I grabbed at Aimee, trying to catch her shoulder, her arm, her dress, finally gaining purchase on the duct tape that bound her arms together. For a horrible moment I thought we’d both go over the railing, but my clenched hands wouldn’t let go. Then I threw my weight backward, and we crashed to the ground together as the police entered.
* * *
The cavernous museum was suddenly filled with people and shouting and noise, but Aimee and I were still on the ground. She rolled away from me, and when I reached out to help her up, she flinched. I rose to my knees, but then an officer’s hands were on me, pulling me away, and an EMT knelt beside Aimee. I caught a glimpse of a small dark stain against the shine of her dress.
“Your name?” the agent asked.
“Kacy. Kacy Tremaine.”
My hands had been the ones on the scissors, and I didn’t see Lena anywhere. On the ground floor, I could see FBI agents and police fanning throughout the museum. The EMT had checked Aimee over and was freeing her hands. His head was close to hers, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Then he helped her to her feet and led her away.
“Kacy, I’m Agent Castillo. I need you to walk with me.”
“Where’s Lena? Did you catch her?” Through the blood and the confusion, the medics and the police, Lena might be long gone.
Agent Castillo didn’t answer, instead scanning the room while somehow giving the impression that she was completely focused on me. Her dark hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and her bulky FBI vest covered a fitted black top.
I had only seconds before I’d be escorted out as well. I would have seen Lena go down the main staircase; the police would have seen her.
“We have to go,” she said again. She wore a thin silver chain around her neck with a wedding band hanging from it. I wanted to let her hustle me down the stairs, back to my parents and Michael and Grace, but if Lena was still on this floor, lurking, like an angel of death.…
“Lena’s still up here. She has to be.” She wouldn’t panic or flee. That wasn’t Lena’s style. She’d wait and watch, somewhere we wouldn’t look for her. I knew this museum, maybe not the changing exhibits and the new employees, but I knew its bones.
Where could she be? The elevator in the front opened in the lobby, full of people. Both the freight elevator and the fire escape would have put her out by the back door and the loading dock, where the emergency vehicles must be. There was no place to hide in the gallery with the papier-mâché statues and mixed-media portraits.
From where we were, I could see into the gallery, where another agent, a tall black man, walked past the gleaming onyx angel. That statue was big enough to hold Lena, but the base was solid stone.
There was another option. A room for staging installations, full of empty crates and bits and pieces of hardware, bases and supports and plenty of places to hide.
“The exhibition preparation room, just off the last gallery,” I said, pointing.
Agent Castillo spoke into her walkie-talkie and gestured to her counterpart. He nodded and called out to two police officers who’d just reached the top of the stairs. Together they entered the third gallery.
I edged closer, only to have them wave me back, but not before I could see the display inside. More mobiles with glass twisted into impossible shapes, smaller versions of the one hanging over the atrium, hung down from the ceiling or rested on invisible shelves. On two sides the walls were draped with black fabric, gathered and pleated until it appeared to flow like water, pooling onto the shelves and merging with the shadows, distorting a viewer’s depth perception. With the right lighting, the glass pieces would seem to move freely, their cords and metal wires invisible.
In the center of the room stood the biggest piece, a woman raised as if standing on a cliff, larger than life, three-dimensional and translucent, catching and refracting the light. When the agent strode past, the separate leaves of glass shivered apart on their metal strands and then came together again. Despite how light it looked, how easily it moved, I knew how deceptively heavy glass could be. The base looked like a sandstone cliff, rising from floor level to waist-high, the shimmering glass woman poised as if to leap.
She was still trembling, although no one was near.
The officers opened the door at the end of the room, shouting their identification before entering. But I didn’t hear a commotion or anything that sounded like an arrest. I could have sworn I felt Lena’s eyes on me, watching me.
I glanced up, but the red eye of the security cameras was still dark. The glass sculpture in the center of the room stilled, and the glass woman seemed to be looking right at me, challenging me. There was nowhere for Lena to hide in the first gallery or the second or in the base of this glass statue … then I knew.
Gently I touched Agent Castillo’s arm and pointed to the dark drape over the side wall. In the corner, where the fabric was bunched and gathered, a person with steely patience could hide, waiting for a quiet moment to slip away. The agent looked at me, and in her gaze, I felt myself weighed and judged. Complicit, stupid, attention seeking? No, the agent motioned for me to get behind her. She believed me, trusted me, and she drew her gun.
Approaching slowly, Agent Castillo reached out and flipped back the edge of the fabric. Lena stepped from behind it, knocking over a few of the smaller pieces and sending the glass mobiles clinking against each other.
Agent Castillo shouted and Lena raised her hands, grinning that huge smile that lit up her whole face. As she slowly dropped to her knees and the agents swarmed into the room, her eyes never left mine.
That smile stayed with me like a splinter of ice until I was reunited with my furiously relieved parents at the police station and finally called Michael. With his voice in my ear and Grace in my arms, I could believe that we were truly safe.
C2C TRANSCRIPT
15
Helen: And now Lena and Brady are both locked away. Separate prisons, maximum security, awaiting trial on multiple counts. Best-case scenario for them: life in prison.
Julia: But this is Texas, so death is on the table.
Helen: Excellent point. And even though Kacy lied, snuck off to meet a murderer, and actually stabbed someone—
Julia: Just a little bit …
Helen: She’s in the clear. The almost-victim tells the police Kacy saved her, and everything works out … after hours of questioning and fact-checking and face-saving.
Julia: The almost-victim who got her fired from the art museum in the first place? That’s a revenge fantasy come true, getting to save your archnemesis. Think she’s a little bit sorry now? Just a tiny bit ashamed?
Helen: She’s probably just as sorry as Lena and Brady—not at all. Different shades of psychopath.
Julia: [Sighs] Anyway, I love a serial killer story with survivors.
Helen: This is about as close to a happy ending as we ever share. But don’t get too comfortable. Next week we’ll be starting a new series about an orthopedic surgeon, a childhood secret, and a string of suspicious deaths.
Julia: Remember, we always have “Crime to Chat” with you!
CHAPTER
28
AS THE PODCAST fades to a musical signature for its production company, I turn it off. Three episodes in this series, one each week, and I’ve finally reached the end.
These episodes felt different from all the other cases Julia and Helen had covered. Maybe because I didn’t have the distance to listen dispassionately while evaluating the evidence. I wasn’t in suspense about the facts of the case, only about what conclusions they would reach about me. But to be fair, I’m not sharing my story with the press or authors or even my favorite podcasters. We screen our calls stringently.
Now that the series is over, I’m still left without an explanation for Lena’s compulsion and her cruelty. More importantly, I also have no explanation for why I’ve survived.
My doorbell rings, and I answer it with Grace charging behind me on one side and our golden retriever, Lance
lot, on the other. Elizabeth waits on the front step, precisely on time, with a binder under one arm. Next to her, Theo stands in a little button-down checkered shirt and khakis. The juxtaposition of his baby-round cheeks and his preppy outfit, missing only a bow tie, slays me. I’m lucky if Grace keeps any outfit on longer than twenty minutes. She’s in her nudist phase. Theo barrels past my legs, and I hear the squeals as he and Grace take off with Lancelot in hot pursuit.
Elizabeth looks exhausted, the only sign that she’s in the first trimester of her second pregnancy. While I love the idea of Grace being a big sister, I don’t think Michael and I are ready to dive in again yet. I say, “Come on in. You’re the first one here.”
She looks like she might apologize, but then she relaxes and quips, “Always.” Elizabeth doesn’t have to be careful and precise with me.
But I don’t lead her into the house, because behind her I see a familiar figure in a peachy hijab approaching my front walk. With a grin, I say, “You’re just barely the first one here.”
Elizabeth turns to see Rahmia and waves. We’re planning another fund raiser, this one a family carnival to benefit the International Women’s Resource Center. I’ve been spending time every week there, doing art projects with the kids and practicing conversational English with their moms. Volunteering is more than atonement, it’s a mission, and I feel so grateful that these women allow me to get to know them. They’re survivors, and sometimes I think I might be one too.
As Rahmia comes up the front walk, I see her glance at the house next to mine, Lena’s house. Or, as she’s noting, Lena’s former house.
I know some people were surprised we didn’t sell our home. Finances aside—and the finances of selling a house so quickly after buying it aren’t trivial, especially with the added burden of legal fees—this is our first home. This is the kitchen where Michael and I learned to cook, the yard where we learned to garden, the home where we conceived Grace and where we’re raising her. We’ve repainted the walls, changed the decor, filled it with things we love. I’ve seen its insides, behind the plaster and beneath the flooring.
People might look askance at this place, but they might look that way at me too. Nothing that happened was this house’s fault. I hope it wasn’t mine either.
Something inside crashes, and Elizabeth blanches and ducks past me, shouting, “Theo!” He’s in a “knocking over lamps” phase, but it upsets his mom more than it does me.
Rahmia’s talking by the time she reaches me, gesturing to the SOLD sign in the yard next door, but all I catch is the last question. “Who bought it?”
I shake my head. “No idea. Michael thinks it could be an investment firm.” The house has been on the market for over a year, almost unheard of in our neighborhood. I don’t know how much money Lena and Brady had, but their lawyers can’t be cheap. The pool is filled in, the floors are redone, and both the number of drive-by gawkers and the price have decreased.
“Do you think anyone will live there? Maybe the company will rent it out or do short-term leases?”
“Probably someday.” I don’t tell Rahmia, but I looked into it. Even murder houses sell eventually, and people live in them. From Dahmer’s midcentury ranch to the Menendez brothers’ Mediterranean-style residence to the Blood and Money mansion in River Oaks, real estate recovers, and there’s always someone looking for a bargain. That SOLD sign is proof that the world keeps turning.
“I’m so sorry, Kacy.” Elizabeth has returned to the door, a table lamp in her hand, its harp and shade bent at a right angle. “Somehow he didn’t smash the lightbulb, but it won’t turn on anymore.”
“No worries. Michael will look at it later.” And Michael is recovering too. We visit Dr. Lindsey separately and together, groping our way out of the darkness. Once Michael decided therapy was the logical and necessary step to fixing our problem, he was on board. He still has nightmares, but now he turns to me and lets me wrap him in my arms. We share this life raft, and only by holding on to each other will we survive.
Rahmia and I follow Elizabeth into the kitchen and sit around the table. I’ve added a leaf so we can fit everyone who’s coming. Inés and Alondra are always late, but Rachael and her little girl Caryn should be here soon. And I’ve invited someone new, a woman I met at the last Bluebonnets meeting. Something about the guarded way she scanned the room, her tentative smile when I patted an empty chair next to me, the catty side-eye her nose ring was getting from some uptight women, made me think she needed a friend. Or at least the chance to make one.
Rachael lets herself in, and as her daughter Caryn twirls through the kitchen in a princess dress, I realize I didn’t lock the door after Rahmia. Some part of me still thrums danger, but there’s no point in locking it this second, when two more people are about to arrive. Rachael drops into a chair beside us and checks her phone. “Alondra said to call and she’ll video in when we’re ready to start.”
Once the three of us had toddlers, planning meetings downtown became a thing of the past. My house’s open floor plan and a few judiciously placed child gates mean we can watch toddlers race from the back door to the front while still getting work done at the table. “I’ll use my phone,” Elizabeth offers, and I shoot her a grateful smile.
“It’s okay,” I say. “We’ll use my laptop.” And it is okay. Because Grace is growing so fast and our parents are so far away, Michael and I video chat—we use our camera and we call our friends and family. But we do check our phones for malware weekly. We’re not total Luddites, just careful. Because that’s a choice we’ve had to make. Cut ourselves off completely and live in fear, or move on. Our phones are links to the world, and they strengthen the relationships that matter.
Plus, it’s how I listen to podcasts.
The doorbell chimes again, and Lancelot gives a lazy woof, like he knows that bad guys don’t ring the bell. The most comforting sound in the world is the clicking of his toenails as he makes the rounds every night, touching each doorknob with his nose. “Maybe he’s a shepherd in golden retriever’s clothing,” Michael said. I think Lancelot is circling the flock, protecting our family.
I open the door, and the new girl, Jenny, stands there, one hand clenched as if she’s forcing herself to wait. This is the moment, the threshold, when she doesn’t know me and I don’t know her. Her face is narrow, her razor-cut hair emphasizing her sharp cheekbones, but her eyes are wide and vulnerable. She looks so young. Maybe in a year I’ll know all her secrets, maybe she’ll text me a dozen times a week, or maybe I’m opening the door to my next nightmare. But a door that never opens is just a prison. “Come on in,” I tell her.
I show her to the kitchen, and as the conversation eddies around me, I realize that the last episode of Crime to Chat did leave me something. It framed my time with Lena as a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. Michael and I will keep going to therapy, we’ll take trips to San Antonio and Austin and South Padre, Grace will get older, she’ll go to school, our story will keep unfolding. Even if we need to testify, even when the next tragedy hits us, we’re going to be okay.
I once thought Aimee’s betrayal would ruin all my chances at a happily-ever-after, but I’ve found friends and a purpose and built a new life, one I won’t let my past with Lena destroy.
Grace and Theo and Caryn tear through the kitchen with Lancelot bounding behind them. The room echoes with laughter, and I wonder: if Lena was the bad fairy surrounding our home with bloody thorns, maybe family and friends have broken the spell at last. Now our real story, a better one, begins.
Also available by Sarah Warburton
Once Two Sisters
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Sarah Warburton is the oldest of four sisters, raised in Virginia, and an avid reader and knitter. She has a B.A. in Latin from the College of William and Mary, an M.A. in classics from the University of Georgia and another from Brown. Sarah has worked at independent bookstores--Page One Books in Albuquerque and Books on the Square in Providence--and spent ten y
ears as a writer, which led her to become lead editor for UpClose Magazine. Her short story “Margaret’s Magnolia” appeared in Southern Arts Journal, and her Pushcart prize nominated story “Survival English” appeared in Oyster River Page. Now she lives with her family--husband, son, daughter, and hound dog--in the mountains of Southwestern Virginia.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Sarah Warburton
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-64385-736-7
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-64385-737-4
Cover design by Melanie Sun
Printed in the United States.
www.crookedlanebooks.com
Crooked Lane Books
34 West 27th St., 10th Floor
New York, NY 10001
First Edition: August 2021
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You Can Never Tell Page 28