by Nina Laurin
In the back of my mind, I’d wondered, in my darker moments, what it would be like if Eli just walked in here, or showed up at Cynthia’s, or worse yet, at Milton’s, and casually told them. I pictured myself going berserk. Maybe reaching for the nearest sharp thing and stabbing him, melodramatically, through the heart. But in that moment, with Adele standing in front of me, I was calm.
“You should leave,” I said. “Before I ask someone to help you leave.”
“I’m not leaving,” she answered. She took another step toward me, leaned closer, and whispered, “He told me everything. How much do you think that’s worth?”
I gave her everything I had on me, not realizing what a rabbit hole I had just fallen into. Not realizing that, unlike my brother, there was nothing keeping her from following me night and day, showing up just about anywhere, at any time.
When I called Eli, from another homeless kid’s phone, for the first time ever he didn’t answer.
Then Adele demanded a sum I didn’t have. Only then, when I got caught stealing money from Cynthia and Milton noticed the absent ring, I knew I had hit a dead end.
Cynthia called me over to discuss something trivial, and I went, hoping for a chance to ask for some more money, supposedly to last me until the end of the month. Or failing that, to take some of her jewelry I could pawn. Instead, I walked right into an intervention. The whole story about drugs and booze was something I had to come up with on the fly, scrambling to find an explanation. My world was threatening to fall apart once again, fraying at the seams.
But this time, it was only my own fault.
* * *
A while after Leeanne leaves, Cynthia brings me dinner. I’d lost track of time. By my estimates, it has to be past midnight, but there she is, still in her robe, carrying a tray that she maneuvers with surprising dexterity past the door.
I didn’t think I had any appetite. I barely raise my head when she comes in. But the smell of food reawakens my survival instincts. My stomach rumbles. I sit up.
“You should eat something,” Cynthia says. I can’t discern any particular emotion in her voice.
On the tray are mac ’n’ cheese, a glass of orange juice, and two cookies on a little plate. The sheer simplicity of it is enough to make me cry. Appearances aside, the picture-perfect wife and mother has never been one for home cooking. Living in her house, I consumed more frozen meals and Hamburger Helper in one year than I had in my whole previous life. A “health kick” she instituted for Leeanne and me consisted of replacing these same premade meals with their inedible low-fat counterparts. So homemade mac ’n’ cheese from the woman who lived by Kraft Dinner has to mean something. I can’t throw that effort back in her face so I pick up the fork and take a bite. Before I know it, I’ve inhaled half the plate, and my stomach is cramping from eating so fast.
“Thank you,” I say as soon as I swallow my mouthful.
“You know, all I ever wanted was to provide a decent home for you,” she says, acknowledging my thanks with a dismissive half nod. “And, all right, I admit—I thought it would do Leelee some good to learn to share. I know you think it was some would-be political gesture but my husband was actually against the idea.”
I look at her, confused. This goes against everything I previously thought. When Jim Boudreaux died, all I could muster was relief. It was as if the memory of that day at the burn ward died with him. Now I bitterly wish I could ask him myself, except it’s too late. It’s always too late.
“He was?”
“Yeah. He wanted to help place you with some nice foster family, maybe one of our friends. But I insisted you should come live with us. I had my reasons. You were your brother’s victim too, after all.”
I don’t know what to make of this information that comes fifteen years too late. She sighs.
“I didn’t think it would be easy,” she adds. “And God knows you’ve done everything you could to make it as difficult as possible. But I thought I could understand your rationale, at least.”
I can’t help but wonder if she does now. Or whether she expects me to tell her—to give her the key to the questions of her own existence. Who did I shelter in my home for more than half a decade? But the problem is, even when you think you’re acting out of self-determination, it’s not always the case. Someone is always behind the scenes, pulling the strings. And living with someone like Eli makes you paranoid for life, always seeking out insidious motivations where there are none, mistrusting everyone who crosses your path, second-guessing every last little nice thing anyone does.
“I felt betrayed when I realized you’d stolen the jewelry that my husband gave me back when we got married. Or that the money I’d given you wasn’t for groceries. But deep down, I didn’t blame you, you know?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I really mean it.
“But be sure, Andrea, that I haven’t told a word of this to that woman. And I won’t. As far as she’s concerned, there never was any money. And I’m sure Milton will do the same thing on his end.”
Now there’s something I don’t deserve. Cynthia shakes her head.
“I saw the CD was missing from my car,” she says. “I know you took it. Why?”
I can only shrug.
“You’ve never read that book?”
“No.”
“Maybe you should have.” She sighs again. “Would have saved you so much grief.”
If anything, I think the opposite is true, but I don’t tell her.
“You know what? There’s a reason they barely ever mention you in the whole thing,” she says suddenly, and my head snaps up. “I was listening to it to make double sure. The lawyers had gone over it back in the day and okayed it, but I never checked for myself. I thought now was as good a time as any, right?”
I’m beginning to guess. “Lawyers?”
“Yes. My husband’s lawyers. At my request, they made sure the book never mentioned you except in passing. No statements implicating you in a damn thing.”
That explains a lot about that book.
“I thought it was the least I could do, to give you a fresh start. So you wouldn’t have to be known as that boy’s sister wherever you go. If only you’d been able to let it go.”
But I wasn’t able. Tears sting my eyes. Everything could have been so different, if only—
Cynthia unfolds her hands from her lap and reaches to pick up the tray. “Do you want me to leave the cookies?”
I shake my head. She gets up, bringing the tray with her. In the doorway, she stops again, setting the tray down on the dresser.
“We can only hope they catch the bastard soon. No. You know what I’m really hoping for? I’m hoping, and may God forgive me for these thoughts…” She chuckles and crosses herself half-heartedly. “I’m hoping he’ll put up a fight when they finally nail him down. He’ll put up a fight so they put a bullet or five right in his empty heart. Then it’ll be over, once and for all, and all his lies can die with him.”
She glances at me, searching for complicity, but all I feel is horror. I’m trying not to think about how much she knows and how much she understands.
But she closes the door, and then she’s gone.
CHAPTER FORTY
Adele came back to see me the day after the intervention.
It was in the dead of February, in the middle of a particularly bad cold snap. A few inches of snow had fallen, making the road slippery and paralyzing traffic. Not all of it had been cleaned yet, and a few of my coworkers called in absent.
I had contemplated doing the same. Except I needed the money. To pay back Cynthia. To try to get Milton’s ring back from the pawnshop.
Adele did not come into the shelter, like she’d done up to now. Perhaps if she had, I would have reacted differently; perhaps everything wouldn’t have turned out the way it did. Seeing her come through the doors would fill me with such dread that I was frozen to the spot, aware that she was holding my entire life in the palm of her hand. All she had to do was
say one word, just one well-placed word, to anyone—another social worker, Marla, another homeless teenager. And my life would be upended.
But that day, she didn’t come in. Instead, I found her waiting in the lot behind the shelter. I was walking to my car, drained and exhausted as usual, still jumping at every shadow. And just as I reached for my car keys in my pocket, there she was. Her silhouette detached itself from the bins behind the parking lot, the same spot where I met Eli when he got out of prison. She started walking toward me but instead of being paralyzed, I went to meet her.
“You happy now?” I snarled.
She didn’t expect it. She recoiled, and for the first time in weeks—for the first time ever—that smug look she wore slipped from her face. She’s scared of me, I realized with bafflement. She looked awfully young in that moment. Younger than her twenty-two years. My torturer was just a frightened young girl. Something in me clicked over, an understanding forming where there used to be only blind fear for my life.
She backed away, returning into the shadow of the recycling bins.
“I don’t have anything else to give you,” I said. “You’re wasting your time. I suggest you go and get a real job.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” she said.
She’d recovered herself and was trying to put on the usual arrogant air but it was too late. I was no longer afraid. “Tell Eli to come to me himself if he wants money. I’m not giving you another red cent.”
“Eli doesn’t know I’m here,” she said. Her eyes were darting back and forth, never landing on my face; I could tell she was lying. Did he tell her to lie? I wondered. Or did he not know that she was asking for more than was the deal? Was she skimming the difference?
I may never have been quite certain what went on inside my brother’s head, why he did the things he did. But I could see right through this girl. She thought she was like my brother but she didn’t even come close. She was just greedy and perhaps a touch too arrogant for her own good.
Now she backed away until she hit the recycling bin behind her. The metal clanged dully.
“I’ll go to the biggest newspaper in town,” she said. “I’ll go on TV.”
“And tell them what?”
Her breath escaped from her in a puff of steam. She huddled in her greasy parka, pulling her head in between her shoulders, chin dipping into the stringy faux-fur collar. “The truth.” Her voice wobbled.
“And why should they believe you? Do you have any proof at all?”
“I have your brother. He’ll—”
“No one will believe him either. And I think you both know that, because otherwise, you would have gone to the media already. That story’s gotta be worth more than anything I can give.”
“The lighter—”
I laughed. It startled her, and she pressed herself into the side of the recycling bin, inching away from me. I threw my arms out, my unbuttoned winter jacket swinging open like a bird’s wings.
“What lighter? Where do you see a lighter, Adele?”
“I’ll—”
“You’ll leave. And I’m never, ever going to see you anywhere near this shelter again—you understand me?”
Her face twisted with a grimace of hatred, reminding me of an angry but weak little animal caught in a trap. Unexpectedly, she spat in my face. I barely had time to turn my head before a big glob of her saliva hit the side of my jaw, and the spray landed all over my cheek.
“Fuck you,” she snapped.
I hit her.
I’d never hit anyone before. And no doubt I would have done more harm to my own knuckles than to Adele, like every first timer. But in my right hand, I was still clenching my car keys on their keychain—my little lighthouse bauble. I wasn’t even thinking about it. I just slugged her in the face as hard as I could.
The pain in my hand startled me but her reaction startled me even more. Her shriek cut short, she stumbled back, doubling over, her hand clasped over her cheek. In the half darkness, her eyes glittered like those of a rabid animal; it took me a moment to realize those were tears. They streamed down her good cheek. I could see blood through her fingers. She let out a little strangled gasp and then backed away and away, deeper into the shadows.
I stood there, my arm hanging limply at my side, torn knuckles throbbing with pain—the only thing that kept me grounded. I clenched my fist around the lighthouse keychain as hard as I could, even though that made the scrapes on my knuckles split farther open. It occurred to me that I should stop her, that I could be in big trouble. But I didn’t move. I just watched her back away until she vanished.
Then I went back to my car, got in, and drove home. Or to the place that used to be—the town house that was now a mere husk of home, its most important part, Milton, gone. All because of her. Because of Eli.
That night, though, the solitude was a blessing. No one there to question what happened to my busted knuckles. Without fuss, without needing to hide, I got the first-aid kit and fixed them up as best as I could. Then I went to sleep and dreamed of nothing. I was ready to start anew, to be free. As if I knew, deep down, that she wouldn’t come bother me again.
She didn’t. Next time I saw her, her photo was on the news, and she was dead. Bludgeoned to death in my brother’s apartment.
* * *
When morning comes, I realize I’d passed out on top of my old bed, clothes and all. I know I can’t hide in my old room at Cynthia’s forever if I want to take back control of the situation. And right now, taking control starts with looking at my phone.
I’m not ready for the avalanche of texts and notifications. It takes several deep breaths and a minute or two of scrolling before I decide what I want to tackle first.
There’s a voicemail from an unfamiliar number—if it’s bad, I might as well get it out of the way. I don’t know who I expected but when I put the phone to my ear, the man’s voice erupts from it, poised and cheerful.
“Hello. This message is for Andrea Boudreaux. You might remember me—my name is Jonathan Lamb…”
I take the phone away from my ear and stare at it. The message continues, so loud that I can hear it regardless.
“You have all my sympathies about what happened with your brother.” I’m not sure which exact thing he means—the one fifteen years ago or the most recent development. Either way, I hope he knows where I think he can shove his sympathies. “Here’s the thing, Andrea. I feel like you’re woefully underrepresented in the coverage of the whole story. I would love to get your version of events, from your point of view. I imagine you might have rather a lot to say after fifteen years. Give me a call at this number, and we can arrange a meeting. Don’t worry—you can be assured of my discretion. Not a thing you say will find its way into print without your express permission. I wish you all the best.”
I’m tempted to call him back just to have the pleasure of telling him to fuck off.
The next message is from Chris, asking me tersely to call her back. Not going to happen.
The last one is from Figueroa.
“Andrea,” her voice says calmly. “I would very much like to talk to you. And please give my message to your lovely family and ask them to call you a lawyer and set it up. Because it’s in everyone’s best interest—especially yours—that you don’t continue to avoid me. Elizabeth Jones has been found. She’s dead.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The one thing I had tried to ascertain was whether Eli did finally find some genuine remorse within him or if he was only sorry he got caught. If he had found remorse—which is not in the nature of a sociopathic individual—it is tragically too late. But if he hadn’t, what does it say about him? About everyone around him? About society?
On the day of my last visit to him, I brought him a pair of brand-new sneakers. His face lit up when he saw them, with a childlike expression of excitement and wonder.
“You know,” he said as he accepted the gift, with the casual entitlement of royalty, “we’re not even
allowed to wear sneakers in here.”
—Into Ashes: The Shocking Double Murder in the Suburbs by Jonathan Lamb, Eclipse Paperbacks, 2004, 1st ed.
Fifteen years earlier: before the fire
Andrea throws a backward glance at the house every few seconds, even though her mom has gone to the grocery store and Sergio is in front of the TV, and he typically doesn’t get up until the episode is over. Still, she feels the need to check. The sliding door leading to the patio remains shut so she reaches into her pocket and finds the lighter there, its shape smooth and exciting beneath her fingertips.
She crouches next to the wisteria her mom planted last spring—or what’s left of the wisteria anyway. The Denver winter took care of it, and now it’s nothing more than a tangle of ropey brown tendrils. Her mom says it might still come back—it’s only April—but as far as Andrea is concerned, the plant is as dead as the decorative trellis that holds it up.
The spider, on the other hand, is very much alive. One of the first ones to emerge from hibernation or hiding or whatever hellhole spiders crawl out of, it’s a small, sleepy thing with a round black body and yellow-spotted legs. Those legs move slowly, lazily, as it dangles in the center of a half-spun web. Andrea isn’t afraid of spiders exactly but they make her shudder; something about them is just wrong.
Nothing better to test this thing on.
She flicks the lighter open, delighting in the soft hiss that sends the good kind of goose bumps up her arms, and the pin-straight tongue of flame shoots out, almost all of it a beautiful blue with only a tip of orange.
She holds the lighter out, steadying her arm so it doesn’t tremble. It’s still too far below the spider to do any real damage, but the creature can feel the heat rising from the flame, and it starts to panic, legs moving faster, body spinning on the nearly invisible threads of the web that will never come to be. It pulls its body up, and she follows with the flame in her hand. The tip of it touches one of the spider’s legs.