
I thought of Seth, wondered how he was doing.
First his brother, now his sister was in jail, accused of murder. The body count that had begun with his father had grown to include Mrs. Marshall, Joyce Huff, Stephanie Cross, Patsy Olsen, Jerry, and Katie’s cohorts, Trish and Maggie. Eight people, all dead. There had almost been ten, but Ty and I had managed to survive.
For two weeks, the media had exploded with stories of Katie’s gang of sadistic teenage serial killers and their victims. Ty had been hailed as a self-sacrificing, misunderstood hero, a loving brother who’d been duped into confessing to his sister’s first homicide, the murder of their father. Ty was praised for risking his own life to confront and stop his sister’s murderous trio. Funds were being collected to help him get on his feet. A lawyer had volunteered to take his case and clear his name and criminal record. The owner of a local auto body shop offered him a job as an apprentice mechanic. I’d talked to Ty by phone a few times. He’d sounded tired and vague. Not ready to think about what he was going to do, let alone to accept a job. We agreed to stay in touch, promised to meet for milkshakes when he felt well enough. I doubted it would be soon.
I assumed that Ty had been bombarded by television and radio producers. They’d certainly bombarded me. I’d been invited to appear on Dr. Phil, Good Morning America, Dateline, and Twenty-Twenty. Some Hollywood agent had called to find out if I’d sold TV or movie rights to my story yet, indicating that he had an interested client. Not just the city, but the whole country seemed captivated by three smart, pretty, and popular young girls who’d murdered at least six people because, as the papers quoted Katie, they “thought it was fun.”
I wondered what Seth knew of these stories. Had he seen any of the news coverage? Had his foster family shielded him? I worried about how he was, how he was adjusting to foster care. If his drawings were less bloody. If he still talked to the ghost of his father. I probably wouldn’t find out, though. Mr. Royal had confirmed that Seth’s foster parents had enrolled him at a different school in order to break all ties with his past.
In that same conversation, days before my return to work, Mr. Royal had talked about my position at Logan, suggesting that I take a leave of absence for the rest of the semester. I’d assured him that I was well enough to teach, but he’d been reluctant to accept that, even though I had my doctors’ approvals. Maybe he doubted my ability to work. Or maybe he wasn’t eager to have me back for another reason. Maybe he thought my presence—with my place in the headlines, my yellowed eye socket and still-visible wounds—would be a disruption.
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